CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 189I BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PQ 2163.C5E5 1920 
 
 Chouans / 
 
 "3""l"924'027 741 580 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027741580 
 
THE CHOUANS 
 
 By HONOR E DE BALZAC 
 
 Author of " The Country Doctor," " Cousin Pons," " Pere 
 
 Goriot," "The Magic Skin," " Cousin Betty," 
 
 " Catherine De Medici,," etc., etc, 
 
 A New Translation from the French 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS 
 NEW YORK 
 
h XoZZSAr 
 
THE CHOUANS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 THE AMBUSH. 
 
 In the early days of the year eight, at the begin- 
 ning of Vendemiaire, or, to adopt the present cal- 
 endar, toward the end of September, 1799, some 
 hundred peasants and a pretty large number of 
 townsmen, who had left Fougeres in the morning 
 for Mayenne, were climbing the Pilgrim Hill, which 
 lies nearly half way between Fougeres and Ernee, 
 a little town used by travelers as a half-way house. 
 The detachment, divided into groups of unequal 
 strength, presented a collection of costumes so odd, 
 and included persons belonging to places and pro- 
 fessions so different that it rnay not be useless to 
 describe their outward characteristics, in order to 
 lend this history the lively coloring so much prized 
 nowadaj^s, notwithstanding that, as some critics 
 say, it interferes with the portrayal of sentiments. 
 
 Some, and the greater part, of the peasants went 
 barefoot, with no garments but a large goatskin 
 which covered them from neck to knee, and 
 breeches of white linen of very coarse texture, 
 woven 9f yarn so rough as to show the rudeness of 
 the country manufacture. The straight locks of 
 their long hair mingled so regularly with the goat- 
 
e THE CBOITAM, 
 
 skin and hid their downcast faces so completely, 
 that the goatskin itself might have been easily mis- 
 taken for their own, and the poor fellows might, at 
 first sight, have been confounded with the animals 
 whose spoils served to clothe them. But before 
 long the spectator would have seen their eyes flash- 
 ing through this mat of hair, Like dew-drops in thick 
 herbage, and their glances, while showing human 
 intelligence, were better fitted to cause alarm than 
 pleasure. On their heads they wore dirty bonnets 
 of red wool, like the Phrygian cap which the Ee- 
 public then affected as an emblem of liberty. Every 
 man had on his shoulder a stout cudgel of knotty 
 oak, from which there hung a long but slenderly 
 filled wallet of linen. Some had, in addition to the 
 bonnet, a hat of coarse felt, with wide brim, and 
 adorned with a parti-colored woolen fillet surround- 
 ing the crown. Others, entirely dressed in the same 
 linen or canvas of which the breeches and wallets 
 of the first party were composed, showed scarcely 
 anything in their costume corresponding to modern 
 civilization. Their long hair fell on the collar of a 
 round jacket with little square side pockets — a 
 jacket coming down no lower than the hips, and 
 forming the distinctive garb of the peasant of the 
 West. Under the jacket, which was open, there 
 could be seen a waistcoat of the same material, 
 with large buttons. Some of them walked in sabots, 
 while others, out of thrift, carried their shoes in 
 their hands. This costume, soiled with long wear, 
 grimed with sweat and dust, and less strikingly 
 peculiar than that first described, had, from the 
 point of view of history, the advantage of serving 
 as a transition to the almost costly array of some 
 few, who, scattered here and there amid the troop, 
 shone like flowers. Indeed, their blue linen 
 breeches, their red or yellow waistcoats ornamented 
 with two parallel rows of copper butrtons, and 
 shaped like square-cut cuirasses, contrasted as 
 sharply with the white coats and the goatskins of 
 their companions as corn-flowers and poppies do 
 with a fleld of wheat. Some were shod with the 
 sabots which the Breton peasants know how to 
 
THE CEOUANS. 7 
 
 make for their own use. But the great majority 
 had large hobnailed shoes and coats of very coarse 
 cloth, cut in that old French style which is still re- 
 ligiously observed by the peasantry. Their shirt- 
 collars were fastened by silver buttons in the shape 
 of hearts or anchors, and their wallets seemed much 
 better stocked than those of their companions, not 
 to mention that some finished off their traveling 
 dress with a flask, doubtless filled with brandy 
 which hung by a string to their necks. Among 
 these semi-savages there appeared some townsfolk, 
 as if to mark the limit of civilization in these dis- 
 tricts. In round or flat hats, and some of them in 
 caps, with top-boots or shoes surmounted by gaiters, 
 their costumes were as remarkably different, the 
 one from the other, as those of the peasants. Some 
 half score wore the Eepublican jacket known as a 
 carmagnole; others, no doubt well-to-do artisans, 
 were clad in complete suits of cloth of a uniform 
 color. The greatest dandies were distinguished by 
 frocks or riding-coats in green or blue cloth more 
 or less worn. These persons of distinction wore 
 boots of every shape, and swished stout canes about 
 with the air of those who make the best of "Fortune 
 their foe." Some heads carefully powdered, some 
 queues twisted smartly enough, indicated the rudi- 
 mentary care of personal appearance which a be- 
 ginning of fortune or of education sometimes in- 
 spires. A looker-on at this group of men, associated 
 by chance, and, as it were, each astonished at find- 
 ing himself with the others, might have thought 
 them the inhabitants of a town driven pell-mell 
 from their homes by a conflagration. But time and 
 place gave quite a different interest to the crowd. 
 An observer experienced in the civil discord which 
 then agitated France would have had no difficulty 
 in distinguishing the small number of citizens on 
 whom the Eepublic could count in this assembly, 
 composed, as it was, almost entirely of men who 
 four years before had been in open war against her. 
 One last and striking trait gave an infallible indica- 
 tion of the discordant sympathies of the gathering. 
 Only the Kepublicans snowed any sort of alacrity 
 
8 TEE CH0UAN8. 
 
 in their march. For the other members of the 
 troop, though the disparity of their costume was 
 noticeable enough, their faces and their bearing 
 exhibited the monotonous air of misfortune. Towns- 
 men and peasants alike, melancholy marked them 
 all deeply for her own ; their very silence had a 
 touch of ferocity in it, and they seemed weighed 
 down by the burden of the same thought — a thought 
 of fear, no doubt, but one carefully dissembled, for 
 nothing definite could be read on their counte- 
 nances. The sole sign which might indicate a 
 secret arrangement was the extraordinary slowness 
 of their march. From time to time some of them, 
 distinguished by rosaries which hung from their 
 necks, dangerous as it was to preserve this badge of 
 a religion suppressed rather than uprooted, shook 
 back their hair, and lifted their faces with an air of 
 mistrust. At these moments they stealthily exam- 
 ined the woods, the by-paths, and the rocks by the 
 road-side, after the fashion of a dog who snuflfs the 
 air and tries to catch the scent of game. Then 
 hearing nothing but the monotonous tramp of their 
 silent companions, they dropped their heads once 
 more, and resumed their looks of despair, like crim- 
 inals sent to the hulks for life and death. 
 
 The march of this column toward Mayenne, the 
 motley elements which composed it, and the differ- 
 ence of sentiment which it manifested, received a 
 natural enough explanation from the presence of 
 another party which headed the detachment. Some 
 hundred and fifty regular soldiers marched in front, 
 armed and carrying their baggage, under the com- 
 mand of a "demi-brigadier." It maybe desirable 
 to inform those who have not personally shared in 
 the drama of the Revolution, that this title replaced 
 that of "colonel," proscribed by the patriots as too 
 aristocratic. These soldiers belonged to the depot 
 of a " demi-brigade" of infantry quartered at May- 
 enne, In this time o£ discord the inhabitants of the 
 West had been wont to call all Republican soldiers 
 "Blues," a surname due to the early blue and red 
 uniforms which are still freshly enough remem- 
 bered to make description superfluous. Now the 
 
THE CHOUANS. 9 
 
 detachment of Blues was escorting this company of 
 men, almost all disgusted with their destination, to 
 Mayenne, where military discipline would promptly 
 communicate to them the identity of temper, of 
 dress, and of bearing which at present they lacked 
 so completely. 
 
 The column was, in fact, the contingent extracted 
 with great difficulty from the district of Fougeres, 
 and due by it in virtue of the levy which the Execu- 
 tive Directory of the French Republic had ordered 
 by virtue of the law of the tenth Messidor preced- 
 ing. The Government had asked for a hundred mil- 
 lions of money and a hundred thousand men, in 
 order promptly to reinforce its armies, at that time 
 in process of defeat by the Austrians in Italy, by 
 the Prussians in Germany, and threatened in Swit- 
 zerland by the Russians, to whom Suwarrow gave 
 good hope of conquering France. The departments 
 of the West, known as Vendee and Brittany, with 
 part of Lower Normandy, though pacified three 
 years before by General Heche's efforts after a four 
 years' war, seemed to have grasped at this moment 
 for beginning the struggle anew. In the face of so 
 many enemies the Republic recovered its pristine 
 energy. The defense of the threatened depart- 
 ments had been at first provided for by intrusting 
 the matter to the patriot inhabitants in accordance 
 with one of the clauses of this law of Messidor. In 
 reality, the Government, having neither men nor 
 money to dispose of at home, evaded the dijfficulty 
 by a piece of parliamentary brag, and having noth- 
 ing else to send to the disaffected departments, pre- 
 sented them with its confidence. It was perhaps 
 also hoped that the measure, by arming the citizens 
 one against the other, would stifle the insurrection 
 in its cradle. The wording of the clause which led 
 to disastrous reprisals was this: "Free companies 
 shall be organized in the departents of the West," 
 an unstatesmanlike arrangenaent which excited in 
 the West itself such lively hostility that the Direc- 
 tory despaired of an easy triumph over it. There- 
 fore a few days later it asked the assembly to pass 
 special measures in reference to the scanty contin- 
 
10 THE CHOUANS. "% 
 
 gents leviable in virtue of the Free Companies 
 clause. So then a new law introduced a few days 
 before the date at which this story begins, and 
 passed on the third complementary day of the year 
 seven, ordained the organization in legions of these 
 levies, weak as they were. The legions were to 
 bear the names of the departments of Sarthe, 
 Orne, Mayenne, lUe-et-Vilaine, Morbih'an, Loire- 
 Inferieure, and Maine-et-Loire ; but in the words 
 of the Bill, " being specially employed in fighting 
 the Chouans, they might on no pretext be moved 
 toward the frontiers." All which details, tiresome 
 perhaps, but not generally known, throw light at 
 once on the weakness of the Directory and on the 
 march of this herd of men conducted by the Blues. 
 Nor is it, perhaps, useless to add that these hand- 
 some and patriotic declarations of the Directory 
 never were put in force further than by their inser- 
 tion in the Bulletin des Louis. The decrees of the 
 Republic, supported no longer either by great 
 moral ideas, or by patriotism, or by terror — the 
 forces which had once given them power — now 
 created on paper millions of money and legions of 
 men, whereof not a sou entered the treasury, nor 
 a man the ranks. The springs of the Revolution 
 had broken down in bungling hands, and the 
 laws followed events in their application instead of 
 deciding them. 
 
 The departments of Mayenne and of Ille-et-Vilaine 
 were then under the military command of an old 
 officer who, calculating on the spot the fittest meas- 
 ure to take, resolved to try to levy by force the 
 Breton contingents, and especially that of Fougeres, 
 one of the most formidable centers of Chouannerie, 
 hoping thereby to weaken the strength of the 
 threatening districts. This devoted soldier availed 
 himself of the terms of the law, illusory as they 
 were, to declare his intention of at once arming 
 and fitting out the "Requisitionaries," and to assert 
 that he had ready for them a month's pay at the 
 rate promised by the Government to these irregular 
 troops. Despite the reluctance of the Bretons at 
 that time to und-ertake any military service, the 
 
TEE CH0UAN8. 
 
 11 
 
 scheme succeeded immediately on the faith of these 
 promises — succeeded, indeed, so promptly that the 
 officer took alarm. But he was an old watch-dog, 
 not easy to catch asleep. No sooner had he seen a 
 portion of the contingent of the district come in 
 than he suspected some secret motive in so quick a 
 concentration, and his guess that they wished to 
 procure arms was perhaps not 
 ill justified. So, without wait- 
 ing for laggards, he took meas- 
 ures for securing, if possible, 
 his retreat on Alencon, so as s^' 
 to draw near settled districts, '"' 
 though he knew that the grow- 
 ing disturbance in the coun- 
 try made the success of his 
 scheme very doubtful. There- 
 
 
 fore keep- 
 ing, as his 
 i n s t r u c- 
 tions bade 
 him, the 
 =^'' iwiiU-iw — "" deepest si- 
 
 lence as to the disasters of the army, and the 
 alarming news from La Vendee, he had endeav- 
 ored, on the morning with which our story begins, 
 to execute a forced march to Mayenne, where he 
 promised himself that he would interpret the law 
 at his own discretion, and fill the ranks of his 
 demi-brigade with the Breton conscripts. For this 
 
12 THE cnoTTArp. 
 
 word " conscript," since so famous, had for the first 
 time taken legal place of the term "requisitiopary," 
 given earlier to the recruits of the Republic. Before 
 quitting Fougeres the commandant had secretly, 
 in order not to awake the suspicion of the conscripts 
 as to the length of the route, caused his soldiers to . 
 provide themselves with ammunition and with 
 rations of bread sufficient for the whole party, and 
 he was resolved not to halt at the usual resting-place 
 of Ernee, where, having recovered their first sur- 
 prise, his contingent might have opened communi- 
 cation with the Chouans who were doubtless spread 
 over the neighboring country. The sullen silence 
 which prevailed among the requisitionaries, caught 
 unawares by the old Republican's device, and the 
 slowness of their march over the hill, excited 
 vehement distrust in this demi-brigadier, whose 
 name was Hulot. All the striking points of the 
 sketch we have given, had attracted his closest at- 
 tention, so that he proceeded in silence among his 
 five young officers, who all respected their chief's 
 taciturnity. But at the moment when Hulot 
 reached the crest of the Pilgrim Hill, he turned his 
 head sharply, and as though instinctively, to glance 
 at the disturbed countenances of the requisition- 
 aries, and was not long in breaking silence. In- 
 deed, the increasing slackness of the Bretons' 
 march had already put a distance of some two hun- 
 dred paces between them and their escort. Hulot 
 made a peculiar grimace which was habitual with 
 him. 
 
 "What is the matter with these dainty gentle- 
 men?" cried he, in a loud tone. "I think our con- 
 scripts are planting their stumps instead of stirrins 
 them." 
 
 At these words the officrs, who were with him, 
 turned with a sudden movement, somewhat resem- 
 bling the start with which a sleeping man wakes 
 at a sudden noise. Sergeants and corporals did the 
 like, and the whole company stopped without hav- 
 ing heard the wished-for sound of "Halt!" If at 
 first the officers directed their eyes to the detach- 
 ment which, like a lengthened tortoise, was slowly 
 
TEE CHOUANS. 13 
 
 climbing the hill, they — young men whom the de- 
 fense of their country had torn, with many others, 
 from higher studies, and in whom war had not yet 
 extinguished liberal tastes— were sufficiently struck 
 with the spectacle beneath their eyes to leave un- 
 answered a remark of which they did not seize the 
 importance. Though they had come from Fougeres, 
 whence the tableau which presented itself to their 
 eyes is also visible, though with the usual differ- 
 ences resulting from a change in the point of view, 
 they could not help admiring it for the last time, 
 like dilettanti, who take all the more pleasure in 
 music the better they know its details. 
 
 From the summit of the Pilgrim the traveler sees 
 beneath his eyes the wide valley of the Couesnon, 
 one of the culminating points on the horizon being 
 occupied by the town of Fougeres, the castle of 
 which dominates three or four important roads from 
 the height which it occupies. This advantage 
 formerly made it one of the keys of Brittany. From 
 their position the officer could decry, in all its ex- 
 tent, a river basin as remarkable for the extraor- 
 dinary fertility of its soil as for the varied character 
 of its aspect. On all sides mountains of granite rise 
 in a circle, disguising their ruddy sides under oak 
 woods and hiding in their slopes valleys of delicious 
 coolness. These rocky hills present to the eye a 
 vast circular inclosure, at the bottom of which 
 there extends a huge expanse of soft meadow, ar- 
 ranged like an English garden. The multitude of 
 green hedges surrounding many properties irreg- 
 ular in size, but all of them well wooded, gives this 
 sheet of green an aspect rare in France, and it con- 
 tains in its multiplied contrast of aspect a wealth 
 of secret beauties lavish enough to influence even 
 the coldest minds. 
 
 At the time we speak of the landscape was illu- 
 minated by that fleeting splendor with which 
 nature delights sometimes to heighten the beauty 
 of her everlasting creations. While the detach- 
 ment was crossing the valley the rising sun had 
 slowly dissipated the light white mists which in 
 September mornings are wont to flit over the fields. 
 
14 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 At the moment when the soldiers turned their 
 heads an invisible hand seemed to strij) the land- 
 scape of the last of its vails — vails of delicate cloud 
 like a shroud of transparent gauze, covering pre- 
 cious jewels and heightening curiosity as they shine 
 through it — over the wide horizon which ■ presented 
 itself to the officers. The sky showed not the faint- 
 est cloud to suggest, by its sliver sheen, that the 
 huge blue vault was the firmament. It seemed 
 rather a silken canopy supported at irregular inter- 
 vals by the mountain tops, and set in the air to pro- 
 tect the shining mosaic of field and meadow, stream 
 and woodland. The officers could not weary of 
 surveying this wide space, so fertile in pastoral 
 beauty. Some were long before they could prevent 
 their gaze from wandering among the wonderful 
 maze of thickets bronzed richly by the yellowing 
 foliage of jSome tufts of trees, and set off by the 
 emerald greenness of the intervening lawns. 
 Others fixed their eyes on the contrast offered by 
 the ruddy fields, where the buckwheat, already 
 harvested, rose in tapering sheaves like the stacks 
 of muskets piled by the soldier where he bivouacs, 
 and divided from each other by other fields where 
 patches of rye, already past the sickle, showed 
 their lighter gold. Here and there were a few roofs 
 of somber state, whence rose white smoke. And 
 next the bright and silvery slashes made by the 
 tortuous streams of the Couesnon caught the eye 
 with one of those optical tricks which, without obvi- 
 ous reason, cast a dreamy vagueness on the mind. 
 The balmy freshness of the autumn breeze, the 
 strong odor of the forests, rose like a cloud of in- 
 cense, and intoxicated the admiring gazers on this 
 lovely country— gazers who saw with rapture its 
 unknown fiowers, its flourishing vegetation, its ver- 
 dure equal to that of its neighbor and in one way 
 namesake, England. The scene, already worthy 
 enough of the theater, was further enlivened by 
 cattle, while the birds sang and made the whole 
 valley utter a sweet, low melodjr which vibrated 
 in the air. If the reader's imagination will con- 
 centrate itself so as to fully conceive the rich acci- 
 
TSE CKOUANS. 
 
 15 
 
 dents of light and shade, the misty mountain hori- 
 zons, the fantastic perspectives which sprang from 
 the spots where trees were missing, from those 
 where water ran, from those where coy windings 
 of the landscape faded away ; if his memory will 
 color, so to speak, a sketch, as fugitive as the mo- 
 ment when it was taken, then those who can taste 
 such pictures will have an idea, imperfect it is true, 
 of the magical scene which surprised the still sensi^- 
 tive minds of the youthful officers. 
 They could not help an involuntary emotion of 
 
 pardon for the natural tardiness of the poor men 
 who, as they thought, were regretfully quitting 
 their dear country to go — perhaps to die — afar off 
 in a strange land, but with the generous feeling 
 natural to soldiers, they hid their sympathy under 
 a pretended desire of examining the military posi- 
 tions of the country. Hulot, however, whom we 
 must call the commandant, to avoid giving him the 
 inelegant name of demi-brigadier, was one of those 
 warriors who, when danger presses, are not the 
 
16 THE CEOUANS. 
 
 men to be caught by the charms of a landscape, 
 were they those of Paradise itself. So he shook 
 his head disapprovingly, and contracted a pair of 
 thick black eyebrows which gave a harsh cast to 
 his countenance. 
 
 " Why the devil do they not come on ?" he asked a 
 second time, in a voice deepened by the hardships 
 of war. " Is there some kind Virgin in the village 
 whose hand they are squeezing?" 
 "You want to know why?" answered a voice. • 
 The commandant, hearing sounds like those of the 
 horn with which the peasants of these valleys sum- 
 mon their flocks, turned sharply round as though 
 a sword point had pricked him, and saw, two paces 
 off, a figure even odder than any of those whom he 
 was conveying to Mayenne to serve the Republic. 
 The stranger— a short, stoutly built man, with broad 
 shoulders — showed a head nearly as big as a bull's, 
 with which it had also other resemblances. Thick 
 nostrils shortened the nose in appearance to even 
 less than its real length. The man's blubber lips, 
 pouting over teeth white as snow, his flapping ears 
 and his red hair made him seem akin rather to her- 
 bivorous animals than to the goodly Caucasian race. 
 Moreover, the bare head was made still more re- 
 markable by its complete lack of some other feat- 
 ures of a man who has lived in the society of his 
 fellows. The face, sun-bronzed and with sharn out- 
 lines vaguely suggesting the granite of whicE the 
 country-side consists, was the only visible part of 
 this singular being's person. From the neck down- 
 ward he was wrapped in a sarrau — a kind of smock- 
 frock in red linen coarser still than that of the poor- 
 est conscripts' wallets and breeches. This sarrau, 
 in which an antiquary might have recognized the 
 saga, saye, or sayon of the Gauls, ended at the 
 waist, being joined to tight breeches of goatskin by 
 wooden fastenings roughly sculptured, but in part 
 still with the bark on. These goatskins, or peaux 
 de bique in local speech, which protected his thighs 
 and his legs, preserved no outline of the human 
 form. Huge wooden shoes hid his feet, while his 
 hair, long, glistening, and not unlike the nap of hist 
 
TRE CHOUANS. . 17 
 
 goatskins, fell on each side of his face, evenly- 
 parted and resembling certain mediaeval sculptures 
 still to be seen in cathedrals. Instead of the knotty 
 stick which the conscripts bore on their shoulders 
 he carried, resting on his breast like a gun, a large 
 whip, the lash of which was cunningly plaited, and 
 seemed twice the length of whip-lashes in general. 
 There was no great difficulty in explaining the sud- 
 den apparition of this strange figure; indeed, at 
 first sight some of the officers took the stranger for 
 a requisitionary or conscript (the two words were 
 still used indifferently) who was falling back on his 
 column, perceiving that it had halted. Still the 
 commandant was much surprised by the man's 
 arrival, and though he did not seem in the least 
 alarmed his brow clouded. Having scanned the 
 stranger from head to foot, he repeated, in a 
 mechanical fashion, and as though preoccupied 
 with gloomy ideas, "Yes, why do they not come 
 on? do you know, man?" 
 
 "The reason," replied his sinister interlocutor, in 
 an accent which showed that he spoke French with 
 difficulty, "the reason is," and he pointed his huge 
 rough hands to Ernee, "that there is Maine, and 
 here Brittany ends." 
 
 And he smote the ground hard, throwing the 
 heavy handle of his whip at the commandant's feet. 
 The impression produced on the bystanders by the 
 stranger's laconic harangue was not unlike that 
 which the beat of a savage drum might make in the 
 midst of the regular music of a military band, yet 
 " harangue" is hardly word enough to express the 
 hatred and the thirst for vengeance which breathed 
 through his haughty gesture, his short fashion of 
 speech, and his countenance full of a cold, fierce 
 energy. The very rudeness of the man's appear- 
 ance, fashioned as he was as though by ax-blows, 
 his rugged exterior, the dense ignorance imprinted 
 on his" features, made him resemble some savage 
 demigod. He kept his sere-like attitude, and 
 seemed like an apparition of the very genius of 
 Brittany aroused from a three years' sleep, and 
 ready to begin once mpre a war where victory 
 
18 THE CEOUANS. 
 
 never showed herself except swathed in mourning 
 for both sides. 
 
 "Here is a pretty fellow!" said Hulot, speaking 
 to himself ; " he looks as if he were the spokesman 
 of others who are about to open a parley in gun-shot 
 language." 
 
 But when he had muttered these words between 
 his teeth, the commandant ran his eyes in turn 
 from the man before him to the landscape, f rdm the 
 landscape to the detachment, from the detachment 
 to the steep slopes of the road, their crests shaded 
 by the mighty Breton broom. Then he brought 
 them back sharply on the stranger, as it were ques- 
 tioning him mutely before he ended with the 
 brusquely spoken question, "Whence come you?" 
 
 His eager and piercing eye tried to guess the 
 secrets hidden under the man's impenetrable 
 countenance, which in the interval had fallen into 
 the usual sheepish expression of torpidity that 
 wraps the peasant when not in a state of excite- 
 ment. 
 
 "From the country of the Oars," answered the 
 man, quite unperturbed. 
 
 "Your name?" 
 
 " Marche-a- Terre. " 
 
 "Why do you still use your Chouan name in spite 
 of the law?" 
 
 But Marche-a-Terre, as he was pleased to call 
 himself, stared at the commandant with so utterly 
 truthful an air of imbecility that the soldier thought 
 he really had not understood him. 
 
 "Are you one of the Fougeres contingent?" 
 
 To which question Marche-a-Terre answered by 
 one of those " I don't know's" whose very tone ar- 
 rests all further inquiry in despair. He seated him- 
 self calmly by the wayside, drew from his smock 
 some pieces of thin and black buckwheat cake — a 
 national food whose unenticing delights can be 
 comprehended of Bretons alone — and began to eat 
 with a stolid nonchalance. He gave the impression 
 of so complete a lack of intelligence that the officers 
 by turns compared him, as he sat there, to one of 
 the cattle browsing on the fat pasturage of the 
 
THE CH0UAN8. 19 
 
 valley, to the savages of America, and to one of the 
 aborigines of the Cape of Good Hope. Deceived by 
 his air the commandant himself was beginning not 
 to listen to his own doubts, when, prudently giving 
 a last glance at the man whom he suspected of 
 being the herald of approaching carnage, he saw 
 his hair, his smock, his goatskins, covered with 
 thorns, scraps of leaves, splinters of timber and 
 brushwood, just as if the Chouan had made a long 
 journey through dense thickets. He glanced sig- 
 nificantly at^his adjutant, Gerard, who was near 
 him, squeezed his hand hard, and whispered, "We 
 came for wool, and we shall go home shorn." 
 
 The officers gazed at each other in silent astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 It may be convenient to digress a little here in 
 order to communicate the fears of Commandant 
 Hulot to some home keeping folk who doubt every- 
 thing because they see nothing, and who might 
 even deny the existence of men like Marche-a-Terre 
 and those peasants of the West whose behavior was 
 then so heroic. The word gars (pronounced ga) is 
 a waif of Celtic. It has passed from Low Breton 
 into French, and the word is, of our whole modern 
 vocabulary, that which contains the oldest mem- 
 ories. The gais was the chief weapon of the Gaels 
 or Gauls; gaisde meant "armed;" gais, "bravery;" 
 gas, "force" — comparison with which terms will 
 show the connection of the word gars with these 
 words of our ancestors' tongue. The word has a 
 further analogy with the Latin vir, "man;" the 
 root of virtus, "strength," "courage." This little 
 disquisition may be excused by its patriotic charac- 
 ter; and it may further serve to rehabilitate in 
 some persons' minds terms such as gars, garcon, 
 garconnette, garce, garcette, which are generally ex- 
 cluded from common parlance as improper, but 
 which have a warlike origin, and which will reciir 
 here and there in the course of our history. "_ 'Tis 
 a brave wench" (garce) was the somewhat misun- 
 derstood praise which Madame de Stael received in 
 a little village of the Vendomois, where she spent 
 some days of her exile. Now Brittany is of all 
 
20 THK CHOUANS. 
 
 France the district where Gaulish customs have 
 left the deepest trace. The parts of the province 
 where, even in our days, the wild life and the 
 superstitious temper of our rude forefathers may 
 still, so to speak, be taken red-handed are called 
 the country of the Gars. When a township is in- 
 habited by a considerable number of wild men like 
 him who has just appeared on our scene, the coun- 
 try-folk call them "the Gars of such and such a 
 parish," and this stereotyped appellation is a kind 
 of reward for the fidelity with which these Gars 
 strive to perpetuate the traditions of Gaulish lan- 
 guages and manners. Thus, also, their life keeps 
 deep traces as of the superstitious beliefs and prac- 
 tices of ancient times. In one place, feudal cus- 
 toms are still observed; in another, antiquaries 
 find Druidic monuments still standing; in yet 
 another the spirit of modern civilization is aghast 
 at having to make its way through huge prinaeval 
 forests. An inconceivable ferocity and a bestial 
 obstinacy, found in company with the most abso- 
 lute fidelity to an oath ; a complete absence of our 
 laws, our manners, our dress, our new-fangled coin- 
 age, our very language, combined with a patri- 
 archal simplicity of life and with heroic virtues, 
 unite in reducing the dwellers in these regions be- 
 low the Mohicans and the redskins of North America 
 in the higher intellectual activities, but make them 
 as noble, as cunning, as full of fortitude as these. 
 Placed as Brittany is in the center of Europe, it is a 
 more curious field of observation than Canada itself. 
 Surrounded by light and heat, whose beneficent 
 infiuences do not touch it, the country is like a 
 coal which lies "black-out" and ice-cold in the midst 
 of a glowing hearth. All the efforts which some 
 enlightened spirits have made to win this beautiful 
 part of France over to social life and commercial 
 prosperity— nay, even the attempts of Government 
 m the same direction— perish whelmed in the un- 
 disturbed bosom of a population devoted to imme- 
 morial use and wont. But sufficient explanations 
 of this ill-luck are found in the character of the 
 soil, still furrowed with ravines, torrents, lakes, 
 
THE moUANS. 21 
 
 and marshes; still bristling with hedges— impro- 
 vised earth-works, which make a fastness of every 
 field; destitute alike of roads and canals; and 
 finally, in virtue of the genius of an uneducated 
 population, delivered over to prejudices whose dan- 
 gerous nature our history will discover, and ob- 
 stinately hostile to new methods of agriculture. 
 The very picturesque arrangement of the country, 
 the very superstitions of its inhabitants, prevent at 
 once the association of individuals and the advan- 
 tages of comparison and exchange of ideas. There 
 are no villages in Brittany, and the rudely built 
 structures which are called dwellings are scattered 
 all over the country. Each family lives as if in a 
 desert, and the only recognized meetings are the 
 quickly dissolved congregations which Sunday and 
 other ecclesiastical festivals bring together at the 
 parish church. These meetings, where there is no 
 exchange of conversation, and which are dominated 
 by the rector, the only master whom these rude 
 spirits admit, last a few hours only. After listen- 
 ing to the awe-inspiring words of the priest, the 
 peasant goes back for a whole week to his unwhole- 
 some dwelling, which he leaves but for work, and 
 whither he returns but to sleep. If he receives a 
 visitor it is still the rector, the soul of the country- 
 side. And thus it was that at the voice of such 
 priests thousands of men flew at the throat of the 
 Republic, and that these quarters of Brittany fur- 
 nished, five years before the date at which our 
 story begins, whole masses of soldiery for the first 
 Chouannerie. The brothers Cottereau, bold smug- 
 glers, who gave this war its name, plied their peril- 
 ous trade between Laval and Fougeres. But the 
 insurrection in these districts had no character of 
 nobility. And it may be said with confidence that 
 if La Vendee made war of brigandage,* Brittany 
 made brigandage of war. The proscription of the 
 
 • I have done violence to tlie text here as printed : Si Vendee fit un 
 hrigandage de la guerre. But the point of the antithesis and the truth 
 of history seem absolutely to require the supposition of a misprint.— 
 Translator's Notes. 
 
22 TSE CS0UAN8. 
 
 royal family, the destruction of relia^ion, were to 
 the Chouans only a pretext for plunder, and the 
 incidents of intestine strife took some color from 
 the wild roughness of the manners of the district. 
 When real defenders of the monarchy came to re- 
 cruib soldiers among these populations, equally 
 ignorant and warlike, they tried in vain to infuse 
 under the white flag some element of sublimity into 
 the raids which made Chouannerie odious; and 
 the Chouans remain a memorable instance of the 
 danger of stirring up the more uncivilized portions 
 of a people. 
 
 The above given description of the first valley 
 which Brittany offers to the traveler's eye, the pict- 
 ure of the men who made up the detachment of 
 requisition aries, the account of the Gars who ap- 
 peared at the top of Pilgrim Hill, give in miniaturfe 
 a faithful idea of the province and its inhabitants; 
 any trained imagination can, by following these 
 details, conceive the theater and the methods of the 
 war, for its whole elements are there. At that time 
 the blooming hedges of these lovely valieys hid in- 
 visible foes; each meadow was a place of arms, 
 each tree threatened a snare, each willow trunk 
 held an ambuscade. The field of battle was every- 
 where. At each corner gun-barrels lay in wait for 
 the Blues, whom young girls laughingly enticed 
 under fire, without thinking themselves guilty of 
 treachery. Nay, they made pilgrimages with their 
 fathers and brothers to this and that Virgin of 
 worm-eaten wood to ask at once for suggestion of 
 stratagems and absolution of sins. The religion, 
 or rather the f etichism, of these uneducated creat- 
 ures, robbed murder of all remorse. Thus, when 
 once the strife was entered on, the whole country 
 was full of terrors ; noise was as alarming as silence ; 
 an amiable reception as threats ; the family hearth 
 as the highway. Treachery itself was convinced 
 of its honesty, and the Bretons were savages who 
 served God and the king on the principles of 
 Mohicans on the war-path. But to give a descrip- 
 tion, exact in all points, of this struggle, the his- 
 torian ought to ad!d that no sooner was Hoche's 
 
THE CHOUANS. 23 
 
 peace arranged than the whole country became 
 smiling and friendly. The very families who over 
 night had been at each other's throats, supped the 
 next day without fear of danger under the same 
 roof. 
 
 Hulot had no sooner detected the secret indica- 
 tions of treachery which Marche-a-Terre's goat- 
 skins revealed than he became certain of the breach 
 of this same fortunate peace, due once to the genius 
 of Hoche, and now, as it seemed to him, impossible 
 to maintain. So, then, war 
 had revived, and no doubt 
 would be, after a three years' 
 rest, more terrible than ever. 
 The revolution, which had 
 waxed milder since the Ninth 
 Thermidor, would very likely 
 resume the character of terror 
 which made it odious to well 
 disposed minds. English gold 
 had doubtless, as always, 
 helped the internal discords 
 of France. The Republic, 
 abandoned by young Bona- 
 parte, who had seemed its tu- 
 telary genius, appeared inca- 
 pable of resisting so many en- 
 emies, the worst of whom was 
 showing himself last. Civil 
 war, foretold already by hun- 
 dreds of petty risings, assumed 
 an air of altogether novel 
 gravity when the Ohouans 
 dared to conceive the 
 idea of attacking so<^ 
 strong an escort. Such ___^ 
 
 were the thoughts which '-v^ f- 
 
 foUowed one another, though by no means 
 so succinctly put, in the mind of Hulot as soon as 
 he seenaed to see in the apparition of Machre-a- 
 Terre a sign of an adroitly laid ambush, for he 
 alone at once understood the hidden danger. 
 The silence following the commandant's prophetic 
 
24 TEE CROUAM. 
 
 observation to Gerard, with, which we finished our 
 last scene, gave Hulot an opportunity of recovering 
 his coolness. The old soldier had nearly staggered. 
 He could not clear his brow as he thought of being 
 surrounded already by the horrors of a war whose 
 atrocities cannibals themselves might happily have 
 refused to approve. Captain Merle and Adjutant 
 Gerard, his two friends, were at a loss to explain 
 the alarm, so new to them, which their chief's face 
 showed; and they gazed at Marche-a-Terre, who 
 was still placidly eating his bannocks at the road- 
 side, without being able to see the least connection 
 between a brute beast of this kind and the disquiet 
 of their valiant leader. But Hulot's countenance 
 soon grew brighter ; sorry as he was for the Eepub- 
 lic's ill-fortune, he was rejoiced at having to fight 
 for her, and he cheerfully promised himself not to 
 fall blindly into the nets of the Chouans, and to out- 
 wit the man, however darkly cunning he might be, 
 whom they did himself the honor to send ag9,inst 
 him. 
 
 Before, however, making up his mind to any 
 course of action he set himself to examine the posi- 
 tion in which his enemies would fain surprise him. 
 When he saw that the road in the midst of which 
 he was engaged passed through a kind of gorge, 
 net, it is true, very deep, but flanked by woods, and 
 with several by-paths debouching on it, he once 
 more frowned hard with his black brows, and then 
 said to his friends, in a, low voice, full of emotion: 
 
 "We are in a pretty wasps' nest!" 
 
 "But of whom are you afraid?" asked Gerard. 
 
 " Afraid ? " repeated the commandant. " Yes ; 
 afraid is the word. I always have been afraid of 
 being shot like a dog, as the road turns a wood 
 with no one to cry 'Qui vive?' " 
 
 "Bah!" said Merle, laughing; « 'Qui vive?' itself 
 is a bad phrase!" 
 
 "Are we, then, really in danger?" asked Gerard, 
 as much surprised at Hulot's coolness as he had 
 been at his passing fear. 
 
 "Hist!" said the commandant; "we are in the 
 wolf's throat, and as it is as dark there as in a 
 
THE moUANS. 
 
 chimne/, we had better light a candle. Luckily," 
 he went on, "we hold the top of the ridge." He 
 bestowed a forcible epithet upon the said ridge, and 
 added, ".I shall see my way soon, perhaps." Then 
 taking the two officers with him, he posted them 
 round Marche-a-Terre ; but the gars, pretending to 
 think that he was in their way, rose quickly. " Stay 
 there, rascal" cried Hulot, giving 
 him a push, and making him fall 
 back on the slope where he had " 
 been sitting. And from that mo- 
 ment the demi-brigadier kept his 
 eye steadily on the Breton, who 
 seemed indifferent. "Friends," Said 
 he, speaking 
 low to the 
 two officers, 
 " it is time to 
 tell you that 
 the fat is in 
 the fire down 
 there at Paris 
 The Directo- 
 ry, in conse- 
 quence of a> 
 row in the^ 
 Assembly, 
 has muddled 
 our business 
 once more. 
 The pentar- 
 chy of panta- 
 loons (the last 
 
 word is near- >-'.^^, 
 
 er French at "^ uMl^^ 
 
 any rate) have lost a good blade, for Bernadotte 
 will have nothing more to do with them." 
 
 "Who takes his place?" asked Gerard, eagerly. 
 
 " Milet-Mureau, an old dotard. 'Tis an awkward 
 time for choosing blockheads to steer the ship. 
 Meanwhile, English signal rockets are going off 
 round the coast ; all these cockchafers of Vendeans 
 and Ohouans are abroad on the wing, and those 
 
2(3 THE CBOUANS. 
 
 who pull the strings of the puppets have chosen 
 their time just when we are beaten to our knees." 
 
 "How so?" said Merle. 
 
 "Our armies are being beaten on every side," 
 said Hulot, lowering his voice more and more. 
 " The Chouans have twice interrupted the post, and 
 I only received my last dispatches and the latest 
 decrees by an express which Bernadotte sent the 
 moment he quitted the ministry. Luckily, friends 
 have given me private information of the mess we 
 are in. Fouche has found out that the tyrant Louis 
 XVIII. has been warned by traitors at Paris to send 
 a chief to lead his wild ducks at home here. It is 
 thought that Barras is playing the Republic false. 
 In fine, Pitt and the princes have sent hither a 
 ci-divant, a man full of talent and vigor, whose 
 hope is to unite Vendeans and Chouans, and so 
 lower the Eepublic's crest. The fellow has actually 
 landed in Morbihan ; I learned it before any one, 
 and told our clever ones at Paris. He calls himself 
 the Oars. For all these cattle," said he, pointing to 
 Marche-a-Terre, " fit themselves with names which 
 would give an honest patriot a stomach-ache if he 
 bore them. Moreover, our man is about here, and 
 the appearance of this Chouan," he pointed to 
 Marche-a-Terre once more, " shows me that he is 
 upon us. But they don't teach tricks to an old 
 monkey, and you shall help me to cage my birds in 
 less than no time. I should be a pretty fool if I let 
 myself be trapped like a crow by a ci-divant who 
 comes from London to dust our jackets for us." 
 
 When they learned this secret and critical intel- 
 ligence the two officers, knowing that their com- 
 mandant never took alarm at shadows, assumed the 
 steady mien which soldiers wear in timp of danger 
 when they are of good stuff and accustomed to look 
 ahead in human affairs. Gerard, whose post, since 
 suppressed, put in close relations with his chief, 
 was about to answer and to inquire into all the 
 political news, a part of which had evidently been 
 omitted. But at a sign from Hulot he refrained, 
 and all three set themselves to watch Marche-a- 
 Terre. Yet the Chouan did not exhibit the faintest 
 
THE CM0UAN8. 27 
 
 sign of emotion, though he saw himself thus scan- 
 ned by men as formidable by their wits as by their 
 bodily strength. The curiosity of the two officers, 
 new to this kind of warfare, was vividly excited by 
 the beginning of an affair which seemed likely to 
 have something of the interest of a romance, and 
 they were on the point of making jokes of the situ- 
 ation. But at the first word of the kind that escaped 
 them Hulot said, with a grave look, "God's thun- 
 der, citizens ! don't light your pipes on the powder 
 barrel. Cheerfulness out of season is as bad as 
 water poured into a sieve. Gerard," continued he, 
 leaning toward his adjutant's ear, "come quietly 
 close to this brigand, and be ready at his first sus- 
 picious movement to run him through the body. 
 For my part, I will take measures to keep up the 
 conversation, if our unknown friends are good 
 enough to begin it." 
 
 Gerard bowed slightly to intimate obedience, and 
 then began to observe the chief objects of the val- 
 ley, which have been sufficiently described. He 
 seemed to wish to examine them more attentively, 
 and kept walking up and down and without osten- 
 sible object, but you may be sure that the landscape 
 was the last thing he looked at. For his part, 
 Marche-a-Terre gave not a sign of consciousness 
 that the officer's movements threatened him ; from 
 the way in which he played with his whip-lash you 
 might have thought that he was fishing in the ditch 
 by the road-side. 
 
 While Gerard thus maneuvered to gain a position 
 in front of the Chouan, the commandant whispered 
 to Merle : 
 
 "Take a sergeant with ten picked men and post 
 them yourself above us at the spot on the hill-top 
 where the road widens out level, and where you 
 can see a good long stretch of the way to Ernee ; 
 choose a place where there are no trees at the road- 
 side, and where the sergeant can overlook the open 
 country. Let Clef-des-Coeurs be the man ; he has 
 his wits about him. It is no laughing matter ; I 
 would not give a penny for our skins if we do not 
 take all the advantage we can get," 
 
28 TEE CH0UAN8. 
 
 While Captain Merle executed this order with 9 
 promptitude of which he well knew the importance, 
 the commandant shook his right hand to enjoin 
 deep silence on the soldiers who stood round him, 
 and who were talking at ease. Another gesture 
 bade them get once more under arms. As soon as 
 
 quiet prevailed he directi d his eyes first to one side 
 of the road, and then to the other, listening with 
 anxious attention, as if he hoped to catch some 
 stifled noise, some clatter of weapons, or some foot- 
 falls preliminary to the expected trouble. His black 
 and piercing eye seemed to probe the farthest re- 
 
THE CBOUANS. 29 
 
 cesaes of the woods, but as no symptoms met him 
 there he examined the gravel of the road after the 
 fashion of savages, trying to discover some traces 
 of the invisible enemy whose audacity was well 
 known to him. In despair at seeing nothing to 
 justify his fears, he advanced to the edge of the 
 road-way, and after carefully climbing its slight 
 risings, paced their tops slowly, but then he remem- 
 bered how indispensable his experience was to the 
 safety of his troops, and descended. His counte- 
 nance darkened, for the chiefs of those days al- 
 ways regretted that they were not able to keep the 
 most dangerous tasks for themselves. The other 
 officers and the privates, noticing the absorption of 
 a leader whose disposition they loved, and whose 
 bravery they knew, perceived that his extreme care 
 betokened some danger ; but as they were not in a 
 position to appreciate its gravity, they remained 
 motionless, and, by a sort of instinct, even held 
 their breaths. Like dogs who would fain make out 
 the drift of the orders — to them incomprehensible — 
 of a cunning hunter, but who obey him implicitly, 
 the soldiers gazed by turns at the valley of the 
 Couesnon, at the woods by the road-side, and at the 
 stern face of their commander, trying to read their 
 impending fate in each. Glance met glance, and 
 even more than one smile ran from lip to lip. 
 
 As Hulot bent his brows, Beau-Pied, a young 
 sergeant who passed for the wit of the company, 
 said, in a half whisper: 
 
 " Where the devil have we put our foot in it that 
 an old soldier like Hulot makes such muddy faces 
 at us? He looks like a court-martial !" 
 
 But Hulot bent a stern glance on Beau-Pied, and 
 the due "silence in the ranks" once more prevailed. 
 
 In the midst of this solemn hush the laggard steps 
 of the conscripts, under whose feet the gravel gave 
 a dull crunch, distracted vaguely, with its regular 
 pulse, the general anxiety. Only those can com- 
 prehend such an indefinite feeling, who, in the grip 
 of some cruel expectation, have during the stilly 
 night felt the heavy beatings of their own hearts 
 quicken at some sound whose monotonous recur- 
 
30 THE mOUANB. 
 
 rence seems to distill terror drop by drop. But the 
 commandant once more took his place in the midst 
 of the troops, and began to ask himself, " Can I have 
 been deceived?" He was beginning to look, with 
 gathering anger flashing from his eyes, on the calm 
 and stolid figure of Marche-a-Terre, when a touch 
 of savage irony which he seemed to detect in the 
 dull eyes of the Chouan urged him not to discon- 
 tinue his precautions. At the same moment Cap- 
 tain Merle, after carrying out Hulot's orders, came 
 up to rejoin him. The silent actors in this scene, so 
 like a thousand other scenes which made this war 
 exceptionally dramatic, waited impatiently for 
 new incidents, eager to see light thrown on the 
 dark side of their military situation by the ma- 
 neuvers which might follow. 
 
 " We did well, captain," said the commandant, 
 "to set the few patriots among these requisitionaries 
 at the tail of the detachment. Take a dozen more 
 stout fellows, put Sub-Lieutenant Lebrun at their 
 head, and lead them at quick march to the rear. 
 They are to support the patriots who are there, and 
 to bustle on the whole flock of geese briskly, so as 
 to bring it up at the double to the height which 
 their comrades already occupy. I will wait for 
 you." 
 
 The captain disappeared in the midst of his men, 
 and the commandant, looking by turns at four 
 brave soldiers whose activitj^ and intelligence were 
 known to him, beckoned silently to them with a 
 friendly gesture of the fingers, signifying "Come," 
 and they came. 
 
 "You served with me under Hoche," he said, 
 " when we brought those brigands who called them- 
 selves the 'King's Huntsmen' to reason, and you 
 know how they used to hide themselves in order to 
 pot the Blues!" 
 
 At this encomium on their experience the four 
 soldiers nodded with a significant grin, exhibiting 
 countenances full of soldierly heroism, but whose 
 careless indifference announced that, since the 
 struggle had begun between France and Europe, 
 they had thought of nothing beyond their knap- 
 
THE CSOUANS. 31 
 
 sacks behind them and their bajronets in front. 
 Their lips were contracted as with tight-drawn 
 purse-strings, and their watchful and curious eyes 
 gazed at their leader. 
 
 "Well," continued Hulot, who possessed in per- 
 fection the art of speaking the soldier's highly col- 
 ored language, " old hands such as we must not let 
 ourselves be caught by Chouans, and there are 
 Chouans about here, or my name is not Hulot. You 
 four must beat the two sides of the road in front. 
 The detachment will go slowly. Keep up well with 
 it. Try not to lose the number of your mess,* and 
 do your scouting there smartly." 
 
 Then he pointed out to them the most dangerous 
 heights on the way. They all, by way of thanks, 
 carried the backs of their hands to the old three- 
 cornered hats, whose tall brims, rain-beaten and 
 limp with age, slouched on the crown, and one of 
 them, Larose, a corporal, and well knpwn to Hulot, 
 made his musket ring, and said, "We will play 
 them a tune on the rifle, commandant." 
 
 They set off, two to the right, the others to the 
 left, and the company saw them disappear on both 
 sides with no slight anxiety. This feeling was 
 shared by the commandant, who had little doubt 
 that he was sending them to certain death. He 
 could hardly help shuddering when the tops of their 
 hats were no longer visible, while both officers and 
 men heard the dwindling sound of their steps on the 
 dry leaves with a feeling all the acuter that it was 
 carefully vailed. For in war there are situations 
 when the risk of four men' lives causes more alarm 
 than the thousands of slain at a battle of Jemmapes. 
 Soldiers' faces have such various and such rapidly 
 fleeting expressions that those who would sketch 
 them are forced to appeal to memories of soldiers, 
 and to leave peaceable folk to study for themselves 
 their dramatic countenances, for storms so rich in 
 
 * This is a naval rather than a military metaphor ; but I do not 
 know how Thomas Atkins would express descendre la garde. — IVanS' 
 lator's Note. 
 
32 Tim CHUUANB. 
 
 details as these could not be described without in- 
 tolerable tediousness. 
 
 Just as the last flash of the four bayonets disap- 
 peared Captain Merle returned, having accom- 
 plished the commandant's orders with the speed of 
 lightning. Hulot, with a few words of command, 
 set the rest of his troops in fighting order in the 
 middle of the road. Then he bade them occupy the 
 summit of the Pilgrim, where his scanty vanguard 
 was posted ; but he himself marched last and back- 
 ward so as to note the slightest change at any point 
 of the scene which nature had made so beautiful 
 and man so full of fear. He had reached the spot 
 where Gerard was mounting guard on Marche-a- 
 Terre, when the Chouan, who had followed with 
 an apparently careless eye all the commandant's 
 motions, and who was at the moment observing 
 with unexpected keenness the two soldiers who 
 were busy in the woods at the right, whistled twice 
 or thrice in such a manner as to imitate the clear 
 and piercing note of the screech-owl. Now, the 
 three famous smugglers mentioned above used in 
 the same way to employ at night certain variations 
 on this hoot in order to interchange intelligence of 
 ambuscades, of threatening dangers, and of every 
 fact of importance to them. It was from this that 
 the surname Chuin, the local word for the owl, was 
 given to them, and the term, slightly corrupted, 
 served in the first war to designate those who fol- 
 lowed the ways and obeyed the signals of the 
 brothers. When he heard this suspicious whistle, 
 the commandant halted, and looked narrowly at 
 Marche-a-Terre. He pretended to be deceived by 
 the sheepish air of the Chouan, on purpose to keep 
 him near to himself, as a barometer to indicate the 
 movements of the enemy. And therefore he checked 
 the hand of Gerard, who was about to dispatch 
 him. Then he posted two soldiers a couple of paces 
 from the spy, and in loud, clear tones bade them 
 shoot him at the first signal that he gave. Yet 
 Marche-a-Terre, in spite of his imminent danger, 
 did not show any emotion, and the commandant', 
 who was still observing him, noting his insensibi- 
 
THE CEOUANS. 33 
 
 lity, said to Gerard, "The goose does not know his 
 business. 'Tis never easy to read a Chouan's face, 
 but this fellow has betrayed himself by wishing to 
 show his pluck. Look you, Gerard, if he had pre- 
 tended to be afraid I should have taken him for a 
 mere fool. There would have been a pair of us, 
 and I should have been at my wits' end. Now it is 
 certain that we shall be attacked. But they may 
 come; I am ready." 
 
 Having said these words in a low voice, and with 
 a triumphant air, the old soldier rubbed his hands 
 and glanced slyly at Marche-a-Terre. Then he 
 crossed his arms on his breast, remained in the 
 middle of the road between his two favorite officers, 
 and waited for the event of his dispositions. Tran- 
 quil at last as to the result of the fight, he surveyed 
 his soldiers with a calm countenance. 
 
 "There will be a row in a minute," whispered 
 Beau-Pied ; " the commandant is rubbing his hands. " 
 
 Such a critical situation as that in which Com- 
 mandant Hulot and his detachment were placed is 
 one of those where life is so literally at stake that 
 men of energy make it a point of honor to show 
 coolness and presence of mind. At such moments 
 manhood is put to a last proof. So the comman- 
 dant, knowing more of the danger than his officers, 
 plumed himself all the more on appearing the most 
 tranquil. By turns inspecting Marche-a-Terre, the 
 road, and the woods, he awaited, not without 
 anxiety, the sound of a volley from the Chouans, 
 who, he doubted not, were lurking like forest- 
 demons around him. His face was impassive. 
 When all the soldiers' eyes were fixed on his he 
 slightly wrinkled his brown cheeks pitted with 
 small-pox, drew up the right side of his lip, and 
 winked hard, producing a grimace which his men 
 regularly understood to be a smile. Then he clap- 
 ped Gerard's shoulder, and said, " Now that we are 
 quiet, what were you going to sav to me?" 
 
 "What new crisis is upon us, commandant?" 
 
 "The thing is not new," answered he, in a low 
 tone. " The whole of Europe is against us, and this 
 tuue the cards are with them While our Directors 
 
U THE CBOUAlCS. 
 
 are squabbling among themselves like horses with^ 
 out oats in a stable, and while their whole adminis- 
 tration is going to pieces, they leave the army with- 
 out supplies. In Italy we are simply lost ! Yes, 
 my friends, we have evacuated Mantua in conse- 
 quence of losses on the Trebia, and Joubert has just 
 lost a battle at Novi. I only hope Massena may be 
 able to keep the passes in Switzerland against 
 Suwarrow. We have been driven in on the Ehine, 
 and the Directory has sent Moreau there. Will 
 the fellow be able to hold the frontier? Perhaps, 
 but sooner or later the coalition must crush us, and 
 the only general who could save us is — the devil 
 knows where — down in Egypt. Besides, how could 
 he get back? England is mistress of the seas." 
 
 " I do not care so much about Bonaparte's absence, 
 commandant," said the young adjutant, Gerard, in 
 whom a careful education had developed a nat- 
 urally strong understanding. " Do you miean that 
 the Revolution will be arrested in its course? Ah, 
 no ! we are not only charged with the duty of de- 
 fending the frontiers of France ; we have a double 
 mission. Are we not bound as well to keep alive 
 the genius of our country, the noble principles of 
 liberty and independence, the spirit of human reason 
 which our Assemblies have aroused, and which must 
 advance from time to time? France is as a traveler 
 commissioned to carry a torch ; she holds it in one 
 hand, and defends herself with the other. But if 
 your news is true, never during ten years have more 
 folk anxious to blow the torch out thronged around 
 us. Our faith and our country both must be near 
 perishing." 
 
 " Alas ! 'tis true," sighed Commander Hulot ; " our 
 puppets of Directors have taken good care to quarrel 
 with all the men who could steer the ship of state. 
 Bernadotte, Carnot, all, even citizen Talleyrand' 
 have left us. There is but a single good patriot left 
 —friend Fouche, who keeps things together by 
 means of the police. That is a man for you. It was 
 
 he who warned me in time of this rising and 
 
 what is more, I am sure we are caught in a trap of 
 some sort." 
 
TJSS CMOUAKS. 
 
 3S 
 
 "Oh'/' said Gerard, "if the army has not some 
 finger in the government these attorney fellows 
 will put us in a worse case than before the Eevolu- 
 tion. How can such weasels know how to com- 
 mand?" 
 
 " 1 am always in fear," said Hulot, " of hearing 
 that they are parleying with the Bourbons. God's 
 thunder ! if they came to terms we should be in a 
 pickle here!" 
 
 "No, no, commandant, it will not come to that," 
 said Gerard; "the army, as you say, will make 
 itself heard, and unless it speaks according to 
 Pichegru's dictionary, there is good hope that we 
 shall not have worked and fought ourselves to death 
 for ten years, only to have planted the flax our- 
 selves, and let others spin it." 
 
3d THE CEOtlANS. 
 
 "Why, yes!" said the commandant, "we have 
 not changed our coats without its costing us some- 
 thing." 
 
 "Well, then," said Captain Merle, "let us play the 
 part of good patriots still here, and try to stop com- 
 munications between our Chouans and La Vendee. 
 For if they join, and England lends a hand, why, 
 then, I will not answer for the cap of the Kepublic, 
 one and indivisible." 
 
 At this point the owl's hoot, which sounded afar 
 off, interrupted the conversation. The comman- 
 dant, more anxious, scanned Marche-a-Terre anew, 
 but his impassive countenance gave hardly even a 
 sign of life. The conscripts, brought up by an offi- 
 cer, stood huddled like a herd of cattle in the middle 
 of the road, some thirty paces from the company 
 drawn up in order of battle. Last of all, ten paces 
 farther, were the soldiers and patriots under the 
 orders of Lieutenant Lebrun. The commandant 
 threw a glance over his array, resting it finally on 
 the picket which he had posted in front. Satisfied 
 with his dispositions, he was just turning round to 
 give the word " March" when he caught sight of the 
 tricolor cockades of the two soldiers who were 
 coming back after searching the woods to the left. 
 Seeing that the scouts on the right had not re- 
 turned, he thought of waiting for them. 
 
 "Perhaps the bom,b is going to burst there," he 
 said to the two officers, pointing to the wood where 
 his forlorn hope seemed to be buried. 
 
 While the two scouts made a kind of report to 
 him, Hulot took his eyes off Marche-a-Terre. The 
 Chouan thereupon set to whistling sharply in such 
 a fashion as to send the sound to a prodigious dis- 
 tance, and then, before either of his watchers had 
 been able even to take aim at him, he dealt them 
 blows with his whip, which stretched them on the 
 footpath. At the same moment cries, or rather 
 savage howls, surprised the Eepublicans ; a heavy 
 volley coming from the wood at the top of the slope 
 where the Chouan had seated himself, laid seven or 
 eight soldiers low ; while Marche-a-Terre, at whom 
 half a dozen useless shots were fired, disappeared ia 
 
THE CE0UAN8. 87 
 
 th.e thicket, after climbinej the slope like a wild-cat. 
 As he did so his sabots dropped in the ditch, and 
 they could easily see on his feet the stout hobnailed 
 shoes which were usually worn by the "King's 
 Huntsmen." No sooner had the Chouans given 
 tongue than the whole of the conscripts dashed into 
 the wood to the right, like flocks of birds which 
 take to wing on the approach of a traveler. 
 
 " Fire on the rascals !" cried the commandant. 
 
 The company fired, but the conscripts had had 
 the address to put themselves in safety by setting 
 each man his back to a tree, and before the muskets 
 could be reloaded they had vanished. 
 
 " Now talk of recruiting departmental legions, 
 eh?" said Hulot to Gerard. "A man must be as great 
 a fool as a Directory to count on levies from such a 
 country as this. The Assembly would do better to 
 vote us less, and give us more in uniforms, money, 
 and stores." 
 
 " These are gentlemen who like their bannocks 
 better than ammunition bread," said Beau-Pied, 
 the wit of the company. 
 
 As he spoke hootings and shouts of derision from 
 the Kepublican troops cried shame on the deserters, 
 but silence fell again at once, as the soldiers saw, 
 climbing painfully down the slope, the two light 
 infantry men whom the commandant had sent to 
 beat the wood to the right. The less severely 
 wounded of the two was supporting his comrade, 
 whose blood poured on the ground, and the two poor 
 fellows had reached the middle of the descent when 
 Marche-a-Terre showed his hideous face, and took 
 such good aim at the two Blues that he hit them 
 both with the same shot, and they dropped heavily 
 into the ditch. His great head had no sooner ap- 
 peared than thirty barrels were raised, but, like a 
 figure in a phantasmagoria, he had already disap- 
 peared behind the terrible broom tufts. These in- 
 cidents, which take so long in the telling, passed in 
 a moment, and then, again in a moment, the patriots 
 and the soldiers of the rear guard effected a junc- 
 tion with the rest of the escort. 
 
 "Forward!" cried Hulot. 
 
38 THE CEOUANS. 
 
 The company made its way quickly to the ^otty 
 and bare spot where the picket had been posted. 
 There the commandant once more set the conapany 
 in battle array, but he could see no further sign of 
 hostility on the Chouans' part, and thought that the 
 deliverance of the conscripts had been the only 
 object of the ambuscade. 
 
 " I can tell by their shouts," said he to his two 
 friends, "that there are not many of them. Let us 
 quicken up. Perhaps we can gain Ernee without 
 having them upon us." 
 
 The words were heard by a patriot conscript, who 
 left the ranks and presented himself to Hulot. 
 
 "General," said he, "I have served in this war 
 before as a counter-Chouan. May a man say a 
 word to you?" 
 
 " 'Tis a lawyer ; these fellows always think them- 
 selves in court," whispered the commandant into 
 Merle's ear. " Well, make your speech," said he to 
 the young man of Fougeres. 
 
 "Commandant, the Chouans have, no doubt, 
 brought arms for the new recruits they have just 
 gained. Now, if we budge, they will wait for us at 
 e\Eery corner of the wood and kill us to the last man 
 before we reach Ernee. We must make a speech, 
 as you say, but it must be with cartridges. During 
 the skirmish, which will last longer than you think, 
 one of my comrades will go and fetch the National 
 Guard and the Free Companies from Fougeres. 
 Though we are only conscripts you shall see then 
 whether we are kites and crows at fighting." 
 
 " You think there are many of the Chouans, then?" 
 
 "Look for yourslf, citizen commandant." 
 
 He took Hulot to a spot on the plateau where the 
 road gravel had been disturbed as if with a rake, 
 and then, after drawing his attention to this, he 
 led him some way in front to a by-path where they 
 saw traces of the passage of no small number of 
 men, for the leaves were trodden right into the 
 beaten soil. 
 
 "These are the Gars oi Vitre," said the man of 
 Fougeres. "They have started to join the men of 
 Lower Normandy." 
 
THE CEOUANS. 39 
 
 "What is your name, citizen?" said Hulot. 
 
 "Gudin, commandant." 
 
 "Well, Gudin, I make you corporal of your 
 townsfolk. You seem to be a fellow who can be 
 depended on. Choose for yourself one of your 
 comrades to send to Fougeres. And you yourself 
 stay by me. First, go with your requisitionaries 
 and pick up the knapsacks, the guns, and the uni- 
 forms of our poor comrades whom the brigands 
 have knocked over. You shall not stay here to 
 stand gunshot without returning it. " 
 
 So the bold men of Fougeres went to strip the 
 dead, and the whole company protected them by 
 pouring a steady fire into the wood, so that the task 
 of stripping was successfully performed without the 
 loss of a single man. 
 
 "These Bretons," said Hulot to Gerard, "will 
 make famous infantry if they can ever make up 
 their minds to the pannikin."* 
 
 Gudin's messenger started at a run by a winding 
 path in the wood to the left. The soldiers, busy in 
 seeing to their weapons, made ready for the fight, 
 and the commandant, after looking them over 
 smilingly, took his station a few steps in front, 
 with his two favorite oflScers, and waited stubbornly 
 for the Chouans to attack. There was again silence 
 for a while, but it did not last long. Three hundred 
 Chouans, dressed in a similar fashion to the requisi- 
 tionaries, debouched from the woods to the right, 
 and occupied, after a disorderly fashion, and utter- 
 ing shouts which were true wild beast howls, the 
 breadth of the road in front of the thin line of 
 Blues. The commandant drew up his men in two 
 equal divisions, each ten men abreast, placing be- 
 tween the two his dozen requisitionaries hastily 
 equipped and under his own immediate command. 
 
 The little army was guarded on the wings by two 
 detachments, each twenty-five men strong, who 
 operated on the two sides of the road under Gerard 
 
 • Oamelle, the joint soup-plate or bowl in which the rations of sev- 
 eral French soldiers were served, and which has something of the tra- 
 ditional saoredness of the Janissary soup-kettle. — Translator's Note, 
 
40 TBB CEOUANS. 
 
 and Merle, and whose business it was to take the 
 Chouans in flank, and prevent them from prac- 
 ticing the maneuver called in the country dialect 
 s'egailler — that is to say, scattering themselves 
 about the country, and each man taking up his own 
 position so as best to shoot at the Blues without 
 exposing himself, in which way of fighting the 
 Republican troops were at their wits' end where to 
 place their enemies. 
 
 These dispositions, which the commandant 
 ordered with the promptitude suited to the circum- 
 stances, inspired the soldiers with the same confi- 
 dence that he himself felt, and the whole body 
 silently; marched on the Chouans. At the end of a 
 few minutes, the interval required to cover the 
 space between the two forces, a volley at point- 
 blank laid many low on both sides, but at the same 
 moment the Republican wings, against which the 
 Chouans had made no counter movement, came up 
 on the flank, and by a close and lively fire spread 
 death and disorder amid the enemy to an extent 
 which almost equalized the number of the two 
 bodies. But there was in the character of the 
 Chouans a stubborn courage which would stand any 
 trial; they budged not a step, their losses did not 
 make them waver; they closed up their broken 
 ranks, and strove to surround the dark and steady 
 handful of Blues, which occupied so little space that 
 it looked like a queen bee in the midst of a swarm. 
 Then began one of those appalling engagements in 
 which the sound of gunshot, scarcely heard at all, is 
 replaced by the clatter of a struggle with the cold 
 steel, in which men fight hand to hand and in which 
 with equal courage the victory is decided simply by 
 numbers. The Chouans would have carried the 
 day at once if the wings under Merle and Gerard 
 had not succeeded in raking their rear with more 
 than one volley. The Blues who composed these 
 wings ought to have held their position, and con- 
 tinued to mark down their formidable adversaries ; 
 but, heated by the sight of the dangers which the 
 brave detachment ran, completely surrounded as it 
 was by the King's Huntsmen, they flung themselves 
 
THE CHOUANS. 41 
 
 madly on the road, bayonet in hand, and for a 
 moment redressed the balance. Both sides then 
 gave themselves up to the furious zeal, kindled by 
 a wild and savage party spirit, which made this war 
 unique. Each man, heedful of his own danger, 
 kept absolute silence, and the whole scene had the 
 grisly coolness of death itself. Across the silence, 
 broken only by the clash of arms and the crunching 
 of the gravel, there came nothing else but the dull, 
 heavy groans of those who fell to earth, dying, or 
 Wounded to the death. In the midst of the Eepub- 
 licans the requisitionaries defended the comman- 
 dant, who was busied in giving counsel and com- 
 mand in all directions, so stoutly that more than 
 once the regulars cried out, "Well done, recruits!" 
 But Hulot, cool and watchful of everything, soon 
 distinguished among the Chouans a man who, sur- 
 rounded like himself by a few picked followers, 
 seemed to be their leader. He thought it impera- 
 tive that he should take a good look at the ofHcer, but 
 though again and again he tried in vain to note his 
 features, the view was always barred by red bonnets 
 or flapping hats. He could but perceive Marche- 
 a-Terre, who, keeping by the side of his chief, 
 repeated his orders in a harsh tone, and whose 
 rifle was unceasingly active. The commandant 
 lost his temper at this continual disappointment, 
 and, drawing his sword and cheering on the requisi- 
 tionaries, charged the thickest of the Chouans so 
 furiously that he broke through them, and was able 
 to catch a glimpse of the chief, whose face was un- 
 luckily quite hidden by a huge flapped hat bearing 
 the white cockade. But the stranger, startled by 
 the boldness of the attack, stepped backward, 
 throwing up his hat sharply, and Hulot had the op- 
 portunity of taking brief stock of him. The young 
 leader, whom Hulot could not judge to be more 
 than five-and-twenty, wore a green cloth shooting- 
 coat, and pistols were thrust in his white sash ; his 
 stout shoes were hobnailed like those of the Chouans, 
 while sporting gaiters rising to his knees, and join- 
 ing breeches of very coarse duck, completed a cos- 
 tume which revealed a shape of moderate height, 
 
42 ' THE CEOUAKS. 
 
 but slender and well proportioned. Enraged at see- 
 ing the Blues so near him, he slouched his hat aiid 
 made at them, but he was immediately surrounded 
 by Marche-a-Terre and some other Chouans alarmed 
 for his safety. Yet Hulot thought he could see in the 
 intervals left by the heads of those who thronged 
 round the young man a broad red ribbon on a half- 
 opened waistcoat. The commandant's eyes were 
 attracted for a moment by this Royalist decoration, 
 then entirely forgotten, but shifted suddenly to the 
 face, which he lost from sight almost as soon, being 
 driven by the course of the fight to attend to the 
 safety and the movements of his little force. He 
 thus saw but for a moment a pair of sparkling eyes, 
 whose color he did not mark, fair hair, and feat- 
 ures finely cut enough, but sunburned. He was, 
 however, particularly struck by the gleam of a bare 
 neck whose whiteness was enhanced by a black 
 cravat, loose, and carelessly tied. The fiery and 
 spirited gestures of the young chief were soldierly 
 enough, after the fashion of those who like to see a 
 certain conventional romance in a fight. His hand, 
 carefully gloved, flourished a sword-blade that 
 flashed in the sun. His bearing dispayed at once 
 elegance and strength, and his somewhat deliber- 
 ate excitement, set off as it was by the charms of 
 youth and by graceful manners, made the emigrant 
 leader a pleasing type of the French noblesse, and 
 a sharp contrast with Hulot, who, at a pace or two 
 from him, personified in his turn the vigorous Ee- 
 public for which the old soldier fought, and whose 
 stern face and blue uniform, faced with shabby 
 red, the epaulets tarnished and hanging back over 
 his shoulders, depicted not ill his character and his 
 hardships. 
 
 The young man's air and his not imgraceful affec- 
 tation did not escape Hulot, who snouted, as he 
 tried to get at him, " Come, you opera dancer there ! 
 come along and be thrashed!" 
 
 The royal chief, annoyed at his momentary 
 check, rushed forward desperately, and no sooner 
 had his men seen him thus risk himself than they 
 all flung themselves on the Blues. 
 
TSE OBOTTANS. 43 
 
 But suddenly a clear, sweet voice made itself 
 heard above the battle, " 'Twas here that sainted 
 Lescure died; will you not avenge him?" And at 
 these words of enchantment the exertions of the 
 Chouans became so terrible that the Republican sol- 
 diers had the greatest trouble in holding their 
 ground without breaking ranks. 
 8 "Had he not been a youngster," said Hulot to 
 himself, as he retreated step by step, "we should 
 not have been attacked. Who ever heard of 
 Chouans fighting a pitched battle? But so much 
 the better ; we shall not be killed like dogs along 
 the road-side." Then raising his voice that it might 
 up-echo along the woods, "Wake up, children!" he 
 cried; "shall we let ourselves be bothered by 
 brigands?" 
 
 The term by which we have replaced the word 
 which the valiant commandant actually used is but 
 a weak equivalent, but old hands will know how 
 to restore the true phrase, which certainly has a 
 more soldierly flavor. 
 
 "Gerard! Merle!" continued the commandant, 
 " draw off your men ! form them in column ! fall 
 back ! fire on the dogs, and let us have done with 
 them!" 
 
 But Hulot's order was not easy to execute, for, as 
 he heard his adversary's voice the young chief 
 cried, "By Saint Anne of Auray! hold them fast! 
 scatter yourslves, my Gars !" 
 
 And when the two wings commanded by Merle 
 and Gerard left the main battle each handful was 
 followed by a determined band of Chouans much 
 superior in numbers, and the stout old goatskins 
 surrounded the regulars on all sides, shouting anew 
 their sinister and bestial howls. 
 
 "Shut up, gentlemen, please," said Beau-Pied; 
 "we can't hear ourselves being killed." 
 
 The joke revived the spirits of the Blues. Instead 
 of fighting in a single position the Republicans con- 
 tinued their defense a.t three different spots on the 
 plateau of the Pilgrim, and all its valleys, lately so 
 peaceful, re-echoed with the fusillade. Victory 
 might have remained undecided for hours, till the 
 
U TSE CH0VAN8. 
 
 fight ceased for want of fighters, for Blues and 
 Chouans fought with equal bravery and with rage 
 constantly increasing on both sides, when the faint 
 beat of a drum was heard afar off, and it was clear, 
 from the direction of the sound, that the force 
 which it heralded was crossing the valley of the 
 Couesnon. 
 
 " 'Tis the National Guard of Fougeres!" cried 
 Gudin, loudly; "Vannier must have met them." 
 
 At this cry, which reached the ears of the young 
 Chouan chief and his fierce aide-de-camp, the Roy- 
 alists made a backward movement, but it was 
 promptly checked by a roar, as of a wild beast, 
 from Marche-a-Terre. After a word of command 
 or two given by the leader in a low voice and 
 transmitted in Breton by Marche-a-Terre to the 
 Chouans, they arranged their retreat with a skill 
 which astonished the Republicans, and even the 
 commandant. At the first word those in best con- 
 dition fell into line and showed a stout front, be- 
 hind which the wounded men and the rest retired 
 to load. Then ail at once, with the same agility of 
 which Marche-a-Terre had before set the example, 
 the wounded scaled the height which bounded the 
 road on the right, and were followed hj half the 
 remaining Chouans, who, also climbing it smartly, 
 manned the summit so as to show the Blues nothing 
 but their bold heads. Once there they took the 
 trees for breastworks, and leveled their guns at the 
 remnant of the escort, who, on Hulot's repeated 
 orders, had dressed the ranks quickly so as to show 
 on the road itself a front not less than that of the 
 Chouans still occupying it. These latter fell back 
 slowly, and fought every inch of ground, shifting 
 so as to put themselves under their comrades' fire. 
 As soon as they had reached the ditch they in their 
 turn escaladed the slope whose top their fellows 
 held, and joined them after suffering without flinch- 
 ing the fire of the Republicans, who were lucky 
 enough to fill the ditch with dead, though the men 
 on the top of the scrap replied with a volley quite 
 as deadly. At this moment the Fougeres National 
 Guard came up at a run to the battle-field, and its 
 
THE CHOUANiS. 45 
 
 arrival finished the business. The National Guards 
 and some excited regulars were already crossing 
 the footpath to plunge into the woods, when the 
 commandant's martial voice cried to them, "Do you 
 want to have your throats cut in there ?" 
 
 So they rejoined the Eepublican force which had 
 held the field, but not without heavy losses. All 
 the old hats were stuck on the bayonet points, the 
 guns were thrust aloft, and the soldiers cried with 
 one voice and twice over, "long live the Republic !" 
 Even the wounded sitting on the road-sides shared 
 the enthusiasm, and Hulot squeezed Gerard's hand, 
 saying, " Eh ! these are something like fellows ! 
 
 Merle was ordered to bury the dead in a ravine 
 by the road-side, while other soldiers busied them- 
 selves with the wounded. Carts and horses were 
 requisitioned from the farms round, and the dis- 
 abled comrades were softly bedded in them on the 
 strippings of the dead. But before departing the 
 Fougeres National Guard handed over to Hulot a 
 dangerously wounded Chouan. They had taken 
 him prisoner at the foot of the steep slope by which 
 his comrades had escaped, and on which he had 
 slipped, betrayed by his flagging strength. 
 
 "Thanks for your prompt action, citizens," said 
 the commandant. " God's thunder ! but for you we 
 should have had a bad time of it. Take care of 
 yourselves; the war has begun. Farewell, my 
 brave fellows !" Then Hulot turned to the prisoner. 
 "What is your general's name?" asked he. 
 
 "The Gars." 
 
 "Who is that? Marche-a-Terre?" 
 
 "No! the Gars." 
 
 "Where did the Gars come from?" 
 
 At this question the King's Huntsman, his rough, 
 fierce face stricken with pain, kept silence, told his 
 beads, and began to say prayers. 
 
 " Of course the Gars is the young ci-divant with 
 the black cravat ; he was sent by the tyrant and his 
 allies Pitt and Cobourg?" 
 
 But at these words, the Chouan, less well in- 
 formed than the commandant, raised his head 
 proudly. " He was sent by God and the king !" 
 
46 THE CH0UAN8. 
 
 He said the words with an energy which ex- 
 hausted his small remaining strength. The com- 
 mandant saw that it was almost impossible to ex- 
 tract intelligence from a dying man, whose whole 
 bearing showed his blind fanaticism, and turned 
 his head aside with a frown. Two soldiers, friends 
 of those whom Marche-a-Terre had so brutally dis- 
 patched with his whip on the side of the road, for, 
 indeed, they lay dead there, stepped back a little, 
 took aim at the Chouan, whose steady eyes fell not 
 before the leveled barrels, fired point-blank at him, 
 and he fell. But when they drew near to strip the 
 corpse he mustered strength to cry once more and 
 loudly, "Long live the king!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sly dogi" said Clef-des-Coeurs, "go and 
 eat your bannocks at your good Virgin's table. To 
 think of his shouting 'Long live the tyrant!' in our 
 faces when we thought him done for !" 
 
 " Here, commandant," said Beau-Pied, "here are 
 the brigand's papers." 
 
 "Hullo!" cried Clef-des-Coeurs again, "do come 
 and look at this soldier of God with his stomach 
 painted." 
 
 Hulot and some of the men cro wded round the 
 Chouan's body, now quite naked, and perceived on 
 his breast a kind of bluish tattoo mark representing 
 a burning heart, the mark of initiation of the 
 Brotherhood of the Sacred Heart. Below the design 
 Hulot could decipher the words "Marie Lambre- 
 quin," no doubt the Chouan's name. "You see 
 that, Clef-des-Coeurs?" said Beau-Pied. "Well, you 
 may guess for a month of Sundays before you find 
 out the use of this accouterment. " 
 
 "What do I know about the Pope's uniforms?" re- 
 plied Clef-des-Cceurs. 
 
 "Wretched pad-the-hoof that you are!" retorted 
 Beau-Pied, "will you never learn? don't you see 
 that they have promised the fellow resurrection, 
 and that he has painted his belly that he may know 
 himself again?" 
 
 At this sally, which had a certain ground of fact, 
 Hulot himself could not help joining in the general 
 laughter. By this time Merle had finished burying 
 
TSE CSOtTANS. 47 
 
 the dead, and the wounded had been, as best could 
 be done, packed in two wagons by their comrades. 
 The rest of the soldiers, forming without orders a 
 double file on each side of the improvised ambu- 
 lances, made their way down the side of the hill 
 which faces Maine, and from which is seen the 
 valley of the Pilgrim, a rival to that of the Couesnon 
 in beauty. Hulot, with his two friends Merle and 
 Gerard, followed his soldiers at an easy pace, hoping 
 to gain Ernee, where his wounded could be looked 
 after without further mishap. The fight, though 
 almost forgotten among the mightier events which 
 were then beginning in France, took its name from 
 the place where it had occurred, and attracted some 
 attention, if not elsewhere, in the West, whose in- 
 habitants, noting with care this new outbreak of 
 hostilities, observed a change in the way in which 
 the Chouans opened the new war. Formerly they 
 would never have thought of attacking detach- 
 ments of such strength. Hulot conjectured that the 
 young Eoyalist he had seen must be the Gars, the 
 new general sent to France by the royal family, 
 who, after the fashion usual with the Eoyalist 
 chiefs, concealed his style and title under one of the 
 nicknames called noms de guerre. The fact made 
 the commandant not less thoughtful after his dearly 
 won victory than at the moment when he suspected 
 the ambuscade. He kept turning back to look at 
 the summit of the Pilgrim which he was leaving 
 behind, and whence there still came at intervals the 
 muffled sound of the drums of the National Guard, 
 who were descending the valley of the Couesnon 
 just as the Blues were descending that of the 
 Pilgrim. 
 
 "Can either of you," he said, suddenly, to his two 
 friends, "guess the Chouans' motive in attacking 
 us? They are business-like folk in dealing with 
 gunshots, and I cannot see what they had to gain 
 in this particular transaction. They must have lost 
 at least a hundred men, and we," he added, hitch- 
 ing his right cheek and winking by way of a smile, 
 "have not lost sixty. God's thunder! I do not see 
 their calculation. The rascals need not have at- 
 
48 THE CR0UAN8. 
 
 tacked us unless they liked ; we should have gone 
 along as quietly as a mail-bag, and I don't see 
 what good it did them to make holes in our poor 
 fellows." And he pointed sadly enough at the two 
 wagon-loads of wounded. "Of course," he added, 
 "it may have been mere politeness — a kind of 'good- 
 day to you.' " 
 
 " But, commandant, they carried off our hundred 
 and fifty recruits," answered Merle. 
 
 " The conscripts might have hopped into the woods 
 like frogs for all the trouble we should have taken 
 to catch them," said Hulot, "especially after the 
 first volley," and he repeated, "No! no! there is 
 something behind." Then, with yet another turn 
 toward the hill, "There!" he cried, "look!" 
 
 Although the officers were now some way from 
 the fatal plateau they could easily distinguish 
 Marche-a-Terre and some Chouans wjtio had occu- 
 pied it afresh. 
 
 "Quick march!" cried Hulot to his men; "stir 
 your stumps, and wake up Shank's mare! Are 
 your legs frozen? have they turned Pitt-and-Cobourg 
 men?" 
 
 The little force began to move briskly at these 
 words, and the commandant continued to the two 
 officers : 
 
 "As for this riddle, friends, which I can't make 
 out, God grant the answer be not given in musket 
 language at Ernee. I am much afraid of hearing 
 that the communication with Mayenne has been cut 
 again by the King's subjects." 
 
 But the problem which curled Commandant 
 Hulot's mustache was at the same time causing 
 quite as lively anxiety to the folk he had seen on 
 the top of the Pilgrim. As soon as the drums of the 
 National Guard died away, and the Blues w.ere seen 
 to have reached the bottom of the long descent 
 Marche-a-Terre sent the owl's cry cheerily out, and 
 the Chouans reappeared, but in smaller numbers. 
 No doubt, not a few were busy in looking to the 
 wounded in the village of the Pilgrim, which lay 
 on the face of the hill looking toward the Couesnon. 
 Two or three leaders of the "King's Huntsmen'"' 
 
THE OHOUANS. 
 
 49 
 
 joined Marche-a-Terre, while a pace or two away 
 the young nobleman, seated on a granite bowlder, 
 seemed plunged in various thoughts, excited by the 
 difficulty which his enterprise already presented. 
 Marche-a-Terre made a screen with his hand to 
 shade his sight from the sun's glare, and gazed in a 
 melancholy fashion at the road which the Eepubli- 
 cans were following across the Pilgrim valley. His 
 eyes, small, black, and piercing, 
 seemed trying to discover what 
 was passing where the road be- 
 gan to climb again on the hori- 
 
 ^■n. 
 
 f:i zon of the valley. 
 
 "The Blues will 
 intercept the 
 mail!" said, sav- 
 agely, one of the 
 chiefs who was 
 nearest Marche- 
 a-Terre. 
 
 "In the name 
 
 of Saint Anne of 
 
 Auray," said an- 
 
 To save your 
 
 other, "why did you make us fight? 
 own skin?" 
 
 Marche-a-Terre cast a venomous look at the 
 speaker, and slapped the butt of his heavy rifle on 
 the ground. 
 
 "Am I general?" he asked. Then, after a pause, 
 " If you had all fought as I did not one of those 
 Blues," and he pointed to the remnant of Hulot's 
 
50 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 detachment, "would have escaped, and the coach 
 might have been here now." 
 
 "Do you think," said a third, "that they would 
 have even thought of escorting or stopping it, if we 
 had let them pass quietly? You wanted to save 
 your cursed skin, which was in danger because you 
 did not think the Blues were on the road. To save 
 his bacon," continued the speaker, turning to the 
 others, " he bled us, and we shall lose twenty thou- 
 sand francs of good money as well." 
 
 "Bacon yourself!" cried Marche-a-Terre, falling 
 back, and leveling his rifle at his foe; "you do not 
 hate the Blues; you only love the money. You 
 shall die and be damned, you scoundrel ! For you 
 have not been to confession and communion this 
 whole year!" 
 
 The insult turned the Chouan pale, and he took 
 aim at Marche-a-Terre, a dull growl starting from 
 his throat as he did so, but the young chief rushed 
 between them, struck down their weapons with the 
 barrel of his own rifle, and then asked for an ex- 
 planation of the quarrel, for the conversation had 
 been in Breton,with which he was not very familiar. 
 
 "My Lord Marquis," said Marche-a-Terre, when 
 he had told him, "it is all the greater shame to flnd 
 fault with me in that I left behind Pille-Miche, who 
 will perhaps be able to save the coach from the 
 thieves' claws after all," and he pointed to the 
 Blues, who, in the eyes of these faithful servants fff 
 the throne and altar, were all assassins of Louis 
 XVI., and all robbers as well. 
 
 "What!" cried the young man, angrily, "you are 
 lingering here to stop a coach like cowards, when 
 you might have won the victory in the first fight 
 where I have led you? How are we to triumph 
 with such objects as these? Are the defenders of 
 God and the king common marauders? By Saint 
 Anne of Auray ! it is the Eepublic and not the mail 
 that we make war on. Henceforward a man who 
 is guilty of such shameful designs shall be deprived 
 of absolution, and shall not share in the honors 
 reserved for the King's brave servants." 
 
 A low growl rose from the midst of the band, and 
 
TEE CHOUANS. 
 
 61 
 
 it was easy to see that the chief's new-born author- 
 ity, always diflBcult to establish among such undisr 
 cipiined gangs, was likely to be compromised. The 
 young man, who had not missed this demonstration, 
 was searching for some means of saving the credit 
 of his position, when the silence was broken by a 
 horse's trot, and all heads turned in the supposed 
 direction of the new-comer. It was a young lady 
 mounted sideways on a small , 
 Breton pony. She broke into a 
 gallop, in order to reach the' 
 group of Chouans more quickly, 
 
 when she saw the young man in their midst. 
 
 " What is the matter?" said she, looking from men 
 to leader by turns. 
 
 "Can you believe it, roaidam ?" said he, "they 
 are lying in wait for the mail from Mayenne, with 
 the intention of plundering it, when we have just 
 fought a skirmish to deliver the Oars of Fougeres, 
 with heavy loss, but without having been able to 
 destroy the Blues !" 
 
52 TEE CUOUANB. 
 
 "Well! what harm is there in that?" said the 
 lady, whose woman's tact showed her at once the 
 secret of the situation. " You have lost men ; we 
 can always get plenty more. The mail brings 
 money, and we can never have enough of that. 
 We will bury our brave fellows who are dead, and 
 who will go to heaven, and we will take the money 
 to put into the pockets of the other brave fellows 
 who are alive. What is the difficulty?" 
 
 Unanimous smiles showed the approval with 
 which the Chouans heard this speech. 
 
 "Is there nothing in it that brings a blush to 
 your cheek?" asked the young man, in a low tone. 
 "Are you so short of money that you must take it 
 on the highway?" 
 
 " I want it so much, marquis, that I would pledge 
 my heart for it," said she, with a coquettish smile, 
 " if it were not in pawn already. But where have 
 you been that you think you can employ Chouans 
 without giving them plunder now and then at the 
 Blues' expense? Don't you know the proverb, 
 'Thievish as an owl?' Eemember what a Chouan 
 is; besides," added she, louder, "is not the action 
 just? have not the Blues taken all the Church's 
 goods, and all our own?" 
 
 A second approving murmur, very different from 
 the growl with which the Chouans had answered 
 the marquis, greeted these words. 
 
 The young man's brow darkened, and, taking the 
 lady aside, he said to her, with the sprightly vexa- 
 tion of a well-bred man, " Are those persons coming 
 to the Vivetiere on the appointed day?" 
 
 "Yes," said she, " all of them ; L'Intime, Grand- 
 Jacques, and perhaps Ferdinand." 
 
 " Then allow me to return thither, for I cannot 
 sanction such brigandage as this by my presence. 
 Yes, madam, I use the word brigandage. There 
 is some nobility in being robbed, but " 
 
 "Very well," said she, cutting him short, "I shall 
 have your share, and I am much obliged to you for 
 handing it over to me. The additional prize money 
 will suit me capitally. My mother has been so slow 
 
THE CH0UAN8. 53 
 
 in sending me supplies that I am nearly at my wits' 
 end." 
 
 "Farewell!" cried the marquis, and he was on the 
 point of vanishing. But the young lady followed 
 nim briskly. "Why will you not stay with me?" 
 she said, with the glance, half imperious, half 
 caressing, by which women who have a hold over a 
 man know how to express their will. 
 
 "Are you not going to rob a coach?" 
 
 "Rob!" replied she, "what a word! Allow me to 
 explain to you " 
 
 "No; you shall explain nothing," he said, taking 
 her hands and kissing them with the easy gallantry 
 of a courtier. And then, after a pause, " Listen ; if 
 I stay here while the mail is stopped our fellows 
 will kill me, for I shall " 
 
 "No, you would not attempt to kill them," she 
 said, quickly, " for they would bind you hand and 
 foot with every respect due to your rank, and when 
 they had levied on the Republicans the contribu- 
 tion necessary for their equipment, their food, and 
 their powder, they would once more yield you im- 
 plicit obedience." 
 
 "And yet you would have me command here? If 
 my life is necessary to fight for the cause, let me at 
 least keep the honor of my authority safe. If I 
 retire I can ignore this base act. I will come back 
 and join you." 
 
 And he made ofP swiftly, the young lady listening 
 to his footfalls with obvious vexation. When the 
 rustle of the dry leaves gradually died away she 
 remained in perplexity for a moment. Then she 
 quickly made her way back to the Chouans, and 
 allowed a brusque expression of contempt to escape 
 her, saying to Marche-a-Terre, who helped her to 
 dismount, "That young gentleman would like to 
 carry on war against the Republic with all the reg- 
 ular forms. Ah, well ! he will change his mind in 
 a day or two. But how he has treated me!" she 
 added to herself, after a pause. She then took her 
 seat on the rock which had just before served the 
 marquis as a chair, and silently awaited the arrival 
 of the coach. She was not one of the least singular 
 
54 THE CH0UAN8. 
 
 symptoms of the time, this young woman of noble 
 birth, thrown by the strength of her passions into 
 the struggle of monarchy against the spirit of the 
 age, and driven by her sentiments into actions for 
 which she was in a way irresponsible ; as, indeed, 
 were many others who were carried away by an 
 excitement not seldom productive of great deeds. 
 Like her, many other women played, in these dis- 
 turbed times, the parts of heroines or of criminals. 
 The Royalist cause had no more devoted, no more 
 active servants than these ladies, but no virago of 
 the party paid the penalty of excess of zeal, or suf- 
 fered the pain of situations forbidden to the sex, 
 more bitterly than this lady, a&, sitting on her 
 road-side bowlder, she was forced to accord admira- 
 tion to the noble disdain and the inflexible integrity 
 of the young chief. By degrees she fell into a deep 
 reverie, and many sad memories made her long for 
 the innocence of her early years, and regret that 
 she had not fallen a victim to that Revolution whose 
 victorious progress hands so weak as hers could not 
 arrest. 
 
 The coach which had partly been the cause of the 
 Chouan onslaught had left the little town of Ernee 
 a few moments before the skirmish begun. Noth- 
 ing better paints the condition of a country than 
 the state of its social "plant," and thus considered, 
 this vehicle itself deserves honorable mention. 
 Even the Revolution had not been able to abolish 
 it ; indeed, it runs at this very day. * When Turgot 
 bought up the charter which a company had ob- 
 tained under Louis XVI . for the exclusive right of 
 serving passenger traffic all over the kingdom, and 
 when he establishe"d the new enterprise of the so- 
 called turgotines, the old coaches of Messieurs de 
 Vousges, Chanteclaire, and the widow Lacombe 
 were banished to the provinces. One of these 
 wretched vehicles served the traffic between May- 
 enne and Fougeres. Some feather-headed persons 
 
 * August, 1827, when Balzac, twenty-eight years old, and twenty- 
 eight years after date, wrote "The Chouans" at Fougeres itself — 
 Translator's Note. 
 
THE CHOUANS. 55 
 
 had baptized it antiphrastically a turgotine, either 
 in imitation of Paris or in ridicule of an innovating 
 minister. It was a ramsliackle cabriolet on two 
 very high wheels, and in its recesses two pretty 
 stout persons would have had difficulty in enscon- 
 cing themselves. The scanty size of the frail trap 
 forbidding heavy loads, and the inside of the coach 
 box being strictly reserved for the use of the mail, 
 travelers, if they had any luggage, were obliged to 
 keep it between their legs, already cramped in a 
 tiny kind of boot shaped like a bellows. Its original 
 color and that of its wheels presented an insoluble 
 riddle to travelers. Two leathern curtains, difficult 
 to draw despite their length of service, were in- 
 tended to protect the sufferers against wind and 
 rain, and the driver, perched on a box like those of 
 the worst Parisian shandrydans, could not help 
 joining in the travelers' conversation from his posi- 
 tion between his two-legged and his four-legged 
 victims. The whole equipage bore a fantastic like- 
 ness to a decrepit old man who has lived through 
 any number of catarrhs and apoplexies, and from 
 whom death seems yet to hold his hand. As it 
 traveled it alternately groaned and creaked, lurch- 
 ing by turns forward and backward like a traveler 
 heavy with sleep, as though it was pulling the 
 other way to the rough action of two Breton ponies 
 who dragged it over a sufficiently rugged road. 
 This relic of by-gone ages contained three travelers, 
 who, after leaving Ernee, where they had changed 
 horses, resumed a conversation with the driver 
 which had been begun before the end of the last 
 stage. 
 
 " What do you mean by saying that Ohouans have 
 shown themselves hereabouts ? " said the driver. 
 " The Ernee people have just told me that Com- 
 mandment Hulot has not left Fougeres yet." 
 
 "Oh, oh, friend," said the youngest traveler, 
 " you risk nothing but your skin. If you had, like 
 me, three hundred crowns on you, and if you were 
 known for a good patriot, you would not take things 
 so quietly." 
 
66 ' TEE CE0UAN8. 
 
 "Anyhow, you don't keep your own secrets," said 
 the driver, shaking his head. 
 
 "Count your sheep, and the wolf will eat them," 
 said the second traveler, who, dressed in black, and 
 apparently some forty years old, seemed to be a 
 rector of the district. His chin was double, and his 
 rosy complexion was a certain sign of his ecclesi- 
 astical status. But though fat and short, he showed 
 no lack of agility whenever there was need to get 
 down from the vehicle or to get up again. 
 
 "Perhaps you are Chouans yourselves?" said the 
 man with the three hundred crowns, whose ample 
 goatskin covered breeches of good cloth, and a 
 clean waistcoat, resembled the garments of some 
 well-to-do farmer. "By Saint Eobespierre's soul! 
 you shall have a warm reception, I promise you!" 
 
 And his gray eyes traveled from the priest to the 
 driver as he pointed to a pair of pistols in his belt. 
 
 "Bretons are not afraid of those things," said the 
 rector, contemptuously. " Besides, do we look like 
 people who have designs on your money?" 
 
 Every time the word "money" was rnentioned the 
 driver became silent, and the rector was sufficiently 
 wide-awake to suspect that the patriot had no 
 crowns at all, and that their conductor was in 
 charge of some. 
 
 "Are you well loaded to-day, Coupiau?" said the 
 priest. 
 
 "Oh, Monsieur Gudin! I have nothing worth 
 speaking of," answered the driver. But the Abbe 
 Gudin, considering the countenances of the patriot 
 and Coupiau, perceived that they were equally un- 
 disturbed at the answer. 
 
 " So much the better for you," retorted the patriot ; 
 "I can then take my own means to protect my own 
 property in case of ill fortune." 
 
 But Coupiau rebelled at this cool announcement 
 as to taking the law into the patriot's own hands, 
 and answered, roughly : 
 
 " I am master in my coach, and provided I drive 
 you " 
 
 "Are you a patriot, or are you a Chouan?" said 
 his opponent, interrupting him sharply. 
 
TBE CEOUANS. 57 
 
 "I am neither one nor the other," replied Coupiau. 
 " I am a postilion, and what is more, I am a Breton 
 —therefore I fear neither the Blues nor the gentle- 
 men." 
 
 "The gentlemen of the road, you mean," sneered 
 the patriot. 
 
 "Nay, they only take back what has been taken 
 from them," said the rector, quickly, and the two 
 travelers stared each other straight in the face, to 
 speak vernacularly. But there was in the interior 
 of the coach a third passenger, who during this 
 altercation observed the deepest silence, neither th« 
 driver, nor the patriot, nor even Gudin paying the 
 least attention to such a dummy. Indeed he was 
 one of those unsociable and impracticable travelers 
 who journey like a calf carried unresistingly, with 
 its legs tied, to the nearest market, who begin by 
 occupying at least their full legal room, and end 
 by lolling asleep, without any false modesty, on 
 their neighbors' shoulders. The patriot, Gudin, 
 and the driver had therefore left the man to himself 
 on the strength of his sleep, after perceiving that it 
 was useless to talk to one whose stony countenance 
 indicated a life passed in measuring out yards of 
 linen, and an intelligence busied only in selling 
 them as much as possible over cost price. A fat 
 little man, curled up in his corner, he from time to 
 time opened his china-blue eyes and rested them on 
 each speaker in turn during the discussion, with 
 expressions of alarm, doubt, and mistrust. But he 
 seemed only to be afraid of his fellow-travelers, 
 and to care little for the Chouans, while when he 
 looked at the driver it was as though one Freemason 
 looked at another. At this moment the firing on 
 the Pilgrim began. Coupiau, with a startled air, 
 pulled up his horses. 
 
 "Oh, oh!" said the priest, who seemed to know 
 what he was talking about, " that means hard fight- 
 ing and plenty of men at it." 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur Gudin. But the puzzle is, who 
 will win?" said Coupiau, and this time all faces 
 seemed equally anxious. 
 
 "tiet us put up the coach," said the patriot, "at 
 
5S THE CBOUANS. 
 
 the inn over there, and hide it till we know the 
 result of the battle." 
 
 This seemed such prudent advice that Coupiau 
 yielded to it, and the patriot helped the driver to 
 stow the coach away from all eyes, behind a fagot 
 stack. But the supposed priest seized an oppor- 
 tunity of saying to Coupiau : 
 
 "Has he really got money?" 
 
 " Eh ! Monsieur Gudin, if what he has were in 
 your reverence's pockets, they would not be heavy." 
 
 The Republicans, in their hurry to gain Ernee, 
 passed in front of the inn without halting, and at 
 the sound of their march, Gudin and the innkeeper, 
 urged by curiosity, came out of the yard gate to 
 look at them. All of a sudden the plump priest ran 
 to a soldier, who was somewhat behind. 
 
 "What, Gudin," he said, "are you going with the 
 Blues, you obstinate boy? what are you thinking 
 of?" 
 
 "Yes, uncle," answered the corporal, "I have 
 sworn to defend France." 
 
 "But, miserable man, you are risking your soul!" 
 said the uncle, trying to arouse in his nephew those 
 religious sentiments which are so strong in a Bre- 
 ton's heart. 
 
 " Uncle, if the king had taken the head of the 
 army himself I don't say but " 
 
 "Who is talking of the king, silly boy? will your 
 Republic give you a fat living? It has upset every- 
 thing. What career do you expect? Stay with us; 
 we shall win sooner or later, and you shall have a 
 counselor's place in some parliament or other." 
 
 " A parliament ! " cried Gudin, scornfully. " Good- 
 by, uncle." 
 
 "You shall not have three louis' worth from me," 
 said the angry uncle ; " I will disinherit you !" 
 
 "Thanks!" said the Republican, and they parted. 
 
 The fumes of some cider with which the patriot 
 had regaled Coupiau while the little troop passed 
 had succeeded in muddling the driver's brains, but 
 he started up joyfully when the innkeeper, after 
 learning the result of the struggle, announced that 
 the Blues had got the better. He set off once more 
 
THE CEOUANS. 69 
 
 with his coach, and the vehicle was not long in 
 showing itself at the bottom of the Pilgrim valley, 
 where, like a piece of wreckage floating after a 
 storm, it could easily be seen from the high ground, 
 both of Maine and Brittany. 
 
 Hulot, as he reached the top of a rising ground 
 which the Blues were climbing, and whence the 
 Pilgrim was still visible in the distance, turned 
 back to see whether the Chouans were still there, 
 and the sun flashing on their gun-barrels, showed 
 them to him like dots of light. As he threw a last 
 look over the valley which he is just leaving to that 
 of Ernee, he thought he could see Coupiau's coach 
 and horses on the high road. 
 
 "Is not that the Mayenne coach?" he asked his 
 two friends, and the officers, gazing at the old tur- 
 gotine, recognized it easily. 
 
 "Well!" said Hulot, "why did we not meet it?" 
 They looked at each other silently. " Another puz- 
 zle!" cried the commandant; "but I think I begin 
 to understand." 
 
 At that moment Marche-a-Terre, who also knew 
 the turgotine well, signaled it to his comrades, and 
 then shouts of general joy woke the strange young 
 lady from her reverie. She came forward, and saw 
 the vehicle bowling along with fatal swiftness from 
 the other side of the Pilgrim. The unlucky turgo- 
 tine soon reached the plateau, and the Chouans, 
 who had him themselves anew, pounced on their 
 prey with greedy haste. The silent traveler slipped 
 to the coach floor and shrunk out of sight, trying 
 to look like a parcel of goods. 
 
 "Aha!" cried Coupiau from his box, pomtmg at 
 his peasant passenger. "You have scented this 
 patriot, have you? He has a bag full of gold." 
 
 But the Chouans greeted his words with a roar of 
 laughter, and shouted "Pille-Miche! Pille-Miche! 
 PiUe-Miche!" , . , ^.^, ,^. ^ 
 
 In the midst of the hilarity which Pille-Miche 
 himself, as it were, echoed, Coupiau climbed shame- 
 facedly from his box. But when the famous Cibot, 
 nicknamed Pille-Miche, helped his neighbor to get 
 down a respectable murmur was raised. " 'Tis Abbe 
 
60 TEE CM0UAN8. 
 
 Gudin!" cried several, and at this honored name 
 every hat went off. The Chouans bent the knee 
 before the priest, and begged his blessing, which he 
 gave them with solemnity. 
 
 " He would outwit Saint Peter himself, and filch 
 the keys of paradise!" said the rector, clapping 
 Pille-Miche on the shoulder. "But for him the 
 Blues would have intercepted us." But then, see- 
 ing the young lady, the Abbe Gudin went to talk to 
 her a few paces apart. Marche-a-Terre, who had 
 promptly opened the box of the cabriolet, discov- 
 ered with savage glee a bag whose shape promised 
 rouleaux of gold. He did not waste much time in 
 making the division, and each Chouan received the 
 part that fell to him with such exactitude that the 
 partition did not excite the least quarrel. Then he 
 came forward to the young lady and the priest, 
 offering them about six thousand francs. 
 
 "May I taJte this with a safe conscience, Monsieur 
 Gudin?" said she, feeling in need of some approval 
 to support her. 
 
 "Why, of course, madam. Did not the Church 
 formerly approve the confiscation of the Protest- 
 ants' goods? Much more should she approve it in 
 the case of the Eevolutionists who renounce God, 
 destroy chapels, and persecute religion." And he 
 added example to precept by accepting without the 
 least scruple the new kind of tithe which Marche-a- 
 Terre offered him. "Besides," said he, "I can now 
 devote all my goods to the defense of God and the 
 king. My nephew has gone off with the Blues." 
 
 Meanwhile Coupiau was bewailig his fate, and 
 declaring that he was a ruined man. 
 
 "Come with us," said Marche-a-Terre; "you shall 
 have your share." 
 
 " But they will think that I have let myself be 
 robbed on purpose, if I return without any violence 
 having been offered me." 
 
 "Oh, is that all?" said Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 H« gave the word, and a volley riddled the tur- 
 gotine. At this sudden discharge there came from 
 the old coach so lamentable a howl that the Chou- 
 ans, naturally superstitious, started back with 
 
THM CMOUANS. 61 
 
 fright. But Marche-a-Terre had caught sight of 
 the pallid face of the silent passenger rising from 
 and then falling back into a corner of the coach 
 body. 
 
 "There is still a fowl in your coop," he whispered 
 to Coupiau, and Pille-Miche, who understood the 
 remark, winked knowingly. 
 
 " Yes," said the driver, "but I make it a condition 
 of my joining you that you shall let me take the 
 good man safe and sound to Fougeres. I swore to 
 do so by the Holy Saint Anne of Auray." 
 
 "Who is he?" asked Pille-Miche. 
 
 "I cannot tell you," answered Coupiau. 
 
 "Let him alone," said Marche-a-Terre, jogging 
 Pille-Miche's elbow ; "he has sworn by Saint Anne 
 of Auray, and he naust keep his promise. But," 
 continued the Chouan, addressing Coupiau, "do not 
 you go down the hill too fast ; we will catch you up 
 on business. I want to see your passenger's phiz, 
 and then we will give him a passport." At that 
 moment a horse's gallop was heard, the sound near- 
 ing rapidly from the Pilgrim's side, and soon the 
 young chief appeared. The lady hastily concealed 
 the bag she held in her hand. 
 
 "You need have no scruple in keeping that 
 money," said the young man, drawing her arm for- 
 ward again. "Here is a letter from your mother 
 which I found among those waiting for me at the 
 Vivetiere." He looked by turns at the Chouans 
 who were disappearing in the woods and the coach 
 which was descending the valley of the Couesnon, 
 and added, " For all the haste I made I did not come 
 up in time. Heaven grant I may be deceived in my 
 suspicions." 
 
 "It is my poor mother's money!" cried the lady, 
 after opening the letter, the first lijies of which drew 
 the exclamation from her. There was a sound of 
 stifled laughter from the woods, and even the young 
 chief could not help laughing as he saw her clutch- 
 ing the bag containing her own share of the plunder 
 of her own money. Indeed, she began to laugh 
 herself. 
 
 "Well, marquis," said she to the chief, "God be 
 
62 THE CE0UAN8. 
 
 praised! At any rate I come off blameless this 
 time." 
 
 "Will you never be serious, not even in remorse?" 
 said the young man. 
 
 She blushed, and looked at the marquis with an 
 air so truly penitent that it disarmed him. The 
 abbe politely, but with a rather doubtful counte- 
 nance, restored the tithe which he had just ac- 
 cepted, and then followed the chief, who was mak- 
 ing his way to the by-path which he had come. 
 Before joining them the young lady made a sign to 
 Marche-a-Terre, who came up to her. 
 
 "Go and take up your position in front of Mor- 
 iagne," she said, in a low voice. " I know that the 
 Blues are going to send almost immediately a great 
 sum in cash to Alencon to defray the expenses of 
 preparing for war. If I give up to-day's booty to 
 our comrades it is on condition that they take care 
 to make up my loss. But above all things take 
 care that the Gars knows nothing of the object of 
 this expedition ; he would very likely oppose it. If 
 things go wrong I will appease him." 
 
 "Madam," said the marquis, whose horse she 
 mounted behind him, giving her own to the abbe, 
 " my friends at Paris write to bid us look to our- 
 selves, for the Republic will try to fight us by un- 
 derhand means, and by trickery." 
 
 "They might do worse," said she. "The rascals 
 are clever. I shall be able to take a part in the 
 war, and find opponents of my own stamp." 
 
 " Not a doubt of it," cried the marquis. " Pichegru 
 bids me be very cautious and circumspect in making 
 acquaintances of every kind. The Eepublic does 
 me the honor of thinking me more dangerous than 
 all the Vendeans put together, and counts on my 
 foibles to get hold of me." 
 
 "Would you distrust me?" she said, patting his 
 heart with the hand by which she clung to him. 
 
 "If I did would you be there, madam?" answered 
 he, and turned toward her his forehead, which she 
 kissed. 
 
 "Then," said the abbe, "we have more to fear 
 
THE CH0UAN8. 
 
 63 
 
 from Fouche's police than from the battalions of 
 
 mobiles, and the Anti-Chouans?" 
 "Exactly, your reverence." 
 "Aha!" said the lady, "Fouche is going to send 
 
 women against you, is he? I shall be ready for 
 
 them," she added, in a -^oice deeper than usual, and 
 
 after a slight pause. 
 Some three or four gunshots off from the waste 
 
 plateau which the leaders 
 were now leaving there 
 was passing at the mo- 
 ment one of those scenes 
 which, for some time to 
 come, became not un- 
 common on the highways. 
 On the outskirts of the 
 'little village of the Pil- 
 grim, Pille-Miche and 
 Marche-a-Terre had once 
 more stopped the coach 
 at a spot where the road 
 dipped. Coupiau had left 
 his box after a slight re- 
 sistance, and the silent 
 
64 THE CH0UAN8. 
 
 passenger, extracted from his hiding-place by the 
 two Chouans, was on his knees in a broom thicket. 
 
 "Who are you?" asked Marche-a-Terre, in a sin- 
 ister tone. 
 
 The traveler held his peace till Pille-Miche recom- 
 menced his examination with a blow from the butt 
 of his gun. 
 
 "I am," he said, glancing at Ooupiau, "Jacques 
 Pinaud, a poor linen merchant. " But Coupiau, who 
 did not think that he broke his word by so doing 
 shook his head. The gesture enlightened Pille- 
 Miche, who took aim at the traveler, while Marche- 
 a-Terre laid before him in plain terms this alarming 
 ultimatum : 
 
 " You are too fat for a poor man with a poor 
 man's cares. If you give us the trouble of asking 
 your real name once more my friend, Pille-Miche, 
 here will earn the esteem and gratitude of ' your 
 heirs by one little gunshot. Who are you?" he 
 added, after a brief interval. 
 
 "I am D'Orgemont, of Fougeres." 
 
 "Aha!" cried the Chouans. 
 
 "I did not tell your name, M. d'Orgemont," said 
 Coupiau. "I call the Holy Virgin to witness that 
 I defended you bravely." 
 
 "As you are Monsieur d'Orgemont, of Fougeres," 
 went on Marche-a-Terre, with a mock respectful 
 air, you shall be let go quite quietly. But as you 
 are neither a good Chouan nor a true Blue, though 
 you did buy the estate of Juvigny Abbey", you shall 
 pay us," said the Chouan, in the tone of a man who 
 is counting up his comrades, " three hundred crowns 
 of six francs each as a ransom. That is not too 
 much to pay for the privilege of being neutral. " 
 
 " Three hundred crowns of six francs!" repeated 
 the luckless banker, Pille-Miche, and Coupiau in 
 chorus, but each in very different tones. 
 
 "Alas! my dear sir," said D'Orgemont, "lama 
 ruined man. The forced loan of one hundred mil- 
 lions levied by this devilish Republic, which assesses 
 Hie at terrible rates, has drained me dry." 
 
 "And pray, how much did the Republic ask of 
 you?" 
 
TME CEOUANS. 65 
 
 _ "A thousand crowns, dear sir," said the banker, 
 m a lamentable tone, hoping to be let off something. 
 
 " If the Eepublic borrows such large sums from 
 you, and forces you to pay them, you must see that 
 your interest lies with us, whose government is less 
 expensive. Do you mean to say that three hundred 
 crowns is too much to pay for your skin?" 
 
 "But where am I to get them?" 
 
 "Out of your strong box," said Pille-Miche, "and 
 take care your crowns are not clipped, or we will 
 clip your nails in the fire for you." 
 
 "But where am I to pay them?" asked D'Orge- 
 mont. 
 
 " Your country house at Fougeres is close to the 
 farm of Gibarry, where dwells my cousin Galope- 
 Chopine, otherwise called Long Cibot. You shall 
 pay them to him," said Pille-Miche. 
 
 "But that is not business," said D'Orgemont. 
 
 "What do we care for that?" replied Marche-a- 
 Terre. " Eemember that if the crowns are not paid 
 to Galope-Chopine in fifteen days' time we will pay 
 you a little visit which will cure you of gout, if you 
 have got it in your feet. As for you, Coupiau," 
 continued he, turning to the conductor, "your name 
 henceforth shall be Mene-a-Bien." And with these 
 words the two Chouans departed, and the traveler 
 climbed up again into the coach, which Coupiau, 
 whipping up his steeds, drove rapidly toward 
 Fougeres. 
 
 "If you had been armed," said Coupiau, "we 
 might have made a little better fight of it. " 
 
 "Silly fellow," answered D'Orgemont, "I have got 
 ten thousand francs there," and he pointed to his 
 great shoes. " Is it worth fighting when one has 
 such a sum on one as that?" 
 
 Mene-a-Bien scratched his ear and looked back- 
 ward, but all traces of his new friends had disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Hulot and his soldiers halted at Ernee to deposit 
 the wounded in the hospital of the little town, and 
 then, without any further inconvenient incident 
 interrupting the march of the Republican force, 
 made their way to Mayenne. There the comman- 
 
66 THE CEOUAM. 
 
 dant was able next day to put an end to his doubts 
 about the progress of the mail, for the townsfolk 
 received news of the robbery of the coach. 
 
 A few days later the authorities brought into 
 Mayenne numbers of patriot conscripts, sufficient 
 to enable Hulot to fill up the ranks of his demi- 
 brigade. But there soon followed disquieting re- 
 ports as to the insurrection. There was complete 
 revolt at every point where, in the last war, the 
 Chouans and Vendeans had established the prin- 
 cipal centers of their outbreak. In Brittany the 
 EoyaUsts had seized Pontorson, so as to open com- 
 munications with the sea. They had taken the little 
 town of Saint James, between Pontorson and 
 Fougeres, and seerned disposed to make it for the 
 time their place ot arms, a headquarters of their 
 magazines and of their operations, from which 
 without danger they could correspund both with 
 Normandy and Morbihan. The inferior leaders 
 were scouring these districts with the view of ex- 
 citing the partisans of monarchy, and arranging, if 
 possible, a systematic effort. These machinations 
 were reported at the same time as news from La 
 Vendee, where similar intrigues were stirring up 
 the country, under the direction of four famous 
 leaders, the Abbe Vernal, the Compte de Fontaine, 
 M. de Chatillon, and M. Suzannet. The Chevalier 
 de Valois, the Marquis d'Esgrignon, and the Trois- 
 villes acted, it was said, as their agents in the de- 
 partment of the Orne. But the real chief of the 
 extensive scheme which was unfolding itself, slowly 
 but in an alarming fashion, was "the Gars," a nick- 
 name given by the Chouans to the Marquis de 
 Montauran as soon as he had landed. 
 
 The information sent to the Government by Hulot 
 turned out correct in every particular. The author- 
 ity of the chief sent from abroad had been at once 
 acknowledged. Indeed, the marquis was acquiring 
 sufficient influence over the Chouans to enable him 
 to give them a glimmering of the true objects of tiie 
 war, and to persuade them that the excesses of 
 which they had been guilty were tarnishing the 
 noble cause to which they devoted themselves. Th© 
 
TEE CSOUANS. 67 
 
 bold temper, the courage, the coolness, the ability 
 of this young lord revived the hopes of the Eepub- 
 lic's enemies, and administered so lively an impulse 
 to the gloomy fanaticism of the district that even 
 lukewarm partisans labored to bring about results 
 decisive in favor of the stricken monarchy. Mean- 
 while Hulot received no answer to the repeated 
 demands and reports which he kept sending to 
 Paris, and this astounding silence boded beyond 
 doubt some crisis in the fortunes of the Republic. 
 
 "Can it be now," said the old chief to his friends, 
 " with the Government as it is with men who are 
 dunned for money? do they put all demands in the 
 waste-paper basket?" 
 
 But before long there spread the rumor of the 
 return, as if by enchantment, of General Bonaparte, 
 and of the events of the 18th Brumaire, and the 
 military commanders in the West were not slow to 
 understand the silence of the ministers. Neverthe- 
 less, these commanaers were only the more impa- 
 tient to get rid of the responsibility which weighed 
 on them, and felt a lively curiosity to know what 
 measures the new Government would take. When 
 they learned that General Bonaparte had been ap- 
 pointed First Consul of the Republic the soldiers 
 . felt keen pleasure, seeing for the first time one of 
 their own men promoted to the management of 
 affairs. All France, which idolized the young gen- 
 eral, trembled with hope, and the national energy 
 revived. The capital, weary of dullness and gloom, 
 gave itself up to the festivals and amusements of 
 which it had so long been deprived. The earlier 
 acts of the consulate disappointed no expectations, 
 and Freedom felt no qualms. Soon the First Consul 
 addressed a proclamation to the inhabitants of the 
 West, one of those eloquent allocutions directed to 
 the masses which Bonaparte had, so to say, in- 
 vented, and which produced in those days of pro- 
 digious patriotism effects altogether miraculous. 
 His voice echoed through the world like that of a 
 prophet, for as yet no one of these manifestoes had 
 failed to be confirmed by victory. Thus it ran : 
 
68 fEE CEOUANS. 
 
 "DWELLBBS TS THE WbST: — 
 
 "For the second time an impious war has set your departments in a 
 flame. 
 
 "The authors of these troubles are traitors who have sold themselTes 
 to the English, or brigands who seek in civil disorder nothing but oc- 
 casion and immunity for their crimes. 
 
 "To such men Government can neither show clemency nor even 
 make a declaration of its own principles. 
 
 "But there are some citizens still dear to their country ■v .'ho have 
 been seduced by the artifices of these men, and these citizens deserve 
 enlightenment and the communication of the truth. 
 
 "Some unjust laws have been decreed and put in execution; some 
 arbitrary acts have disturbed the citizens' sense of personal safety and 
 their liberty of conscience; everywhere the rash insertion of names in 
 the list of emigrants has done harm to patriots; in short, the great 
 principles of social order have been violated. 
 
 "The consuls therefore make known that, freedom of worship having 
 been decreed by the Constitution, the law of the 11th Prairial, year III., 
 which grants to all citizens the use of edifices intended for religious 
 worship, will be put in force. 
 
 "The Government will show mercy; it will extend to the repentant 
 an entire and absolute indemnity. But it will strike down all those 
 who, after this announcement, dare to continue resistance to the sov- 
 ereignty of the people." 
 
 "Quite paternal, is it not?" said Hulot, after this 
 consular allocution had been publicly read; "yet 
 you will see not one Royalist brigand will be con- 
 verted by it." 
 
 The commandant was right, and the proclamation 
 did nothing but attach each partisan more strongly 
 to his own party. A few days later Hulot and his 
 colleagues received reinforcements, and the new 
 Minister of War sent information that General 
 Brune had been appointed to the command of the 
 forces in the West of France, while Hulot, whose 
 experience was well known, had provisional author- 
 ity in the departments of Orne and Mayenne. Soon 
 a hitherto unknown activity set all the springs of 
 administration working. A circular from the Min- 
 ister of War and the Minister of General Police 
 announced that vigorous measures, the execution 
 of which was intrusted to the heads of the military 
 had been taken to stifle the insurrection at its 
 source. But the Chouans and the Vendeans had 
 already proiited by the sluggishness of the Republic 
 to raise the country and to gain complete possession 
 
TEE CUOUANS. 69 
 
 of it. Accordingly a new consular proclamation 
 was launched, addressed this time to the troops : 
 
 •SOLDIBES:— 
 
 "There are now in the West no enemies but bandits, emigrants, and 
 the hirelings of England. 
 
 "The army consists of more than sixty thousand gallant men; let 
 me learn soon that the rebel chiefs are no more. Glory is to be gained 
 by toil; who would be without it if it were to be won by keeping to 
 barracks in the cities ? 
 
 "Soldiers, no matter what your rank in the army may be, the grati- 
 tude ot the nation awaits you ! To deserve it you must brave the in- 
 clemency of the seasons, ice, snow, the bitter cold of night ; you must 
 surprise your enemies at break of day, and put the wretches, the scan- 
 dal of France, to the sword ! 
 
 "Let your campaign be brief and successful; give no mercy to the 
 bandits, but bserve the strickest discipline. 
 
 ' 'National Guards ! let the effort of your arms be joined to that of the 
 troops of the line. 
 
 "If you know of any men among you who are partisans of the ban- 
 dits, arrest them ! Let them find nowhere any shelter from the pur- 
 suing soldier; and if there be any traitors who dare to harbor and 
 defend them, let both perish together !" 
 
 "What a fellow!" cried Hulot. "It is just as it 
 was in Italy ; he rings the bell for mass, and says it 
 all by himself. That is the way to talk." 
 
 " Yes, but he talks by himself and in his own 
 name," said Gerard, who was beginning to dread 
 what might come of the 18th Brumaire. 
 
 "Odd sentries and sentry-boxes!" said Merle. 
 "What does that matter since he is a soldier?" 
 
 A few paces off some of the rank and file were 
 clustering round the proclamation which was stuck 
 on the wall. Now, as not a man of them could 
 read they gazed at it, some indifferently, others 
 curiously, while two or three scanned the passers-by 
 for a citizen who looked learned. 
 
 "Come, Clef-des-Coeurs," said Beau-Pied, mock- 
 ingly to his comrade, "what does that rag there 
 say?" 
 
 "It is easy to guess," answered Clef-des-Coeurs. 
 And as he spoke all looked at the pair, who were 
 always ready to play each his part. 
 
 "Look there!" continued Clef-des-Coeurs, point- 
 ing to a rough cut at the head of the proclamation, 
 where for some days past a compass had replaced 
 
70 THE CEOUANS. 
 
 the level of 1793. " It means that we fellows have 
 got to step out. They have stuck a compass * open 
 on it for an emblem." 
 
 "My boy, don't play the learned man; it is not 
 'emblem,' but 'problem.' I served first with the 
 gunners," said Beau-Pied, "and the officers were 
 busy about nothing else." 
 
 " 'Tis an emblem!" " 'Tis a problem!" "Let us 
 have a bet on it." "What?" "Your German pipe?" 
 "Done!" 
 
 "Ask your pardon, adjutant, but is it not 'em- 
 blem,' and not 'problem?' " said Clef-des-Coeurs to 
 Gerard, who was thoughtfully following Hulot and 
 Merle. 
 " 'Tis both one and the other," said he, gravely. 
 
 "The adjutant is making game of us," said Beau- 
 Pied. " The paper means that our General of Italy 
 is made consul (a fine commission), and that we 
 shall get great coats and boots!" 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A NOTION OP POUCHE's. 
 
 Toward the end of the month of Brumaire, while 
 Hulot was superintending the morning drill of his 
 demi-brigade, the whole of which had been drawn 
 together at Mayenne by orders from headquarters, 
 an express from Alencon delivered to him certain 
 dispatches, during the reading of which very de- 
 cided vexation showed itself on his face. 
 
 "Well, then, to business!" cried he, somewhat ill- 
 temperedly, thrusting the papers in the crown of 
 his hat. " Two companies are to set out with me 
 and march toward Mortagne. The Chouans are 
 about there. You will come with me," said be to 
 Merle and Gerard. " May they make a noble of me 
 if I understand a word of my dispatches ! I dare 
 
 * This refers to the French idiom, ouvrir le compas, meaning " Stir 
 the stumps," " Step oxLt."— Translator's Note. 
 
TBE CEOUANS. 71 
 
 say I am only a fool. But never mind ! let us get 
 to work ; there is no time to lose." 
 
 "Why, commandant, is there any very savage 
 beast in the game-bag there?" asked Merle, pointing 
 to the official envelope of the dispatch. 
 
 "God's thunder! there is nothing at all, except 
 that they are bothering us !" 
 
 When the commandant let slip this military ex- 
 pression, or rather for which, as mentioned before, 
 we have substituted it, it always pointed to bad 
 weather, and its various intonations made up, as it 
 were, a series of degrees which acted as a ther- 
 mometer of their chief's temper to the demi-brigade. 
 Indeed, the old soldier's frankness had made the 
 interpretation so easy that the sorriest drummer- 
 boy in the regiment soon knew his Hulot by heart, 
 thanks to mere observation of the changes in the 
 grimace with which the commandant cocked his 
 cheek and winked his eye. This time the tone of 
 sullen wrath with which he accompanied the word 
 made his two friends silent and watchful. The 
 very pock-marks which pitted his martial visage 
 seemed to deepen, and his complexion took a 
 browner tan. It had happened that his mighty 
 plaited pigtail had fallen forward on one of his 
 epualettes when he put on his cocked hat, and 
 Hulot jerked it back with such rage that the curls 
 were all disordered. Yet, as he stood motionless, 
 with clenched fists, his arms folded on his breast, 
 and his mustache bristling, Gerard ventured to ask 
 him, "Do we start at once?" 
 
 " Yes, if the cartridge boxes are full,'' growled 
 Hulot. 
 
 "They are." 
 
 "Shoulder arms! File to the left! Forward! 
 March!" said Gerard, at a sign from the chief. 
 
 The drummers placed themselves at the head of 
 the two companies pointed out by Gerard, and as 
 the drums began to beat the commandant, who had 
 been plunged in thought, seemed to wake up, and 
 left the town, accompanied by his two friends, to 
 whom he did not address a word. Merle and Ger- 
 ard looked at each other several times without 
 
72 TBS CHOUANS. 
 
 speaking, as if to ask, "Will he sulk with us long?" 
 and as they marched they stole glances at Hulot, 
 who was still growling unintelligible words between 
 his teeth. Several times the soldiers heard him 
 swearing, but not one of them opened his lips, for, 
 at the right time, they all knew how to observe the 
 stern discipline to which the troops who had served 
 under Bonaparte in Italy had become accustomed. 
 Most of them were, like Hulot, relics of the famous 
 battalions that capitulated at Mayence on a promise 
 that they should not be employed on the frontiers, 
 and who were called in the army the "Mayencais," 
 nor would it have been easy to find officers and men 
 who understood each other better. 
 
 On the day following that on which they set out, 
 Hulot and his friends found themselves at early 
 morning on the Alencon road, about a league from 
 that city, in the direction of Mortagne, where the 
 road borders meadows watered by the Sarthe. Over 
 these a succession of picturesque landscapes opens 
 to the left, while the right side, composed of thick 
 woods' which join on to the great forest of Menil 
 Broust, sets off, if we may use the painter's term, 
 the softer views of the river. The footpaths at the 
 edge of the road are shut in by ditches, the earth of 
 which, constantly turned up toward the fields, pro- 
 duces high slopes crowned by ajoncs, as they call 
 the thorny broom throughout the West. This 
 shrub, which branches out in thick bushes, affords 
 during the winter capital fodder for horses and 
 cattle, but before its harvest the Chouans used to 
 hide behind its dark green tufts. These slopes and 
 their ajoncs, which tell the traveler that he is draw- 
 ing near Brittany, made this part of the road at 
 that time as hazardous as it is still beautiful. 
 
 The dangers which were likely to be met in the 
 journey from Mortagne to Alencon, and from Alen- 
 con to Mayenne, were the cause of Hulot's expe- 
 dition, and at this very point the secret of his wrath 
 at last escaped him. He was acting as escort to an 
 old mail-coach drawn by post-horses, whose pace 
 the weariness of his own soldiers kept to a slow 
 walk. The companies of Blues, forming part of 
 
THE VHOUANS. 73 
 
 the garrison of Mortagne, which had escorted this 
 wretched vehicle to the limits of their own ap- 
 pointed district, where Hulot had come to relieve 
 them, were already on their way home, and ap- 
 peared afar off like black dots. One of the old 
 Republican's own companies was placed a few 
 paces behind the coach, and the other in front of it. 
 Hulot, who was between Merle and Gerard, about 
 half way between the coach and the vanguard, sud- 
 denly said to them : 
 
 " A thousand thunders ! Would you believe that 
 the general packed us off from Mayenne to dance 
 attendance on the two petticoats in this old wagon ?" 
 
 "But, commandant," answered Gerard, "when we 
 took up our post an hour ago with the citizenesses 
 you bowed to them quite politely." 
 
 "There is just the shame of it. Don't these Paris 
 dandies request us to show the greatest respect to 
 
 their d d females? To think that they should 
 
 insult good and brave patriots like us by tying us to 
 the tail of a woman's skirt ! For my part, you 
 know, I run straight myself, and do not like dodg- 
 ing in others. When I saw Danton with his mis- 
 tresses, Barras with his, I told them, 'Citizens, 
 when the Republic set you to govern, she did not 
 mean to license the games of the old regime. You 
 will reply that women — oh ! one must have women, 
 of course ! Brave fellows deserve women, and good 
 women, too. But it is no use chattering when 
 there is mischief at hand. What was the good of 
 making short work of the abuses of the old days, if 
 patriots are to start them afresh? Look at the 
 First Consul ; there is a man for you ; no women 
 about him, always attending to his business. I 
 would bet the left side of my mustache that he 
 knows nothing of the absurd work we are made to 
 do here." 
 
 "Upon my word, commandant," answered Merle, 
 laughing, " I caught just a glimpse of the young 
 lady hidden in the coach, and it is my opinion that 
 it is no shame for any man to feel, as I do, a long- 
 ing to approach that carriage and exchange a few 
 words with the travelers." 
 
74 THE CEOTTANS. 
 
 "Beware, Merle," said Gerard; "the dames are 
 accompanied by a citizen clever enough to catch 
 you in a trap." 
 
 " Who do you mean ? that Incroyable, whose little 
 eyes are constantly shifting from one side to the 
 other as if he saw Chouans everywhere? that musk- 
 scented idiot, whose legs are so short you can 
 scarcely see them, and who, when his horse's legs 
 are hidden by the carriage, looks like a duck with 
 its head protruding from a game pie? If that booby 
 prevents me caressing his pretty nightingale " 
 
 "Duck, nightingale! Oh! my poor Merle, you 
 were always feather-headed. But look out for the 
 duck ; his green eyes appear to me as treacherous 
 as those of a viper, and as keen as those of a 
 woman who pardons her husband his infidelities. 
 I am less suspicious of the Chouans than I am of 
 those lawyers whose figures look like lemonade 
 bottles." 
 
 "Bah!" retorted Merle, gayly, "with the permis- 
 sion of the commandant, I will run the risk. That 
 woman has eyes like stars, and one may well ven- 
 ture everything to gaze into them." 
 
 "Our comrade is caught," said Gerard to the com- 
 mandant; "he is beginning to talk nonsense." 
 
 Hulot made a grimace, shrugged his shoulders, 
 and answered, "Before taking the soup I advise 
 him to taste it." 
 
 "Dear old Merle," said Gerard, judging from his 
 lagging steps that he was maneuvering to gradu- 
 ally reach the coach, "what good spirits he has! 
 He is the only man who could laugh at the death 
 of a comrade without being taxed with want of 
 feeling." 
 
 "He is the true type of a French soldier," re- 
 marked Hulot, gravely. 
 
 " Oh, he is one who wears his epaulettes upon his 
 shoulders to let the people see that he is a captain." 
 exclaimed Gerard, laughing, "as if rank made any 
 difference." 
 
 The carriage, toward which the officer was mak- 
 ing his way, contained two women, one of whom 
 appeared to be the servant of the other. 
 
THE CHOUANS. 75 
 
 A thin, dried-up little man galloped sometimes 
 before, sometimes behind the carriage, but although 
 he seemed to accompany the two privileged travel- 
 ers no one saw him address a word to them. This 
 silence, a mark of contempt, or respect, the numer- 
 ous pieces of luggage, and the band-boxes of the 
 one whom the commandant called a princess — all, 
 even to the costume of the attendant cavalier, 
 again roused Hulot's bile. The costume of this un- 
 known presented an exact picture of the fashion 
 which at that time called forth the caricatures of 
 
 •Uui; — •■^- \i5as>> 
 
 the Incroyables. Imagine a person muffled in a 
 coat so short in front that there showed beneath 
 five or six inches of the waistcoat, and with skirts 
 so long behind that they resembled a codfish tail, a 
 term then commonly employed to designate them. 
 An immense cravat formed round his neck such 
 innumerable folds that the little head emerging 
 from a labyrinth of muslin, almost justified Cap- 
 tain Merle's kitchen simile. The stranger wore 
 tight breeches, and boots a la Suwarrow ; a huge 
 white and blue cameo was stuck, 9,s a pin, in his 
 
76 THE CHOtlANS. 
 
 shirt. Two watch-chains hung in parallel festoons 
 at his waist, and his hair, hanging in corkscrew 
 curls on each side of the face, almost hid his fore- 
 head. Finally, as a last touch of decoration, the 
 collars of his shirt and his coat rose so high that his 
 head presented the appearance of a bouquet in its 
 paper wrapping. If there be added to these insig- 
 nificant details, which formed a mass of disparities 
 with no ensemble, the absurd contrast on his yellow 
 breeches, his red^ waistcoat, his cinnamon brown 
 coat, a faithful portrait will he given of the height 
 of fashion at which dandies aimed at the beginning 
 of the consulate. Preposterous as the costume was, 
 it seemed to have been invented as a sort of touch- 
 stone of elegance to show that nothing can be too 
 absurd for fashion to hallow it. The rider appeared 
 fully thirty years old, though he was not in reality 
 more than twenty-two — an appearance due perhaps 
 to hard living, perhaps to the dangers of the time. 
 Yet, though he was dressed like a mountebank, his 
 air announced a certain polish of manners which 
 revealed the well-bred man. No sooner did the 
 captain approach the carriage than the dandy 
 seemed to guess his purpose, and facilitated it by 
 checking his horse's pace ; Merle, who had cast a 
 sarcastic glance at him, being met by one of those 
 impassive faces which the vicissitudes of the Eevo- 
 lution had taught to hide even the least emotion. 
 As soon as the ladies perceived the slouched corner 
 of the captain's old cocked hat, and his epaulettes, 
 an angelically sweet voice asked : 
 
 "Sir ofiicer! will you have the kindness to tell 
 us at what point of the road we are?" 
 
 A question from an unknown traveler, and that 
 traveler a woman, always has a singular charm, 
 and her least word seems to promise an adven- 
 ture ; but if the lady appears to ask protection, re- 
 lying on her weakness and her ignorance of facts 
 where is the man who is not slightly inclined tc 
 build a castle in the air, with a happy ending foi 
 himself? So the words, ** Monsieur I'oflScer," and 
 the ceremonious form of the question, eWited a 
 strange disturbance in the captain's he«u:t. He 
 
THE CH0UAN8. 77 
 
 tried to see what the fair traveler was like, and was 
 completely baffled, a jealous vail hiding her feat- 
 ures from him ; he could hardly see even the eyes, 
 though they flashed through the gauze like two 
 onyx stones caught by the sun. 
 
 "You are now a league distant from Alencon, 
 madam," said he. 
 
 "Alencon, already?" And the unknown lady 
 threw herself, or let herself fall back in the car- 
 riage, without further reply. 
 
 "Alencon?" repeated the other girl, as if waking 
 from sleep; "you will see our country again " 
 
 She looked at the captain, and held her peace. 
 But Merle, finding himself deceived in his hope of 
 seeing the fair stranger, set himself to scan her 
 companion. She was a girl of about six-and-twenty, 
 fair, well shaped, and with a complexion showing 
 the clear skin and brilliant tints which distinguish 
 the women of Valognes, Bayeux, and the district 
 around Alencon. The glances of her blue eyes did 
 not speak wit, but a resolute temper, mingled with 
 tenderness. She wore a gown of common stuff, and 
 her hair plainly caught up under a cap, in the style 
 of the Pays de Caux, gave her face a touch of 
 charming simplicity. Nor was her general air, 
 though it lacked the conventional distinction of 
 society, devoid of the dignity natural to a modest 
 young girl who can survey her past life without 
 finding anything to repent in it. At a glance Merle 
 could discover in her a country blossom which, 
 though transplanted to the Parisian hot-houses, 
 where so many scorching rays are concentrated, 
 had lost nothing of its bright purity or of its rustic 
 freshness. The young girl's unstudied air, and her 
 modest looks, told him that she did not desire a lis- 
 tener, and he had no sooner retired than the two 
 fair strangers began, in a low voice, a conversation 
 whereof his ear could scarcely catch the bare sound. 
 
 "You started in such a hurry," said the country 
 girl, "that you scarcely tock time to dress yourself. 
 You are a pretty figure ! If we are going farther 
 than Alencon we really must make a fresh toilet 
 there." 
 
78 TEE CHOUAHS. 
 
 "Oh, oh, Francine!" cried the stranger. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " That is the third time you have tried to fish out 
 the end and object of our journey." 
 
 " Did I say the very least thing to deserve that 
 reiproach?" 
 
 " Oh ! I saw through your little device. Innocent 
 and simple as you used to be, you have learned a 
 few tricks in my school. You have already taken 
 a dislike to direct questioning, and you are right, 
 child ; of all known manners of extracting informa- 
 tion, it is, to my thinking, the silliest." 
 
 "Well, then," went on Francine, "as nothing can 
 escape you, confess, Marie, would not your behavior 
 excite the curiosity of a saint? Yesterday you had 
 not a penny, to-day your pockets are full of gold. 
 They have given you at Mortagne the mail-coach 
 which had been robbed, and its guard killed ; you 
 have an escort of Government troops, and you have 
 in your suite a man whom I take to be your evil 
 angel." 
 
 "What! Corentin?" said the young stranger, 
 marking her words by a couple of changes of voice, 
 full of contempt — contempt which even extended to 
 the gesture with which she pointed to the rider. 
 "Listen, Francine," she continued ; "do you remem- 
 ber Patriot, the monkey whom I taught to imitate 
 Danton, and who amused us so much?" 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle." 
 
 " Well, were you afraid of him?" 
 
 "He was chained up." 
 
 " Well, Corentin is muzzled, child." 
 
 " We used," said Francine, "to play with Patriot 
 for hours together, to be sure, but it never ended 
 without his playing us some ugly trick," and with 
 these words she fell back in the carriage, close to 
 her mistress, took her hands and caressed them 
 coaxingly, saying to her, in affectionate tones : 
 
 "But you know what I mean, Marie, and you will 
 not answer me. How is it that in twenty-four 
 hours after those fits of sadness which grieved me 
 oh ! so much, you can be madly merry, just as you 
 were when you talked of killing yourself? Whence 
 
TBE CEOUANS. 
 
 79 
 
 this change? I have a right to asK you uo let me 
 see a little of your heart. It is mine before it is 
 any one's, for never will you be better loved than I 
 love you. Speak, mademoiselle." 
 
 " Well, Francine, do you not see the reasons of 
 my gayety all round us? Look at the yellowing 
 tufts of those distant trees ; there are not two alike 
 — at a distance one might think them a piece of old 
 tapestry. Look at those hedge-rows, behind which 
 we may meet with Chouans every moment. As I 
 look at these broom bushes I think I can see gun- 
 
 barrels. I love this constant peril that surrounds 
 us. Wherever the road grows a little gloomy I ex- 
 pect that we shall hear a volley in a moment, and 
 then my heart beats, and a new sensation stirs me. 
 Nor is it either the tremor of fear or the fluttering 
 of pleasure; no, it is something better; it is the 
 working of all that is active in me — it is life. 
 Should I not be merry when I feel my life once 
 more alive?" 
 "Ah I cruel girl, you will say nothing? Holy 
 
80 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 Virgin!" cried Francine, lifting her eyes sorrow- 
 fully to heaven, " to whom will she confess if she is 
 silent to me?" 
 
 "Francine," said the stranger, gravely, "I cannot 
 reveal my business to you. It is something terrible 
 this time." 
 
 " But why do evil wh«n you know that you are 
 doing it?" 
 
 " What would you have? I catch myself think- 
 ing as if I were fifty, and acting as if I were fifteen. 
 You have always been my common sense, poor girl; 
 but in this business I must stifle my conscience. 
 And yet," she said, with a sigh, after an interval, 
 "I cannot succeed in doing so. Now, how can you 
 ask me to set over myself a confessor so stern as 
 you are?" 
 
 And she patted her hand gently. 
 
 " And when did I ever reproach you with what 
 you have done?" cried Francine. "Evil itself is 
 harming in you. Yes ; Saint Anne of Auray her- 
 self, to whom I pray so hard for you, would give 
 you pardon for all. Besides, have I not followed 
 you on this journey without the least knowledge 
 whither you are going?" and she kissed her mis- 
 tress' hands affectionately. 
 
 "But," said Marie, "you can leave me if your 
 conscien ce " 
 
 " Come, madam, do not talk like that," said Fran- 
 cine, making a grimace of vexation. "Oh! will 
 you not tell me?" 
 
 "I will tell you nothing," said the young lady, 
 firmly ; " only be assured of this : I hate my enter- 
 prise even worse than I hate the man whose gilded 
 tongue expounded it to me. I will be so frank with 
 you as to confess that I would never have submitted 
 to their will if I had not seen in the matter, shame- 
 ful farce as it is, a mixture of danger and of romance 
 which tempted me. Besides, I did not wish to leave 
 this eai:th of ours without having tried to gather 
 flowers, of which I have still some hope, were I to 
 perish in the attempt. But remember, as something 
 to redeem my memory, that had I been happy the 
 sight of their guillotine ready to drop on my head 
 
TEE CEOUANS. 81 
 
 would never have made me take a part in this 
 tragedy — for tragedy as well as farce it is. And 
 now," she continued, with a gesture of disgust, "if 
 they changed their minds and counter-ordered the 
 plan, 1 would throw myself into the Sarthe this 
 moment, and it would not be a suicide, for I have 
 never yet lived." 
 "Oh, Holy Virgin of Aubray! pardon her!" 
 "What are you afraid of? you know that the dull 
 alternations of domestic life leave my passions cold. 
 That is all in a woman, but my soul has gained the 
 habit of a higher kind of emotion, a,ble to support 
 stronger trials. I might have been like you, a 
 gentle creature. Why did I rise above or sink be- 
 low the level of my sex? Ah ! what a happy woman 
 is General Bonaparte's wife! I am sure to die 
 young, since I have already come to the point of not 
 blanching at a pleasure party where there is blood 
 to drink, as poor Danton used to say. But forget 
 what I am saying; it is the woman fifty years old 
 in me that spoke. Thank God ! the girl of fifteen 
 will soon make her appearance again." 
 
 The country maid shuddered. She alone knew 
 the impetuous and ungoverned character of her 
 mistress. She alone was acquainted with the 
 strangenesses of her enthusiastic soul, with the real 
 feelings of the woman who, up to this time, had 
 seen life float before her like an intangible shadow, 
 despite her constant effort to seize and fix it. After 
 lavishing all her resources with no return, she had 
 remained untouched by love. But, stung by a mul- 
 titude of unfulfilled desires, weary of fighting with- 
 out a foe, she had come in her despair to prefer 
 good to evil when it offered itself in the guise of 
 enjoyment, evil to good when there was a spice of 
 romance in it, ruin to easy-going mediocrity as the 
 grander of the two, the dark and mysterious pros- 
 pect of death to a life bereft of hope or even of 
 suffering. Fever was such a powder magazine ready 
 for the spark; never so rich a banquet prepared 
 for love to revel in ; never a daughter of Eve with 
 more gold mingled throughout her clay. Francine, 
 iike an earthly providence, kept a watch over this 
 
82 THE CHOUANa. 
 
 strange being, whose perfections she worshiped 
 and whose restoration to the celestial choir from 
 which some sin of pride seemed to have banished 
 her as an expiation, she regarded as the accomplish- 
 ment of a heavenly mission. 
 
 "There is Alencon steeple," said the rider, draw- 
 ing near the carriage. 
 
 "I see it," answered the young lady, dryly. 
 
 "Very well," quoth he, retiring with signs of 
 obedience not the less absolute for his disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 "Faster! faster!" said the lady to the postilion ; 
 "there is nothing to fear now. Trot or gallop if you 
 can ; are we not in Alencon streets?" 
 
 As she passed the commandant she cried to him 
 in her sweet voice : 
 
 " We shall meet at the inn, commandant ; come 
 and see me there." 
 
 "Just so," replied the commandant. " At the inn ! 
 come and see me ! that is the way the creatures 
 talk to a demi-brigadier." And he shook his fist at 
 the carriage which was rolling rapidly along the 
 road. 
 _ "Don't complain, commandant," laughed Coren- 
 tin, who was trying to make his horse gallop so as 
 to catch up with the carriage. " She has your gen- 
 eral's commission in her sleeve." 
 
 "Ah !" growled Hulot to his friend ; "I will not let 
 these gentry make an ass of me. I would rather 
 pitch my general's uniform into a ditch than gain it 
 m a woman's chamber. What do the geese mean? 
 do you understand the thing, you fellows?" 
 
 "Well, yes," said Merle; "I understand that she 
 is the prettiest woman I ever saw. I think you 
 have mistaken the phrase. Perhaps it is the First 
 Consul's wife?" 
 
 "Bah!" answered Hulot. "The First Consul's 
 wife is an old woman, and this is a young one. 
 Besides, my orders from the minister tell me that 
 her name is Mademoiselle de Verneuil. She is a 
 ci-devant. As if I did not know it ! they all played 
 that game before the Eevolution. You could be- 
 come a demi-brigadier then in two crotchets and 
 
THE GH0UAN8. 83 
 
 six quavers; you only had to say 'My soul!' to them 
 prettily two or three times." 
 
 While each soldier stirred his stumps (in the com- 
 mandant's phrase) the ugly vehicle which acted as 
 mail-coach had quickly gained the hotel of " The 
 Three Moors," situated in the middle of the high 
 street of Alencon. The clatter and rattle of the 
 shapeless carriage brought the host to the door- 
 step. ISTobody in Alencon expected the chance of 
 the mail-coach putting up at "The Three Moors," 
 but the tragedy which had happened at Mortagne 
 made so many people follow it that the two travel- 
 ers, to evade the general curiosity, slipped into the 
 kitchen, the invariable antechamber of all western 
 inns, and the host was about, after scanning the 
 carriage, to follow them, when the postilion caught 
 him by the arm. 
 
 "Attention! Citizen Brutus," said he, "there is 
 an escort of Blues coming. As there is neither 
 driver nor mail-bags 'tis I who am bringing you the 
 citizenesses. They will pay you, no doubt, like 
 ci-devant princesses, and so " 
 
 " And so we will have a glass of wine together in 
 a minute, my boy," said the host. 
 
 After glancing at the kitchen, blackened by 
 smoke, and its table stained by uncooked meat, 
 Mile, de Verneuil fled like a bird into the next room, 
 for she liked the kitchen sights and smells as little 
 as the curiosity of a dirty man cook and a short 
 stout woman who were staring at her. 
 
 " What are we to do, wife ?" said the innkeeper. 
 " Who the devil would have thought that we should 
 have company like this in these hard times? This 
 lady will get out of patience before I can serve her 
 a decent breakfast. Faith ! I have a notion : as 
 they are gentle folk I will propose that they should 
 join the person up-stairs, eh?" 
 
 But when the host looked for his new guest he 
 only found Francine, to whom he said, in a low 
 tone, and taking her aside to the back of the 
 kitchen, which looked toward the yard, so as to be 
 out of ear-shot : 
 
 "If the ladies would like, as I doubt not, to eat iu 
 
84 TEE CMOUANS. 
 
 a private room, I have a delicate meal all ready for 
 a lady and her son. The travelers," added he, with 
 an air of mystery, " are not likely to object to share 
 their breakfast with you. They are people of 
 quality." 
 
 But he had hardly finished his sentence when he 
 felt a slight tap from a whip-handle on his back, 
 and turning sharply round, he saw behind him a 
 short, strongly built man who had noiselessly issued 
 from a neighboring room, and whose appearance 
 seemed to strike terror into the plump landlady, the 
 cook, and the scullion. The host himself grew pale 
 as he turned his head round, but the little man 
 shook the hair which completely covered his fore- 
 head and eyes, stood on tiptoe to reach the host's 
 ear, and said : 
 
 " You know what any imprudence or any tale- 
 bearing means, and what is the color of our money 
 when we pay for such things? We don't stint it." 
 
 And he added to his words a gesture which made 
 a hideous commentary on them. Although the 
 host's portly person prevented Francine from see- 
 ing the speaker, she caught a word or two of the 
 sentences which he had whispered, and remained 
 thunderstruck as she heard the harsh tones of the 
 Breton's voice. While all besides were in conster- 
 nation she darted toward the little man, but he, 
 whose movements had the celerity of a wild ani- 
 mal's, was already passing out by a side door into 
 the yard. And Francine thought she must have 
 been mistaken, for she saw nothing but what 
 seemed the black-and-tan skin of a middle-sized 
 bear. Startled, she ran to the window, and through 
 its smoke-stained glass gazed at the stranger, who 
 was making for the stable with halting steps. Be- 
 fore entering it he sent a glance of his black eyes 
 to the first floor of the inn, and then to the stage- 
 coach, as if he wished to give a hint of importance 
 to some friend about the carriage. In spite of the 
 goatskins, and thanks to this gesture, which re- 
 vealed his face. Francine was able to recognize by 
 his enormous whip and his gait— crawling, though 
 agile enough at need— the Chouan nicknamed 
 
TSE CH0UAN8. 85 
 
 Marche-a-Terre. And she could descry him, though 
 not clearly, across the dark stable, where he lay 
 down in the straw, assuming a posture in which he 
 could survey everything that went on in the inn. 
 Marche-a-Terre had curled himself up in such a 
 way that at a distance — nay, even close at hand— 
 the cleverest spy might have easily taken him for 
 one of the big carter's dogs that sleep coiled round 
 with mouth on paw. His behavior showed Francine 
 that he had not recognized her, and in the ticklish 
 circumstances wherein her mistress was placed she 
 hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry for it. 
 But the mysterious relations between the Chouan's 
 threat and the offer of the host — an offer common 
 enough with innkeepers, who like to take toll twice 
 on the same goods — stimulated her curiosity. She 
 left the blurred pane through which she had been 
 looking at the shapeless mass which in the dark- 
 ness indicated Marche-a-Terre's position, returned 
 toward the innkeeper, and perceived him looking 
 like a man who has put his foot in it, and does not 
 know how to draw it back. The Chouan's gesture 
 had struck the poor man cold. No one in the West 
 was ignorant of the cruel ingenuity of torture with 
 which the King's Huntsmen punished those sus- 
 pected of mere indiscretion, and the host felt their 
 knives already at his throat. The cook stared with 
 horrified glance at the hearth where they not sel- 
 dom roasted the feet of those who had given in- 
 formation against them. The plump little landlady 
 held a kitchen knife in one hand, a half -cut apple 
 in the other, and gazed aghast at her husband, 
 while finally the scullion tried to make out the 
 meaning of this silent terror, which he did not 
 understand. Francine 's curiosity was naturally 
 kindled by this dumb show, where the chief actor, 
 though not present, was in everyone's mind and 
 sight. The girl felt rather pleased at the Chouan's 
 terrible power, and though her simple character 
 did not comport with the usual tricks of a waiting- 
 maid, she had for the moment too great an interest 
 in unraveling the secret not to make the best of her 
 game. 
 
8G THE CSOUANS. 
 
 "We, mademoiselle accepts your offer," she said 
 gravely to the host, who started as if suddenly 
 awakened by the words. 
 
 "What offer?" asked he, with real surprise. 
 
 " What offer?" asked Mile, de Verneuil. 
 
 "What offer?" asked a fourth personage, who 
 happened to be on the lowest step of the staircase, 
 and who bounded lightly into the kitchen. 
 
 "Why, to breakfast with your people of quality," 
 said Francine, impatiently. 
 
 "Of quality?" repeated the person who had come 
 from the stairs, in an ironical and satirical tone. 
 "My fine fellow, that seems to me an innkeeper's 
 joke, and a bad one. But if it is this young citi- 
 zeness that you want to give us as guest one would 
 be a fool to refuse, my good man," said he, looking 
 at Mile, de Verneuil. And he added, clapping the 
 stupefied host on the shoulder, "In my mother's 
 absence I accept." 
 
 The giddy grace of youth hid the insolent pride 
 of these words, which naturally drew the attention 
 of all the actors in the scene to the new arrival. 
 Then the host assumed the air of a Pilate trying to 
 wash his hands of the death of Christ, stepped back 
 two paces toward his plump spouse, and said in her 
 ear, " I call you to witness that if any harm hap- 
 pens it is not my fault. But," added he, still lower, 
 "to make sure," go and tell M. Marche-a-Terre all 
 about it." 
 
 The traveler, a young man of middle height, wore 
 a blue coat and long black gaiters, which rose 
 above his knees, over breeches also of blue cloth. 
 This plain uniform, devoid of epaulettes, was that 
 of the students of the Ecole Polytechnique. At a 
 glance Mile, de Verneuil could distinguish under 
 the somber costume an elegant shape and the je ne 
 sais quoi which announces native nobility. The 
 young man's face, not striking at first sight, soon 
 became noticeable owing to a certain conformation 
 of feature which showed a soul capable of great 
 things. A brown complexion, fair curly hair, a 
 finely cut nose, motions full of ease— all, in short, 
 declared in him a course of life guided by lofty 
 
THE CHOUANS. 87 
 
 sentiments and the habit of command. But the 
 most unmistakable symptoms of his talents were a 
 chin of the Bonaparte type, and a lower lip which 
 joined the upper with such a graceful curve as the 
 acanthus leaf under a Corinthian capital describes. 
 Nature had clothed these two features with an irre- 
 sistibly winning grace. 
 
 " The young man looks, for a Republican, remark- 
 ably like a gentleman," said Mile, de Verneuil to 
 herself. To see all this at a glance, to be seized 
 with the desire of pleasing, to bend her head grace- 
 fully to one side, smile coquettishly, and dart one 
 of those velvet glances which would rekindle a 
 heart dead to love, to drop over her almond shaped 
 black eyes deep lids whose lashes, long and bent, 
 made a brown line on her cheek, to devise the most 
 melodious tones with which her voice could infuse 
 a subtle charm into the commonplace phrase, " We 
 are very much obliged to you, sir"^ — all this maneu- 
 vering did not take her the time which it takes to 
 describe it. Then Mile, de Verneuil, addressing 
 the host, inquired after her room, perceived the 
 staircase, and disappeared up it with Francine, 
 leaving the stranger to settle for himself whether 
 the reply implied acceptance or refusal. 
 
 "Who is the woman?" said the student of the 
 Ecole Polytechnique, briskly, to the motionless and 
 ever more stupefied host. 
 
 " 'Tis the citizeness Verneuil," replied Corentin, 
 in a sour tone, scanning the young man, jealously, 
 " and she is a ci-devant. What do you want with 
 her?" 
 
 The stranger, who was humming a Republican 
 song, lifted bis head haughtily toward Corentin. 
 The two young men glared at each other for a 
 moment like two gamecocks on the point of fight- 
 ing, and the glance was the seed of an eternal and 
 mutual hatred. Corentin 's green eyes announced 
 spite and treachery as clearly as the soldier's blue 
 ones promised frankness. The one was born to 
 noble manners, the other had nothing but acquired 
 insinuation. The one towered, the other crouched. 
 The one commanded respect, and the other tried to 
 
88 THE CBOUANS. 
 
 obtain it. The motto of the one should have been, 
 "Gain the day!" of the other, "Share the booty!" 
 
 " Is Citizen du Gua Saint-Oyr here?" said a peas- 
 ; nt who entered. 
 
 " What do you want with him?" said the young 
 man, coming forward. 
 
 The peasant bowed low, and handed him a letter, 
 which the cadet threw into the fire after he had 
 read it. By way of answer he nodded, and the 
 man disappeared. 
 
 "You come from Paris, no doubt, citizen," said 
 Corentin, coming toward the stranger, with a cer- 
 tain ease of manner, and with an air of suppleness 
 and conciliation which seemed to be more than the 
 Citizen du Gua could bear. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, dryly. 
 
 " And of course you have a commission in the 
 artillery?" 
 
 "No, citizen ; in the navy." 
 
 "Ah!" said Corentin, carelessly, "then you are 
 going to Crest?" 
 
 But the young sailor turned abruptly on his heel 
 without deigning to answer, and soon disappointed 
 the fond hopes which his face had inspired in Mile 
 de Verneuil. He busied himself in ordering his 
 breakfast with the levity of a child, cross examined 
 the host and hostess as to their receipts, wondered 
 at provincial ways like a Parisian just extracted 
 from his enchanted shell, gave himself the airs and 
 megrims of a coquette, and, in short, showed as little 
 strength of character as his face and manners had 
 at first promised much. Corentin smiled with pity 
 when he saw him make faces as he tasted the best 
 cider in Normandy. 
 
 "Bah!" cried he; "how can you people drink that 
 stuff? there is food and drink both in it. The Ee- 
 public may well be shy of a country where they 
 make vintage with blows of a pole, and shoot 
 travelers from behind a hedge on the high-roads. 
 Don't put doctor's stuff like that on the table for 
 us, but give us some good Bordeaux, white and red, 
 too. And be sure there is a good fire up stairs! 
 These good folk seem to be quite behind the times 
 
TEE C1I0UAN8. 89 
 
 in matter of civilization. Ah !" he went on, with a 
 sigh, "there is only one Paris in the world, and 
 great pity it is that one can't take it to sea with 
 one. Why, you spoil-sauce!" cried he to the cook, 
 "you are putting vinegar in that fricasseed chicken 
 when you have got lemons at hand. And as for 
 you, Mrs. Landlady, you have given us such coarse 
 sheets that I have not slept a wink all night." 
 
 Then he began to play with a large cane, going 
 with childish exactitude through the evolutions 
 which, as they were performed with greater or less 
 finish and skill, indicated the higher or lower rank 
 of a young man in the army of Incroyables. 
 
 "And 'tis with dandies like that," said Coren tin, 
 confidentially to the host, scanning his face as he 
 spoke, " that they hope to pick up the Republic's 
 navy!" 
 
 "That fellow," whispered the young man in the 
 hostess' ear, "is a spj' of Fouche's. 'Police' is writ- 
 ten on his face, and I could swear that the stain on 
 his chin is Paris mud. But two can play " 
 
 As he spoke a lady toward whom the sailor ran, 
 with every mark of outward respect, entered the 
 inn kitchen. "Dear mamma !" he said, "come here, 
 I pray you. I think I have mustered some guests in 
 your absence." 
 
 "Guests!" she answered; "what madness!" 
 
 "'Tis Mile, de Verneuil," he replied, in a low voice. 
 
 " She perished on the scaffold after the affair at 
 Savenay," said his mother, sharply, to him; "she 
 had gone to Le Mans to rescue her brother the 
 Prince of Loudon." 
 
 "You are mistaken, madam," said Corentin, 
 gently, but laying a stress on the word madam ; 
 "there are two Demoiselles de Verneuil. Great 
 houses always have several branches." 
 
 The strange lady, surprised at this familiar ad- 
 dress, recoiled a step or two as if to survey this un- 
 expected interlocutor; she fixed on him her black 
 eyes full of that quick shrewdness which comes so 
 naturally to women, and seemed trying to find out 
 with what object he had just testified to the exist- 
 ence of Mile, de Verneuil. At the same time Coren- 
 
90 TBE CHOUANS. 
 
 tin, who had been privately studying the lady, 
 denied her the pleasures of maternity, while grant- 
 ing her those of love. He was too gallant to allow 
 even the happiness of possessing a son twenty years 
 old to a lady whose dazzling skin, whose arched 
 and rich eyebrows, with eyelashes still in good con- 
 dition, attracted his admiration, while her luxuriant 
 black hair, parted in bands on her forehead, set oflE 
 the freshness of a face that showed mental power 
 Some faint wrinkles on the forehead, far from pro- 
 claiming age, betrayed the passions of youth, and 
 if the piercing eves were a little dimmed the affec- 
 tion might have come either from the fatigues of 
 travel or from a too frequent indulgence in pleasure. 
 Lastly, Corentin noticed that the stranger was 
 wrapped in a mantle of English stuff, and that the 
 shape of her bonnet, apparently also foreign, did 
 not agree with any of the fashions then called a la 
 Grecque, which still ruled Parisian toilets. Now, 
 Corentin was one of those people who are character- 
 istically inclined to the constant suspicion of ill 
 rather than good, and he immediately conceived 
 doubts as to the patriotism of the two travelers. 
 On her side the lady, who had also and with equal 
 swiftness taken observations of Corentin's person, 
 turned to her son with a meaning look, which could 
 be pretty faithfully worded, "Who is this odd fish? 
 is he on our side?" To which unspoken question 
 the young sailor replied with a look and gesture 
 signifying, "Faith! I know nothing at all about 
 him, and I doubt him more than you do." Then, 
 leaving it to his mother to guess the riddle, he 
 turned to the hostess and said in her ear, " Try to 
 find out who this rascal is — whether he is really in 
 the young lady's train, and why." 
 
 "So," said Madame du Gua, looking at Corentin, 
 "you are sure, citizen, that there is a Mile, de 
 Verneuil living?" 
 
 "She has as certain an existence in flesh and 
 blood, madam, as the Citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr." 
 
 The answer had a touch of profound irony, which 
 the lady alone understood, and anybodv else would 
 have been put out of countenance by it. Her son 
 
TEE CEOUAm. 91 
 
 directed a sudden and steady gaze at Corentin, who 
 pulled out hie watch coolly, without appearing to 
 dream of the anxiety which his answer produced. 
 But the lady, disquieted and desirous of knowing at 
 once whether the phrase meant mischief, or whether 
 it was a mere chance utterance, said to Corentin, in 
 the most natural way in the world : 
 
 "Good heavens ! how unsafe the roads are ! We 
 were attacked beyond Mortagne by Chouans, and 
 my son was nearly killed in defending me. He had 
 two balls through his hat!" 
 
 "What, madam? you were in the coach which 
 the brigands robbed in spite of the escort, and 
 which has just brought us here? you ought to know 
 the carriage then. Why, they told me, as I went 
 through Mortagne, that there were two thousand 
 Chouans present at the attack on the coach, and 
 that every soul in it, even the passengers, had per- 
 ished. This is the way people write history !" 
 
 The gossiping tone which Corentin affected, and 
 his simple air, made him look like a frequenter of 
 Little Provence, who had learned with sorrow the 
 falsi by of some bit of political news. 
 
 "Alas! madam," he went on, "if travelers get 
 their throats cut so near Paris, what must be the 
 danger of the roads in Brittany? Faith! I'll go 
 back to Paris myself without venturing farther." 
 
 " Is Mile, de Verneuil young and pretty?" asked 
 the lady, struck by a sudden thought and address- 
 ing the hostess. But as she spoke the host cut short 
 the conversation, which was almost painfully inter- 
 esting to the three speakers by announcing that 
 breakfast was ready. The young sailor offered his 
 hand to his mother with an affectation of familiar- 
 ity. This confirmed the suspicions of Corentin, to 
 whom he said, aloud, as he made for the stair: 
 
 " Citizen, if you are in the company of Mile, de 
 Verneuil, and if she accepts mine host's proposal, 
 make yourself at home." 
 
 Although these words were spoken in a cavalier 
 fashion, and not very obligingly, Corentin went up 
 stairs. 
 
 The young man pressed the lady's hand hard. 
 
92 THE CH0UAN3. 
 
 and when the Parisian was some half dozen steps 
 behind, he whispered, "See what inglorious risks 
 your rash plans expose us to ! if we are found out 
 how can we escape ; and what a part you are mak- 
 ing me play!" 
 
 The three found themselves in a pretty large 
 toom, and it did not need great experience of travel 
 in the West to see that the innkeeper had lavished 
 all his resources, and provided unusual luxuries for 
 the reception of his guests. The table was laid with 
 care, the heat of a large fire had driven out the 
 damp, and the linen, the chairs, and the covers 
 were not intolerably dirty. Therefore Corentin 
 could see that the host had, as the vernacular has 
 it, turned his house inside out to please the 
 strangers. 
 
 "That means," said he to himself, "that these 
 people are not what they pretend. This young fel- 
 low is a keen hand ; I thought he was a fool, but 
 now I take him to be quite a match in sharpness for 
 myself." 
 
 The young sailor, his mother, and Corentin waited 
 for Mile, de Verneuil, while the host went to inform 
 her that they were ready, but the fair traveler did 
 not make her appearance. The student of the 
 Ecole Polytechnique, guessing that she might be 
 making objections, left the room humming the 
 song, "Veillons au salut de I'empire," and went 
 toward Mile, de Verneuil's chamber, stimulated bv 
 a desire to conquer her scruples, and to bring her 
 with him. Perhaps he wished merely to resolve 
 the suspicions which disturbed him ; perhaps to try 
 upon this stranger the fascination which every man 
 prides himself on being able to exert over a pretty 
 woman. "If that is a Republican," thought Coren- 
 tin, as he saw him leave the room, "may I be 
 hanged ! his very shoulders move like a courtier's. 
 And if that is his mother," continued he, looking at 
 Madame du Qua, " I am the Pope ! I have got hold 
 of some Chouans ; let us make sure of what theii 
 quality is." 
 
 The door soon opened, and the young saiior 
 entered, leading by the hand MUe, d© Ver&^7^il, 
 
TMH: CUOUANS. 83 
 
 whom he ushered to the table jvith an air self-satis- 
 fied, but full of courtesy, ihe hour which had 
 passed away had not been time lost in the devil's 
 service. With Francine's assistance Mile, de 
 Verneuil had arrayed herself for battle in a travel- 
 ing costume more dangerous perhaps than a ball- 
 dress itself. The simplicity of" it had the attractive 
 charm resulting from the art with which a woman, 
 fair enough to dispense with ornaments altogether, 
 knows how to reduce her toilet to the condition of a 
 merely secondary charm. She wore a green dress 
 exquisitely cut, the frogged spencer purposely 
 showing her shape to an extent almost unbecoming 
 in a young girl, and not concealing either her wil- 
 lowy waist, her elegant bust, or the grace of her 
 movements. She entered with the agreeable smile 
 naturally indulged in by women who can show 
 between their rosy lips an even range of teeth as 
 clear as porcelain, and in their cheeks a pair of 
 dimples as fresh as those of a child. As she had 
 laid aside the traveling wrap which had before 
 concealed her almost entirely from the sailor's gaze 
 she had no difficulty in setting at work the thou- 
 sand little innocent seeming tricks by which a 
 woman sets off and exhibits for admiration the 
 beauties of her face and the graceful carriage of 
 her head. Her air and her toilet matched so well, 
 and made her look so much younger that Madame 
 du Qua thought she might be going too far in giv- 
 ing her twenty years. So coquettish a toilet, one 
 so evidently made with the desire of pleasing, 
 might naturally excite the young man's hopes. But 
 Mile, de Verneuil merely bowed to him with a lan- 
 guid inclination of the head, hardly turning toward 
 him, and seemed to drop his hand in a fashion so 
 easy and careless that it put him completely out of 
 countenance. The strangers could hardly attribute 
 this reserve either to distrust or to coquetry; it 
 seemed rather a natural or assumed indifference, 
 while the innocent air of the traveler's face made it 
 impenetrable. Nor did she let any determination 
 toward conquest appear ; the pretty, seductive man- 
 ne which had already deceived the young sailor's 
 
94 THE CSOUANS. 
 
 self-love seemed a gift of nature. So the stranger 
 took his own chair with something like vexation. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil took Francine by the hand, and 
 addressing Madame du Gua, said in an insinuating 
 voice : 
 
 " Madam, will you be so good as to permit this 
 maid of mine, whom I look on rather as a friend 
 than as a servant, to eat with us? In these stormy 
 times devoted service can only be repaid by affec- 
 tion. Nay, is it not all that we have left?" 
 
 Madame du Gua replied to this last phrase, pro- 
 nounced in a low voice, with a half courtesy, rather 
 stiff in manner, and betraying her disappointment 
 at meeting so pretty a woman. Then, leaning 
 toward her son's ear, "Ho!" said she, " 'stormy 
 times,' 'devotion,' 'madam,' and 'servant!' She 
 cannot be Mile, de Verneuil ; she must be some girl 
 sent by Fouche." 
 
 The guests were about to take their places when 
 Mile, de Vernueil's eyes fell on Corentin. He was 
 still minutely scanning the two strangers, who ap- 
 peared uncomfortable enough under his gaze. 
 
 " Citizen," she said, " I hope you are too well bred 
 to dog my steps in this way. When the Republic 
 sent my family to the scaffold it was not magnan- 
 imous enough to appoint a guardian over me. Al- 
 though with unheard-of and chivalrous gallantry 
 you have attached yourself to me against my will," 
 and she heaved a sigh, " I am resolved not to allow 
 the cares of guardianship which you lavish on me 
 to be a cause of inconvenience to yourself. I am in 
 safety here; you may leave me as I am." 
 
 And she darted at him a steady glance of con- 
 tempt. Corentin did not fail to understand her. 
 He checked a smile which almost curled the corners 
 of his cunning lips, and bowed to her in the most 
 espectful style. 
 
 " Citizenesses," said he, " it will always be a hap- 
 piness to me to obey you. Beauty is the tnly queen 
 to whose service a true Republican may wilUngly 
 submit." 
 
 As she saw him leave the room Mile, de Verneuil's 
 eyes gleamed with joy so unaffected, and she 
 
THE CliOUANS. 95 
 
 directed toward Francine a meaning smile expres- 
 sing so much satisfaction tiiat Madame du Gua, 
 though her jealousy had made her watchful, felt 
 inclined to discard the suspicions with which Mile, 
 de Verneuil's extreme beauty had inspired her. 
 "Perhaps she is really Mile, de Verneuil," whis- 
 pered she to her son. 
 
 "And her escort!" replied the young man, whom 
 pique inspired with prudence. " Is she a prisoner 
 or a protegee, a friend or foe of the government?" 
 
 Madame du Gua winked slightly, as though to 
 say that she knew how to discover this secret. But 
 the departure of Corentin seemed to soften the mis- 
 trust of the sailor, whose face lost its stern look. 
 He bent on Mile, de Verneuil glances which rather 
 showed an immoderate passion for women in gen- 
 eral than the respectful ardor of dawning love. But 
 the young lady only became more circumspect in 
 her demeanor, • and reserved, her amiability for 
 Madame du Gua. The young man, sulking by him- 
 _ self, endeavored in his vexation to affect indiffer- 
 ' ence in his turn. But Mile, de Verneuil appeared 
 not to notice his behavior, and showed herself 
 ingenuous but not timid, and reserved without 
 prudery. Thus this party of apparent incompat- 
 ibles showed considerable coolness one to another, 
 producing even a certain awkwardness and con- 
 straint, destructive of the pleasure which both Mile, 
 de Verneuil and the young sailor had promised 
 themselves. But women possess such a free- 
 masonry of tact and manners, such close commu- 
 nity of nature, and such lively desire for the indul- 
 gence of sensibility, that they_ are always able to 
 break the ice on such occasions. The two fair 
 guests, suddenly and as though by common con- 
 sent, began gently to rally their solitary cavalier, 
 and to vie with each other in jests and little atten- 
 tions to ward him ; their agreement in so doing put- 
 ting them on easy terms, so that words and looks 
 which, while the constraint lasted, would have had 
 some special meaning, lost their importance. In 
 short, half an hour had not passed before the two 
 women, already sworn foes at heart, became in 
 
96 TEE moUANS. 
 
 appearance the best friends in the world. Yet the 
 young sailor found himself as much vexed by Mile, 
 de Verneuil's ease as he had been by her reserve, 
 and he was so chagrined that, in a fit of silent anger, 
 he regretted having shared his breakfast with her. 
 
 "Madam," said Mile, de Verneuil to Madame du 
 Gua, "is your son always as grave as he is now?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he replied, "I was asking myself 
 what is the good of a fleeting happiness. The secret 
 of my sadness lies in the vividness of my enjoy- 
 ment." 
 
 " Compliments of this sort," said she, laughing, 
 " smack rather of the court than of the Ecole Poly- 
 technique." 
 
 " Yet he has but expressed a very natural feeling, 
 mademoiselle," said Madame du Gua, who had her 
 reasons for wishing to keep on terms with the 
 stranger. 
 
 "Well, then, laugh a little," said Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil, with a smile, to the young man. " What do 
 you look like when you weep, if what you are 
 pleased to call happiness makes you look so solemn?" 
 
 The smile, accompanied as it was by a glance of 
 provocation, which was a little out of keeping with 
 her air of innocence, made the young man pluck up 
 hope. But, urged by that nature which always 
 makes a woman go too far, or not far enough, Mile, 
 de VerneuU, who one moment seemed actually to 
 take possession of the young man by a glance 
 sparkling with all the promises of love, the next 
 met his gallantries with cold and severe modesty — 
 the common device under which women are wont 
 to hide their real feelings. Once, and once only, 
 when each thought the other's eyelids were droop- 
 ing, they exchanged their real thoughts. But they 
 were as quick to obscure as to communicate this 
 light, which, as it lightened their hearts, also dis- 
 turbed their composure. As though ashamed of 
 having said so much in a single glance, they dared 
 not look again at each other. Mile, de Verneuil, 
 anxious to alter the stranger's opinion of her, shut 
 herself up in cool politeness, and even seemed im- 
 patient for the end of the meal. 
 
"You must have suffered much in prison, made- 
 moiselle?" said Madame du Gua. 
 
 "Alas! madam, it does not seem to me that I am 
 out of prison yet." 
 
 " Then is your escort intended to guard or watch 
 you, mademoiselle? Are you an object of affection 
 or of suspicion to the Republic?" 
 
 Mile de Verneuil felt instinctively that Madame 
 du Gua wished her little good, and was put on her 
 guard by the question. "Madame," she answered, 
 " I am really not myself quite sure of the nature of 
 my relation with the Republic at this moment. " 
 
 "Perhaps you inspire it with terror," said the 
 young man, half ironically. 
 
 "we had better respect mademoiselle's secrets," 
 said Madame du Gua. 
 
 " Oh, madam, there is not much interest in the 
 secrets of a young girl who as yet knows nothing 
 of life save its misfortunes." 
 
 "But," answered Madame du Gua, in order to 
 keep up a conversation which might tell her what 
 she wished to know, " the First Consul seems to be 
 excellently disposed. Do they not say that he is 
 going to suspend the laws against emigrants?" 
 
 "Yes, madam," said she, with perhaps too much 
 eagerness; "but if so why are Vendee and Brittany 
 being roused to insurrection? Why set France on 
 fire?" 
 
 This generous and apparently self-reproachful 
 cry startled the sailor. He gazed scrutinizingly at 
 Mile, de Verneuil, but could not descry any ex- 
 pression of enmity or the reverse on her face. Its 
 delicate covering of bright skin told no tales, and 
 an unconquerable curiosity helped to give a sudden 
 increase to the interest which strong desire had 
 already made him feel in this strange creature. 
 
 "But," she went on, after a pause, "are you going 
 to Mayenne, madam?" 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle," replied the young man 
 with an air as if to say, "What then?" 
 
 "Well, madam," continued Mile, de Verneuil, 
 "since your son is in the Republic's service " 
 
 She pronounced these words with an air of out- 
 
98 THE CEOUANS. 
 
 ward indifference, but fixing on the two strailg-^'*? 
 one of those furtive glances of which women and 
 diplomatists have the secret, she continued: 
 
 " You must be in dread of the Chouans, and an 
 escort is not a thing to be despised. Since we have 
 already become as it were fellow-travelers, come 
 with me to Mayenne." 
 
 Mother and son hesitated, and seemed to consult 
 each other. 
 
 "It is perhaps imprudent," said the young man, 
 "to confess that business of the greatest importance 
 requires our presence to-night in the neighborhood 
 of Fougeres, and that we have not yet found a con- 
 veyance ; but ladies are so naturally generous that 
 I should be ashamed not to show confidence in you. 
 "Nevertheless," he added, " before putting ourselves 
 into your hands we have a right to know whether 
 we are likely to come safe out of them. Are you 
 the mistress or the slave of your Eepublican escort? 
 Excuse a young sailor-' s frankness, but I am unable 
 to help seeing something rather singular in your 
 position." 
 
 " We live in a time, sir, when nothing that occurs 
 is not singular, so believe me you may accept with- 
 out scruple. Above all," added she, laying stress 
 on her words, " you need fear no treachery in an 
 offer made to you honestly by a person who does 
 not identify herself with political hatreds." 
 
 "A journey so made will not lack its dangers," 
 said he, charging his glance with a meaning which 
 gave point to this commonplace reply. 
 
 "What more are you afraid of?" asked she, with 
 a mocking smile ; " I can see no danger for any 
 one." 
 
 " Is she who speaks the same woman who just 
 now seemed to share my desires in a look?" said the 
 young man to himself. " What a tone ! she must be 
 laying some trap for me." 
 
 At the very same moment the clear, piercing hoot 
 of an owl, which seemed to have perched on the 
 chimney-top, quivered through the air like a sinis- 
 ter warning. 
 
 "What is that?" said Mile, de Verneuil. "Our 
 
TEE moUANS. 99 
 
 Journey will not begin with lucky omens. But how 
 do you get owls here that hoot in full day-time?" 
 asked she, with an astonished look. 
 
 "It happens sometimes," said the young man, 
 coolly. "Mademoiselle," he continued, "may we 
 not bring you bad luck? was not that your thought? 
 Let us then not be fellow-travelers." 
 
 He said this with a quiet reticence of manner 
 which surprised Mile, de Verneuil. 
 
 "Sir," she said, with quite aristocratic insolence, 
 " I have not the least desire to put any constraint 
 on you. Let us keep the very small amount of lib- 
 erty which the Republic leaves us. If madam was 
 alone, I should insist " 
 
 A soldier's heavy tread sounded in the corridor, 
 and Commandant Hulot soon entered with a sour 
 countenance. 
 
 "Ah! colonel, come here!" said Mile, de Vernueil, 
 smiling, and pointing to a chair near her. " Let us 
 attend, since things will so have it, to affairs of 
 State. But why don't you laugh? What is the 
 matter with you? Have we Chouans here?" 
 
 But the commandant stood agape at the young 
 stranger, whom he considered with extraordinary 
 attention. 
 
 "Mother, will you have some more hare? Made- 
 moiselle, you are eating nothing," said the young 
 sailor, busying himself with his guests, to Francine. 
 
 But Hulot's surprise and Mile, de Verneuil's at- 
 tention were so unmistakably serious that willful 
 misunderstanding of them would have been danger- 
 ous. So the young man went on abruptly, " What 
 is the matter, commandant? do you happen to know 
 me?" 
 
 "Perhaps so," answered the Republican. 
 
 "Indeed, I think I have seen you at the school." 
 
 "I never went to any school," replied as abruptly 
 the commandant, "and what school do you come 
 from?" 
 
 "The Ecole Polytechnique." 
 
 "Ah! yes; from the barrack where they try to 
 hatch soldiers in dormitories," answered the com- 
 mandant, whose hatred for officers who had passed 
 
100 ^- TEE CHOUANa. 
 
 throuffh this scientific seminary was ungoverable. 
 "But what service do you belong to?" 
 
 "The navy." 
 
 "Ah!" said Hulot, laughing sardonically; "have 
 you heard of many pupils of that school in the 
 navy? It sends out," said he, in a serious tone 
 "only officers in the artillery and the engineers." 
 
 But the young man did not blanch. 
 
 "I was made an exception," said he, "because of 
 the name I bear. All our family have been sailors. " 
 
 "Ah!" said Hulot, "and what is your family 
 name, citizen?" 
 
 «DuGuaSaint-Cyr." 
 
 "Then you were not murdered at Mortagne?" 
 
 "We had a narrow escape of it," interrupted 
 Madame du Gua, eagerly. "My son received two 
 bullets." 
 
 "And have you got papers?" said Hulot, paying 
 no attention to the mother. 
 
 "Perhaps you want to read them?" asked the 
 young sailor, in an impertinent tone. His sarcastic 
 blue eyes were studying by turns the gloomy face 
 of the commandant and Mile, de Verneuil's counte- 
 nance. 
 
 " Pray, does a young monkey like you want to 
 make a fool of me? Your papers at once, or off 
 with you!" 
 
 " There ! there, ray excellent sir, I am not a nin- 
 compoop. Need I give you any answer? Who are 
 you?" 
 
 "The commandant of the department," replied 
 Hulot. 
 
 "Oh, then, my situation may become serious, for 
 I shall have been taken red-handed." And he held 
 out a glass of Bordeaux to the commandant. 
 
 "I am not thirsty," answered Hulot. "Come! 
 your papers." 
 
 At this moment, hearing the clash of arms and 
 the measured tread of soldiers in the street, Hulot 
 drew near the widnow with an air of satisfaction 
 which made Mile, de Verneuil shudder. This symp- 
 tom of interest encouraged the young man, whose 
 face had become cold and proud. Dipping in his 
 
THE CEOUANa. 101 
 
 coat-pocket, he drew from it a neat pocket-book 
 and offered the commandant some papers which 
 Hulot read slowly, comparing the description with 
 the appearance of the suspicious traveler. During 
 this examination the owl's hoot began again, but 
 this time it was easy to trace^n it the tone and play 
 of a human voice. The commandant gave the 
 young man back his papers with a mocking air. 
 
 "That is all very well," said he, "but you must 
 come with me to the district oflBce. I am not fond 
 of music." 
 
 "Why do you take him there?" asked Mile, de 
 Verneuil, in an altered tone. 
 
 "Young woman," said the commandant, making 
 his favorite grimace, "that is no business of yours." 
 
 But Mile, de Verneuil, no less irritated at the sol- 
 dier's tone than at his words, and most of all at the 
 humiliation to which she was subjected before a 
 man who had taken a fancy to her, started up, and 
 dropped at once the modest, ingenue air which she 
 had maintained hitherto. Her face flushed and her 
 eyes sparkled. 
 
 " Tell me, has this young man complied with the 
 law's demands?" she continued, not raising her 
 voice, but with a certain quiver in it. 
 
 "Yes, in appearance," said Hulot, ironically. 
 
 " Then you will be good enough to let him alone 
 in appearance," said she. "Are you afraid of his 
 escaping you? You can escort him with me to 
 Mayenne, and he will be in the coach with bis lady 
 mother. Not a word; I will have it so. What!" 
 she went on, seeing that Hulot was still indulging 
 in his favorite grimace; "do you still think him a 
 suspect?" 
 
 "Well, yes, a little." 
 
 "What do you want to do with him?" 
 
 " Nothing but cool his head with a little lead. He 
 is a feather-brain," said the commandant, still iron- 
 ically. 
 
 "Are you joking, colonel?" cried Mile, de Verneuil. 
 
 "Come, my fine fellow," said the commandant, 
 nodding to the sailor, "come along!" 
 
102 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 At this impertinence of Hulot's Mile, de Verneuil 
 recovered her composure, and smiled. 
 
 "Do not stir," said she to the young man, with a 
 dignified gesture of protection. 
 
 "What a beautiful head!" whispered he to his 
 mother, who bent her brows. 
 
 Annoyance and a mixture of irritated but mas- 
 tered feelings shed indeed fresh beauties over the 
 fair Parisian's countenance. Francine, Madame du 
 Gua, and her son had all risen. Mile, de Verneuil 
 sprang between them and the commandant, who 
 had a smile on his face, and quickly tore open two 
 fastenings of her spencer. Then, with a precipitate 
 action, blinded by the passion of a woman whose 
 self-love has been wounded, and as greedy of the 
 exercise of power as a child is of trying his new toy, 
 she thrust toward Hulot an open letter. 
 
 "Read that!" she said to him, with a sneer. 
 
 And she turned toward the young man, at whom, 
 in the excitement of her victory, she darted a glance 
 where love mingled with malicious triumph. The 
 brows of both cleared, their faces flushed with 
 pleasure, and their souls were filled with a thousand 
 conflicting emotions. By a single look Madame du 
 Gua on her side showed that, not without reason, 
 , she set down this generous conduct of Mile, de Ver- 
 ' neuil's much more to love than to charity. The 
 fair traveler at first blushed, and dropped her eye- 
 lids modestly as she divined the meaning of this 
 feminine expression, but in the face of this kind of 
 accusing menace she raised her head again proudly 
 and challenged all eyes. As for the commandant, 
 he read with stupefaction a letter bearing the full 
 ministerial countersign, and commanding all au- 
 thorities to obey this mysterious person. Then he 
 drew his sword, broke it across his knee, and threw 
 down the fragments. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said he, "no doubt you know 
 what you have to do. But a Republican has his 
 own notions and his own pride. 1 am not good at 
 obeying where pretty girls command. My resigna- 
 tion shall be sent in to the First Consul to-night. 
 
THE CS0UAN8. 
 
 103 
 
 and you will have somebody else than Hulot to do 
 your bidding. Where I cannot understand I stand 
 still, especially when it is my business to under- 
 stand." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, but it was soon 
 broken by the fair Parisian, who stepped up to the 
 commandant, held out her hand, and said : 
 
 " Colonel, though your beard is rather long, you 
 may kiss this, for you are a man!" 
 
 "I hope so, mademoiselle," said he, depositing 
 
 clumsily enough a* 
 kiss on this re- 
 markable young! 
 woman's hand. 
 "As for you, my fine fellow," he added, shakmg 
 his finger at the young man, "you have had a nice 
 escape !" 
 
 "Commandant," said the stranger, laughing, "it 
 is time the joke should end. I will go to the district 
 ofiice with you if you like. " 
 
 "And will you bring your invisible whistler, 
 Marche-a-Terre, with you?" 
 
104 THE CHOlfAl!l& ', 
 
 "Who is Marche-a-Terre?" said fl o sailor, with 
 everj^ mark of unaffected surprise. 
 
 "Did not somebody whistle just now?" 
 
 "And if they did," said the stranger, "what have 
 I to do with the whistling, if you please? I sup- 
 posed that the soldiers whom you had ordered up to 
 arrest me no doubt were lettii g you know of their 
 arrival." 
 
 "You really thought that?" 
 
 " Why, yes, egad ! But why don't you drink your 
 claret? It is very good." 
 
 Surprised at the natural astonishment of the 
 sailor, at the extraordinary levity of his manner, at 
 the youth of his face, whicn was made almost child- 
 ish by his carefully curled fair hair, the comman- 
 dant hovered between different suspicions. Then 
 his glance fell on Madame du Gua, who was trying 
 to interpret the exchange of looks between her son 
 and Mile, de Verneuil, and he asked her, abruptly : 
 
 "Your age, citizeness?" 
 
 "Ah, sir officer! the laws of our Republic are be- 
 coming very merciless. I am thirty-eight." 
 
 "May I be shot if I believe a word of it. Marche- 
 a-Terre is here — he whistled — and rou are Chouans 
 in disguise ! God's thunder! I will have the whole 
 inn surrounded and searched!" 
 
 At that very moment a whistle, of a broken kind, 
 but sufficiently like that which had been heard, rose 
 from the inn yard, and interrupted the comman- 
 dant. He rushed into the corridor — luckily enough, 
 for it prevented him from seeing the pallor which 
 his words had caused on Madame du Gua's cheek. 
 But he found the whistler to be a postilion who was 
 putting the coach-horses to, and laying aside his 
 suspicions, so absurd did it seem to him that Chou- 
 ans should risk themselves in the very center of 
 Alencon, he came back crest-fallen. 
 
 " I forgive him, but he shall dearly repay later the 
 time he has made us pass here," whispered the 
 mother in her son's ear, as Hulot entered the room. 
 
 The excellent officer's embarrassed countenance 
 showed the struggle which his stern sense of duty 
 was carrying on with his natural kindness, Hq 
 
THE CHOUANB. 105 
 
 still looked sulky, perhaps because he thought he 
 had made a blunder, but he took the glass of claret, 
 and said : 
 
 " Comrade, excuse me, but your school sends the 
 army such boys for officers." 
 
 "Then have the brigands officers more boyish 
 still?'' laughingly asked the sailor, as he called him- 
 self. 
 
 "For whom did you take my son?" asked Madame 
 du Gua. 
 
 " For the Gars, the chief sent to the Chouans and 
 the Vendeans by the London Cabinet— the man 
 whom they caU the Marquis de Montauran." 
 
 The commandant stiU scrutinized attentively the 
 faces of these two suspicious persons, who gazed at 
 each other with the peculiar looks which are nat- 
 ural to the self-satisfied and ignorant, and which 
 may be interpreted by this dialogue : " Do you know 
 what he means?" "No, do you?" "Don't know 
 anything about it." "Then, what does he mean? 
 He's dreaming I" And then follows the sly, jeering 
 laugh of a fool v^ho thinks himself triumphant. 
 
 The sudden alteration in manner of Mile, de 
 Vemeuil, who seemed struck dimab at hearing the 
 name of the RoyaUst general, was lost on all except 
 Fran cine, who alone knew the scarcely distinguish- 
 able changes of her young mistress' face. The 
 commandant, completely driven from his position, 
 picked up the pieces of his sword, stared at Mile, de 
 Verneuil, whose ebullition of feeling had found the 
 weak place in his heart, and saii to her: 
 
 " As for you, mademoiselle, I do not unsay what I 
 have said. And to-morrow these fragments of my 
 sword shall find their way to Bonaparte, unless " 
 
 " And what do I care for Bonaparte, and your 
 Republic, and the Chouans, and the king, and the 
 Gars?" cried she, hardly checking a display of 
 temper which was in doubtful taste. 
 
 Either actual passion or some unknown caprice 
 sent flashes of color through her face, and it was 
 easy to see that the girl would care nothing for the 
 whole world as soon as she had fixed her affections 
 «n a single human being. But with equal sudden- 
 
10« THS CBOrAy& 
 
 ness she forced herself to be once more calm, when 
 she saw that the whole audience had bent their 
 looks on her as on some consummate actor. The 
 ooniniandant abruptly left the room, but Mile, do 
 Verueuil followed hinl, stopped him in the passitge, 
 and asked hhn. in a grave tone: 
 
 "Have yea then i-eally stroog- reasons for suspeet- 
 ing- this yoimg man of heing ilie Oars!*" 
 
 "God's thunder I uiadenuMseUe. tlie fellow who 
 travels with you came to warn me that the pas- 
 sengers in the mail had been assassinated by the 
 Ohouans. which I knew befoi^e. But what I did not 
 know was the name of the dead travelers. It was 
 Du Gua 8aiut-Cyr." 
 
 "Oh I if Gorentin is at the bottom of it." said she. 
 with a eontempiuous gesture. "I am surprised at 
 nothing." 
 
 The connnandant retired without daring to look 
 at Mile, de N'erneuil. whose perilous beauty already 
 made his heart beat. "Had 1 waited a minute 
 longer," he said to himself as he went down stairs, 
 " I should have been fool enough to pick up my 
 sword in order to escort her." 
 
 When she saw the votnig man's eyes riveted on 
 the door by which ^llle. de Verneuilhad left the 
 room. Madame du Gna whispered to him, "What! 
 always the same? Women will certainly be vour 
 ruin." A doll like that makes you forget evervtbing. 
 Why did you allow her to breakfast with us?" What 
 sort of a person is a daughter of the house of 
 Yerneuil who accepts invitations from strangers, is 
 escorted by Blues, and disarms them with a letter 
 which she carries like a hiUet'doiix in her bosom? 
 She is one of the loose women by whoso aid Fouche 
 luipes to seize you. and the letter she sliowed was 
 givtMi to her in order to command the services of 
 the Bhu^s against yourself." 
 
 " But, madam." said the young man. in a tone so 
 sharp that it cut the lady to the heart and blanolied 
 her cheeks, "her generosity gives the lie to your 
 theory. Pi-ay renuMuber that, we are associated by 
 nothing save the king's business. After you have 
 had Oharette at your feet is tliere another man in 
 
TBz cnouAva. 
 
 107 
 
 the world for you? Have you another purpose in 
 life than to avenge him?" 
 
 The lady stood whelmed in thoug^it like a man 
 who from the beach sees the shipwreck of his for- 
 tune and covets it only the more ardently. But as 
 Mile, de Vemeuil re-entered, the young sailor ex- 
 changed with her a smile and a glance instinct 
 
 n 1 1 e raillery, 
 as the future 
 , short-lived as 
 their intimacy, 
 hope told none 
 the less her 
 flattering tale. 
 Swift as it was 
 the glance 
 could not es- 
 cape the 
 shrewdness of 
 il a d a m e du 
 Gua, who un- 
 derstood it 
 weU. Her brow 
 clouded lightly 
 but unme&ate- 
 ly, and 
 her face 
 j^^ could not 
 ^ hide her 
 i^^ jealous 
 '^-thotights. 
 Francine 
 ^^,k:ept her 
 "'gaze on 
 this lady, 
 she saw 
 her eyes 
 
 flash, her cheeks flush ; she thought she discerned the 
 countenance of one inspired by some hellish fancy, 
 mastered by some terrible revulsion of thought. 
 But lightning is not swifter, nor death more sud- 
 den, than was the flight of this expression, and 
 
108 TBE CBOtTAKS. 
 
 Madame du Gua recovered her cheerfulness of look 
 with such self-command that Francine thoug:ht she 
 must have been under a delusion. Nevertheless, 
 recognizing in the woman a masterfulness of spirit 
 at least equal to that of Mile, de Verneuil, she 
 shuddered as she foresaw the terrible conflicts likely 
 to occur between two minds of the same temper, 
 and trembled as she saw Mile, de Verneuil advance 
 toward the young oflficer, casting on him, a passion- 
 ate and intoxicating glance, drawing ham toward 
 herself with both hands, and turning his face to 
 the light with a gesture half coquettish and half 
 malicious. 
 
 "Now tell me the truth," said she, trying to read 
 it in his eyes, " You are not the Citizen du Gua 
 Saint-Cyr?" 
 
 "Yes, I am, mademoiselle." 
 
 " But his mother and he were killed the day before 
 yesterday!" 
 
 "I am extremely sorry," said he, laughing; "but, 
 however that is, I am all the same your debtor in a 
 fashion for which I shall ever be most grateful to 
 you, and I only wish I were in a position to prove 
 my gratitude." 
 
 " I thought I had saved an emigrant, but I like 
 you better as a Republican." 
 
 Yet no sooner had these words, as if by thought- 
 lessness, escaped her lips than she became confused ; 
 she blushed to her very eyes, and her whole bear- 
 ing showed a deliciously naive emotion. She drop- 
 ped the oflficer's hands as if reluctantly, and urged, 
 not by any shame at having clasped them, but by 
 some impulse which was too much for her heart, 
 she left him intoxicated with hope. Then she 
 seemed suddenly to reproach herself with this free- 
 dom, authorized though it might seem to be by their 
 passing adventures of travel, resumed a conven- 
 tional behavior, bowed to her two fellow-travelers, 
 and disappearing with Francine, sought their apart- 
 ment. As they reached it Francine entwined her 
 fingers, turned the palms of her hands upward wife 
 a twist of the arms, and said, gazing at her 
 mistress : 
 
I'ES CHOUANS. 109 
 
 " Ah I Marie, how much has happened in a little 
 time ! Who but you would have adventures of this 
 kind?" 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil threw herself with a bound on 
 Francine's neck. "Ah!" said she, "this is life! I 
 am in heaven!" 
 
 "In hell, it may be," said Francine. 
 
 «0h! hell if you like," said Mile, de Verneuil, 
 merrily. "Here, give me your hand. Feel my 
 heart, how it beats. I am in a fever. I care noth- 
 ing for the whole world. How often have I seen 
 that man in my dreams ! What a beautiful head 
 he has ! what a flashing eye !" 
 
 "Will he love you?" asked the simple, straight- 
 forward peasant girl, in a lowered tone, her face 
 dashed With sadness. 
 
 "Can you ask such a question?" said Mile, de 
 Verneuil. "But tell me, Francine," she added, 
 assuming an air half serious and half comic, " is he 
 so very hard to please?" 
 
 "Yes, but will he love you always?" replied 
 Francine, with a smile. 
 
 Both girls looked at each other for a time sur- 
 prised, Francine at showing so much knowledge of 
 life, Marie at perceiving for the first time a promise 
 of happiness in an amorous adventure. So she re- 
 mained silent, like one who leans over a precipice, 
 the depth of which he would gauge by waiting for 
 the thud of a pebble that he has cast in carelessly 
 enough at first. 
 
 "An! that is my business," said she. with the 
 gesture of a gambler who plays his last stake. " I 
 have no pity for a forsaken woman ; she has only 
 herself to blame if she is deserted. I have no fear 
 of keeping, dead or alive, the man whose heart has 
 once belonged to me. But," she added, after a 
 moment's silence, and in a tone of surprise, " how 
 do you come to be so knowing as this, Francine ?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the young girl, eagerly, " I 
 hear steps in the passage." 
 
 "Ah," said she, listening, "it is not he; but," she 
 continued, "that is your answer, is it? I under- 
 stand. I will wait for your secret, or guess it." 
 
no THE CHOUANS. 
 
 Francine was right. The conversation was in- 
 terrupted by three taps at the door, and Captain 
 Merle, on hearing the "Come in!" whichMUe.de 
 Verneuil addressed to him, quickly entered. The 
 captain made a soldierly bow to the lady, venturing 
 to throw a glance at her at the same time, and was 
 so dazzled by her beauty that he could find nothing 
 to say to her but, "Mademoiselle, I am at your 
 orders." 
 
 " Have you become my guardian in virtue of the 
 resignation of the chief of your demi-brigade i* thai 
 is what they call your regiment, is it notr 
 
 "My superior officer is Adjutant-Major Gerard, 
 by whose orders I come." 
 
 "Is your commandant then so much afraid of 
 me?" asked she. 
 
 " Pardon me, mademoiselle, Hulot fears nothing, 
 but you see, ladies are not exactly in his way, and 
 it vexed him to find his general wearing a kerchief." 
 
 "Yet," retorted Mile, de Verneuil, "it was his 
 duty to obey his chiefs. I like obedience, I warn 
 you, and I will not have people resist me." 
 
 "That would be difficult," answered Merle. 
 
 "Let us take counsel together," said Mile, de 
 Verneuil. You have some fresh men here. They 
 shall escort me to Mayenne, which I can reach this 
 evening. Can we find other troops there so as to 
 go on without stopping? The Chouans know noth- 
 ing of our little expedition, and by traveling thus at 
 night we shall have very bad luck indeed if we find 
 them in numbers strong enough to attack us. Come, 
 tell me, do you think this feasible?" 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle." 
 
 "What sort of a road is it from Mayenne to 
 Fougeres?" 
 
 " A rough one ; the going is all up and down— a 
 regular squirrel's country." 
 
 "Let us be off, then," said she, "and as there is 
 no danger in going out of Alencon you set out first. 
 We shall easily catch you." 
 
 " One would think she was an officer of ten year/ 
 standing," said Merle to himself, as he went out 
 "Hulot IS wrong. The girl is not one of those who 
 
TBE CHOUAm. Ill 
 
 draw their rents from down feathers. Odds cart- 
 ridges! If Captain Merle wishes to become an 
 adjutant-major he had better not mistake Saint 
 Michael for the devil. " 
 
 While Mile, de Verneuil was conferring with the 
 captain, Francine had left the room, intending to 
 examine through a passage window a certain spot 
 in the court-yard, whither, from the moment she 
 had entered the inn, an irresistible curiosity had 
 attracted her. She gazed at the straw in the stable 
 with such profound attention that you might have 
 thought her deep in prayer before a statue of the 
 Virgin. Very soon she perceived Madame du Gua 
 making her way toward Marche-a-Terre as care- 
 fully as a cat afraid of wetting her paws. The 
 Chouan no sooner saw the lady than he rose and 
 observed toward her an attitude of the deepest re- 
 spect — a singular circumstance, which roused Fran- 
 cine's curiosity still more. She darted into the 
 yard, stole along the wall so as not to be seen by 
 Madame du Gua, and tried to hide herself behind 
 the stable door. By stepping on tiptoe, holding 
 her breath, and avoiding the slightest noise, she 
 succeeded in posting herself close to Marche-a-Terre 
 without exciting his attention. "And if," said the 
 strange lady to the Chouan, "after all these in- 
 quiries, you find that it is not her name shoot her 
 without mercy, as you would a mad dog." 
 
 "I understand," said Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 The lady retired, and the Chouan, replacing his 
 red woolen cap on his head, remained standing, and 
 was scratching his ear after the fashion of puzzled 
 men, when he saw Francine stand before him, as if 
 by enchantment. 
 
 "Saint Anne of Auray !" cried he, suddenly drop- 
 ping his whip, folding his hands, and remaining in 
 a state of ecstasy. His coarse face was tinged with 
 a slight flush, and his eyes flashed like diamonds 
 lost in the mud. 
 
 "Is it really Cottin's wench?" he said, in a low 
 voice, that none but himself could hear. " Ah, but 
 you are brave!" (godain), said he, after a pause. 
 This odd word, godain, or godaine, is part of the 
 
112 THK CHOUASS. 
 
 patois of the district^ and supplies lovers with a 
 superlative to express the conjunction of beauty 
 and finery. 
 
 " I should be afraid to touch you," added Marche- 
 a-Terre, who, nevertheless advanced his broad hand 
 toward Francine, as if to make sure of the weight 
 of a thick gold chain which encircled her neck 
 and fell down to her waist. 
 
 "You had better not, Pierre," answered Francine, 
 inspired by the feminine instinct which makes a 
 woman tyrannize whenever she is not tyrannized 
 over. 
 
 She stepped haughtily back, after enjoying the 
 Chouan's surpYise. But she made up for the harsh- 
 ness of her words by a look full of kindness, and 
 drew near to him again. 
 
 " Pierre," said she, " that lady was talking to you * 
 of my young mistress, was she not ?" 
 
 Marche-a-Terre stood dumb, with a struggle going 
 on in his face like that at dawn between light and 
 darkness. He gazed by turns at Francine, at the 
 great whip which he had let fall, and at the gold 
 chain which seemed to exercise over him a fascina- 
 tion not less than that of the Breton girl's face. 
 Then, as if to put an end to his own disquiet, he 
 picked up his whip, but said no word. 
 
 "Oh!" said Francine, who knew his inviolable 
 fidelity, and wished to dispel his suspicions, " it is 
 not hard to guess that this lady bade you kUl my 
 mistress." 
 
 Marche-a-Terre dropped his head in a significant 
 manner, which was answer enough for "Cottin's 
 wench." 
 
 " Well, Pierre, if the least harm h^appens to her, if 
 a hair of her head is injured, we Save looked our 
 last at one another here for time and for eternity. 
 I shall be in Paradise then, and you in hell!" 
 
 * Marche-a-Terre. in his awe at Francine's finery, and she, in her 
 desiie to play the lady, have nsed voxis, which the original italicizes. 
 Both adopt the {amiliar tu henceforth. But the second person sing- 
 ular is so awkward in ordinary English, that it seems better adjusted, 
 with this warning, to the common use. — TranslcUor's Hate. 
 
THE OHO (TANS. 113 
 
 No demon iust about to undergo exorcism in 
 form by the church was ever more agitated than 
 Marche-a-Terre by this prediction, pronounced with 
 a confidence which gave it a sort of certainty. The 
 expression of his eyes, charged at first with a sav- 
 age tenderness, then struck by a fanatical sense of 
 duty as imi)erious as love itself, turned to ferocity, 
 as he perceived the masterful air of the innocent 
 girl who had once been his love. But Francine in- 
 terpreted the Chouan's silence in her own fashion. 
 
 "You will do nothing for me, then?" she said, in 
 a reproachful tone. 
 
 At these words the Chouan cast on his mistress 
 a glance as black as a raven's wing. 
 
 "Are you your own mistress?" growled he, in a 
 tone that Francine alone could understand. 
 
 "Should I be where I am?" said she, indignantly. 
 "But what are you doing here? You are still Chou- 
 anninq, you are prowling along the highways like 
 a mad animal trying to bite. Oh, Pierre ! if you 
 were sensible you would come with me. This 
 
 Eretty young lady, who, I should tell you, was 
 rought up at our house at home, has taken care of 
 me. I have two hundred good livres a year. Made- 
 moiselle has bought me Uncle Thomas' great house 
 for five hundred crowns, and I have two thousand 
 livres saved from my wages." 
 
 But her smile and the list of her riches made no 
 impression on Marche-a-Terre's stolid air. "The 
 rectors have given the word for war," said he, 
 "every Blue we lay low is good for an indulgence." 
 
 "But perhaps the Blues will kill you!" 
 
 His only answer was to let his arms drop by his 
 sides, as if to apologize for the smallness of his 
 offering to God and the king. 
 
 "And what would become of me?" asked the 
 young girl, sorrowfully. 
 
 Marche-a-Terre gazed at Francine as if stupefied ; 
 his eyes grew in size, and there dropped from them 
 two tears, which trickled in parallel lines down his 
 hairy cheeks on to his goatskin raiment, while a 
 dull groan came from his breast. 
 
 " Saint Anne of Auray ! Pierre, is this all you 
 
114 TBE CSOUAXS. 
 
 have to say to me after seven years' parting? How 
 you have changed !" 
 
 "I love you still, and always!" answered the 
 Chouan, ^oughl3^ 
 
 "No," she whispered, "the king comes before 
 me." 
 
 "If you look at me like that," he said, "I must 
 go." 
 
 "Good-by! then," she said, sadly. 
 
 "Good-by!" repeated Marche-a-Terre. He seized 
 Francine's hand, squeezed it, kissed it, crossed him- 
 self, and plunged into the stable like a dog that has 
 just stolen a bone. 
 
 "Pille-Miche," said he to his comrade, "I cannot 
 see my way. Have you got your snuff mull?" 
 
 "Oh! ere bleu! * * * what a fine chain!" 
 answered Pille-Miche, groping in a pocket under 
 his goatskin. Then he neld out to Marche-a-Terie 
 one of the Uttle conical horn boxes in which Bretons 
 put the finely powdered tobacco which they grind 
 for themselves during the long winter evenings. 
 The Chouan raised his thumb so as to make in his 
 left hand the hollow wherein old soldiers measure 
 their pinches of snuff, and shook the mull, whose 
 tip Pille-Miche had screwed off, hard. An impal- 
 pable powder fell slowly through the little hole at 
 the point of this Breton implement. Marche-a- 
 Terre repeated the operation, without speaking, 
 seven or eight times, as if the powder possessed the 
 gift of changing his thoughts. All of a sudden he 
 let a gesture of despair escape him, threw the mull 
 to Pille-Miche, and picked up a rifle hidden in the 
 straw. 
 
 " It is no good taking seven or eight pinches like 
 that right off," said the miserly Pille-Miche. 
 
 " Forward !" cried Marche-a-Terre, hoarsely. 
 "There is work to do." And some thirty Chouans 
 who were sleeping under the manager and in the 
 straw lifted their heads, saw Marche-a-Terre stand- 
 ing, and promptly disappeared by a door opening 
 on to gardens, whence, the fields could be reached. •: 
 
 When Francine left the stable she found the coach" 
 ready to start. Mile, de Verneuil and her two fel- 
 
THE CEOUANB. 115 
 
 low travelers had already got in, and the Breton 
 girl shuddered as she saw her mistress facing the 
 horses, by the side of the woman who had just 
 given orders for her death. The " suspect" placed 
 himself opposite to Marie, and as soon as Francine 
 had taken her place the heavy vehicle set off at a 
 smart trot. 
 
 The sun had already dispelled the gray mists of 
 an autumn morning, and its rays gave to the melan- 
 choly fields a certain lively air of holiday youth. 
 It is the wont of lovera to take these atmospheric 
 changes as omens, but the silence which for some 
 time prevailed among the travelers struck Francine 
 as singular. Mile, de Verneuil had recovered her 
 air of indifference, and sat with lowered eyes, her 
 head slightly leaning to one side, and her hands 
 hidden in a kind of mantle which she had put on. 
 If she raised her eyes at all it was to view the land- 
 scape which, shifting rapidly, flitted past them. 
 Entertaining no doubt of admiration, she seemed 
 willfully to refuse opportunity for it, but her appa- 
 rent nonchalance indicated coquetry rather than 
 innocence. The touching purity which gives so 
 sweet an accord to the varying expressions in which 
 tender and weak souls reveal themselves, seemed 
 powerless to lend its charm to a being whose strong 
 feelings destined her as the prey of stormy passion. 
 Full, on his side, of the joy which the beginning of 
 a flirtation gives, the stranger did not as yrt trouble 
 himself with endeavoring to harmonize the discord 
 that existed between the coquetry and the sincere 
 enthusiasm of this strange girl. It was enough for 
 him that her feigned innocence permitted him to 
 gaze at will on a face as beautiful in its calm as it 
 had just been in its a^tation. We are not prone to 
 quaiTol with that which gives us delight. It is not 
 easy for a pretty woman in a carriage to withdraw 
 from the gaze of her companions, whose eyes are 
 fixed on her as if seeking an additional pastime to 
 beguile the tedimn of travel. Therefore, congratu- 
 lating himself on bein^ able . to satisfy the hunger 
 of his rising passion without its bein^ possible for 
 the strange lady either to avoid his eyes or be 
 
116 THS CaOUAXS. 
 
 offended at their persistence, the young oflScer 
 studied to bis heart's content, and as if he had been 
 examining a picture, the pure and dazzling lines of 
 her face. Now the day brought out the pink trans- 
 parence of the nostrils and the double curve which 
 formed a jimction between the nose and the upper 
 lip. ISTow a paler sunbeam played on the tints of 
 the complexion — pearly-white under the eyes and 
 round the mouth, roseate on the cheeks, creamy 
 toward the temples and on the neck. He admireH 
 the contrasts of light and shade produced by the 
 hair which surrrounded the face with its raven 
 tresses, giving it a fresh and passing grace, for 
 with woman everything is fugitive. Her oeauty of 
 to-day is often not that of j'esterdaj', and it is lucky 
 for her, perhaps, that it is so. Thus the self-styled 
 sailor, still in that age when man enjoys the noth- 
 ings tnat make up the whole of love, watched de- 
 lightedly the successive movements of the eyelids 
 and the ravishing play which each breath gave to 
 the bosom. Sometimes his will and his thoughts in 
 unison, he spied a harmony between the expression 
 of the eyes and the faint movements of tne lips. 
 Each gesture showed him a new soul, each move- 
 ment a new facet in this young girl. If a thought 
 disturbed her mobile features, if a sudden flush 
 passed over them, if they were illumined bj' a smile, 
 his delight in endeavoring to guess the mysterious 
 lady's secrets was infinite. The whole of her was 
 a trap for soul and sense at once, and their silence, 
 far from raising a barrier between the exchange of 
 their hearts, gave their thoughts common ground. 
 
 More than one glance in which her eyes met the 
 stranger's told Marie de Verneuil that this silence 
 might become compromising, and she accordingly 
 put to Madame du Gua some of the trivial questions 
 which start a conversation, though she could net 
 keep the son out of her talk with the mother. 
 
 "How, madam," said she, "could you make up 
 your mind to send your son into the navy? is not 
 this a sentence of perpetual anxiety on yourself?" 
 
 " Mademoiselle, it is the lot of women— I mean ^ 
 
THE CHOUANS. Ill 
 
 mothers — ^to tremble ahvays for their dearest treas- 
 ures." 
 
 "Your son is very like you I" 
 
 "Do you think so, mademoiselle?" 
 
 This unconscious indorsement of the age which 
 Madame du Gua had assigned to herself, made the 
 young man smile, and inspired his so-called mother 
 with fresh annoyance. Her hatred grew at every 
 fresh glance of love which her son threw at Marie. 
 Whether they spoke or were silent, everything 
 kindled in her a hideous rage, disguised under the 
 most insinuating manners. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the stranger, "you are 
 wrong. Sailors are not more exposed to danger 
 than other warriors. Indeed, there is no reason for 
 women to hate the navy, for have we not over the 
 land services the immense advantage of remaining 
 faithful to our mistresses?" 
 
 "Yes, because you cannot help it," replied Mile, 
 de Vemeuil, laughing. 
 
 "It is a kind of faithfulness, all the same," said 
 Madame du Gua, in a tone which was almost 
 somber. 
 
 But the conversation became livelier, and occu- 
 pied itself with subjects of no interest to any but 
 the three travelers, for in such a situation persons 
 of intelligence are able to give a fresh meaning to 
 mere commonplaces. But the talk, frivolous as it 
 seemed, which these strangers chose to interchange, 
 hid the desires, the passions, the hopes which ani- 
 mated them. Marie's constantly wide-awake sub- 
 tlety and her aggressive wit taught Madame du 
 Gua that only slander and false dealing could give 
 her advantage over a rival as redoubtable in intel- 
 lect as in beaut V. But the travelers now caught up 
 their escort, arid their vehicle began to move less 
 rapidly. The young sailor saw in front a long 
 stretch of ascent, and suggested to Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil that she should get out and walk. His good 
 manners and attentive politeness apparently had 
 their effect on the fair Parisian, and he felt her 
 consent as a compliment. 
 
113 
 
 TEE CBOVASS. 
 
 "Is madam of our mind?" asked she of Madame 
 du Qua. " Will she join our walk?" 
 •' Coquette !" said the lady as she alighted. 
 Marie and the stranger walked together, but with 
 
 
 ^vii'oj^c 
 
 an interval between them. The sailor, alreadv a 
 prey to tyrannous desire, was eager to dispel the 
 reserve which she showed toward him. and the 
 nature of which he did not fail to see. He thought 
 
THE CH0UAN3. 119 
 
 to do so by jesting with the fair stranger under 
 cover of that old French gayety — that spirit, now 
 frivolous, now grave, but always chivalrous though 
 often mocking — which was the note of the more 
 distinguished men among exiled aristocracy. But 
 the lively Parisian girl rallied the young Republi- 
 can so maliciously, and contrived to insinuate such 
 a contemptuous expression of reproach for his at- 
 tempts at frivolity, while showing a marked pref- 
 erence for the bold and enthusiastic ideas which in 
 spite of himself shone through his discourse, that 
 he could not miss the way to win her. The talk 
 therefore changed its character, and the stranger 
 soon showed that the hopes inspired by his expres- 
 sive countenance were not delusive. Each moment 
 he found new difficulties in comprehending the 
 siren, with whom he fell more and more in love, 
 and was obliged to suspend his judgment in refer- 
 ence to a girl who seemed to amuse herself by con- 
 tradicting each opinion that he formed of her. En- 
 ticed at first by the contemplation of her physical 
 beauty, he felt himself now attracted toward her 
 unknown mind by a curiosity which Marie took 
 
 {)leasure in kindling. The conversation little by 
 ittle assumed a character of intimacy very foreign 
 to the air of indifference which Mile, de Verneuil 
 tried unsuccessfully to infuse into it. Although 
 Madame du Gua had followed the lovers, they had 
 unconsciously talked quicker than she did, and 
 were soon some hundred paces ahead. The hand- 
 some couple trod the fine gravel of the road, de- 
 lighted like children in keeping step as their paces 
 sounded lightly, happy in the rays of light which 
 wrapped them as in spring sunshine, and in breath- 
 ing together the autumnal perfume, so rich in vege- 
 table spoils that it seemed a food brought by the 
 winds to nourish the melancholy of young love.* 
 Although both agreed in seeming to see nothing but 
 an ordinary chance in their momentary connection, 
 the heavens, the scene, and the season gave their 
 
 * This I fear, is what Balzac's own countrymen would call galiinatis. 
 But it is what Balzac wrote. — Translator's Note. 
 
120 TILE CHOUANS. 
 
 emotion a touch of seriousness which had the air of 
 passion. They beg-an to praise the beauty of the 
 day ; then they talked of their strange meeting, of 
 the approaching breach of so pleasant an acquaint- 
 ance, of the ease with which one becomes intimate 
 while traveling with people who are lost to sight 
 almost as soon as seen. After this remark the 
 young man availed himself of the unspoken leave 
 which seemed to be granted him to edge in some 
 tender confidences, and endeavored to risk a de- 
 claration in the style of a man accustomed to the 
 situation. 
 
 "Have you noticed, mademoiselle," said he, "how 
 little feeling cares to keep in the beaten track 
 during these terrible times of ours? Are not all our 
 circumstances full of surprise and of the inex- 
 plicable? We men of to-day love, we hate, on the 
 strength of a single glance. At one moment we are 
 united for life, at another we part with the swift- 
 ness of those who march to death. We are always 
 in a hurry, like the nation itself in its tumults. In 
 the midst of danger, men join hands more quickly 
 than in the jog-trot of ordinary life, and in these 
 latter days at Paris all have known, as if on a 
 battle-field, what a single hand-clasp can tell." 
 
 "Men felt the need of living hard and fast," she 
 answered, " because there was but a short time to 
 live." And then, glancing at her young companion 
 in a way which seemed to foretell the end of their 
 brief journey, she said, a little maliciously : " For a 
 young man who is just leaving the school you are 
 well up in the affairs of life." 
 
 "What do you really think of me?" said he, after 
 a moment's silence. "Tell me your opinion with- 
 out sparing." 
 
 "I suppose you wish to purchase the right or 
 giving me yours of me?" she replied, laughing. 
 
 "That is no answer," said he, after a brief pause. 
 "Take care ! silence itself is often a reply." 
 
 "But have Inot guessed everything you meant to 
 say to me? You have said too much as it is." 
 
 "Obi if we imderstand each gther," said he, mth 
 
TEE CBOUANS. 121 
 
 a laugh, "you have given me more than i dared 
 hope." 
 
 She smiled so graciously that it seemed as if she 
 accepted the courteous challenge with which all 
 men love to threaten a woman. So they took it for 
 granted, half seriously, half in jest, that they never 
 could be to each other anything else than that 
 which they were at the moment. The young man 
 might abandon himself if he liked to a hopeless 
 passion, and Marie might mock it. So having thus 
 erected between them an imaginary barrier they 
 appeared both eager to profit by the rash license for 
 which they had bargained. Suddenly Marie struck 
 her foot against a stone, and stumbled. 
 
 "Take my arm," said the stranger. 
 
 "I must needs do so, you giddy-pate," said she. 
 "You would be too proud if I refused; I should 
 seem to be afraid of you." 
 
 "Ah! mademoiselle," answered he, pressing her 
 arm that she might feel the beating of his heart, 
 "you will make me proud of this favor." 
 
 " Well, the ease with which I consent wiU dispel 
 your illusions." 
 
 "Would you protect me already against the 
 danger of the feelings which you yourself inspire?" 
 
 "Pray leave off trying to entangle me," said she, 
 " in these little boudoir fancies, these word puzzles 
 of my lady's chamber. I do not like to see in a 
 man of your character the kind of wit that fools 
 can have. See ! we are under a lovely sky, in the 
 open country; before us, above us, all is grand. 
 You mean to tell me that I am beautiful, do you 
 not? Your eyes have told me that already, and 
 besides I know it. ISTor am I a woman who is flat- 
 tered by compliments. Would you perchance talk 
 to me of your feelings?" she said, with an ironic 
 stress on the word. " Do you think me silly enough 
 to believe in a sudden sympathy strong enough to 
 throw over a whole life the masterful memory of a 
 single morning?" 
 
 "Not of a morning," answered he. "but of a 
 beautiful woman who has shown herself a generous 
 one as well " 
 
t22 THE CB0UAN8. 
 
 "You forget," she rejoined, with a laugh, "at- 
 tractions greater than these. I am a stranger to 
 you, and my name, my quality, my position, my 
 self-possession in mind and manners — all must 
 seem extraordinary to you." 
 
 "You are no stranger to me," cried he; "I have 
 divined you already, and I would have nothing 
 added to your perfections, except a little more faith 
 in the love which you inspire at first sight!" 
 
 "Ah! my poor boy of seventeen, you talk of love 
 already?" said she, smiling. " Well, so be it. * * * 
 'Tis a topic of conversation between man and 
 woman, like the weather at a morning call. So let 
 us take it. You will find in me no false modesty 
 and no littleness of mind. I can listen to the word 
 'love' without blushing. It has been said to me so 
 often, with no heart accent in it, that it has become 
 almost meaningless. I have heard it in theaters, 
 in books, in societj^, everywhere. But I have never 
 met anything which corresponded in fact to the 
 magnificent sentiments which it implies." 
 
 "Have you tried to find it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The word was said with such unreserve that the 
 young man started and stared at Marie as if he had 
 changed his mind suddenly as to her character and 
 station. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said he, with ill-concealed emo- 
 tion, "are you a girl or a woman, an angel or a 
 fiend?" 
 
 "I am both," replied she, laughing. "Is there 
 not always something angelic and something dia- 
 bolic as well in a young girl who has never loved, 
 who does not love, and who perhaps will never 
 love?" 
 
 "And yet you are happy?" said he, with a greater 
 freedom of tone and manner, as if he already 
 thought less respectfully of her who had delivered 
 him. 
 
 "Oh!" she said. "Happy? No! When I medi- 
 tate by myself, and feel myself mastered by the 
 social conventions which make me artificial, I envy 
 the privileges of men. But when I reflect on all the 
 
THE CSOUANS. 123 
 
 means wb' ch nature has given us to surround you, 
 to wrap you in the meshes of an invisible power 
 which none of you can resist, then my part in this 
 comedy here below looks more promising to me. 
 And then again it seems to be wretched, and I feel 
 that 1 should despise a man if he were the dupe of 
 ordinary allurements. To be brief, at one time I see 
 the yoke we bear, and it pleases me, then it seems 
 horrible, and I revolt. At another I feel that aspira- 
 tion of self-sacrifice which makes woman so fair 
 and noble a thing, only to experience afterward a 
 devouring desire of power. Perhaps it is but the 
 natural fight of the good and evil principle which 
 makes up the life of all creatures that on earth do 
 dwell. Both angel and fiend — you have said it. It 
 is not to-day that I came to know my double 
 nature. Yet we women know our weakness better 
 than you do. Do we not possess an instinct which 
 makes is look in everything toward a perfection 
 too cer^^iinly impossible of attainment? But," she 
 added; with a sigh, and a glance toward heaven, 
 " what -mnobles us in our own eyes " 
 
 "Is \7hat?" said he. 
 
 "Why," said she, "that we all of us, more or less, 
 maintain the struggle against our fated incom- 
 pleteness." 
 
 "Mademoiselle, why should we part to-night?" 
 
 "Ah!" she said, with a smile at the fiery glance 
 which the young man darted on her, " we had bet- 
 ter get into the carriage ; the open air is not good 
 for us." 
 
 Marie turned sharply on her heel, and the 
 stranger followed, pressing her arm with a vigor 
 which was hardly respectful, but which expressed 
 at once adoration and tyrannous desire. She quick- 
 ened her steps ; the sailor perceived that she wished 
 to avoid a perhaps inopportune declaration, but this 
 only increased his fervor, and setting all to the 
 touch in order to gain a first favor from the girl, he 
 said to her, with an arch look : 
 
 "Shall I tell you a secret?" 
 
 " Tell it at once if it concerns yourself." 
 
124 THE CH0UAN8. 
 
 " I am not in the service of the Republic. Whither 
 are you going? I will go, too." 
 
 As he spoke Marie trembled violently, drew her 
 arm from his, and covered her face with both hands 
 to vail, it might be a flush, it might be a pallor, 
 which changed her appearance. But she uncovered 
 it almost immediately, and said, in a tender tone : 
 
 " You have begun, then, as you would have fin- 
 ished, by deceiving me?" 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 At this answer she turned her back on the bulky 
 vehicle toward which they were advancing, and 
 began almost to run in the opposite direction. 
 
 '"But," said the stranger, "just now the air did 
 not agree with you!" 
 
 "Oh! it has changed," said she, gravely, and still 
 walking on, a prey to stormy thoughts. 
 
 "You are silent?" asked the stranger, whose heart 
 was full of the sweet flutter of apprehension which 
 the expectation of pleasure brings with it. 
 
 "Oh!" she said, shortly, "the tragedy has been 
 prompt enough in beginning." 
 
 " What tragedy do you mean ?" asked he. 
 
 She stopped and scanned the cadet from head to 
 foot, with an expression compact of fear and inter- 
 est both; then she hid the feelings which agitated 
 her under an air of profound calm, showing that, 
 for a young girl, she had no small experience of 
 life. 
 
 "Who are you?" she said. "But I know — when I 
 saw you I suspected it ; you are the Royalist chief 
 they call the Gars. The ex-Bishop of Autun is right 
 in telling us always to believe in presentiments of 
 evil." 
 
 " What concern have you in knowing that 
 person?" 
 
 " What concern could he have in hiding himself 
 
 from me, who have already saved his life?" 
 
 She spoke with a forced laugh, and went on: 
 
 " It was prudent of me to hinder your declaration 
 
 of love. Know, sir, that I hate you! I am a 
 
 Republican, you a Royalist, and I would give you 
 
TEE CHOUANS. 125 
 
 up if my word were not pledged to you, if I had not 
 already saved you once, and if " 
 
 She stopped. This violent flux and reflux of 
 thought, this struggle which she cared no longer to 
 hide, gave the stranger some uneasiness, and he 
 tried, but in v ain, to sound her intention. 
 
 " Let us part at once ; I will have it so. Good-by !" 
 she said, and turning abruptly she made a step or 
 two, but then came back. 
 
 "No!" she continued, "my interest in learning 
 who you are is too great. Hide nothing from me 
 and tell me the truth. Who are you? For are you 
 just as much a cadet of the school as you are a boy 
 of seventeen " 
 
 " I am a sailor, ready to quit the sea, and follow 
 you whithersoever your fancy guides me. If I am 
 fortunate enough to excite your curiosity by any- 
 thing mysterious about me I shall take good care 
 not to put an end to it. What is the good of mixing 
 up the serious concerns of every-day life with the 
 life of the heart in which we were beginning to 
 understand each other so well?" 
 
 "Our souls might have understood each other," 
 she said, gravely. "But, sir, I have no right to 
 claim your confidence. You will never know the 
 extent of your obligations tome; and I shall hold 
 my peace." 
 
 They walked some distance without uttering a 
 word. 
 
 " You seem to take a great interest in my life," 
 said the stranger. 
 
 "Sir," she said, "I beg you tell me your real 
 name, or say nothing. You are childish," she 
 added, with a shrug of her shoulders, " and I am 
 sorry for you." 
 
 The fair traveler's persistency in trying to divine 
 his secret made the self-styled sailor hesitate be- 
 tween prudence and his desires. The vexation of a 
 woman whom we covet is a powerful attraction ; 
 her very submission is as conquering as her anger ; 
 it attacks so many chords in a man's heart that it 
 penetrates and subjugates the heart itself. Was 
 Mile, de Verneuil merely trying a fresh trick of 
 
126 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 coquetry? In spite of his passion the stranger had 
 self-command enough to be mistrustful of a woman 
 who was so desperately set on tearing from him a 
 secret of life and death. 
 
 "Why," he said, taking her hand, which she had 
 let him take in absence of mind, " why has my 
 indiscretion, which seemed to give a future to this 
 day, destroyed its charm instead?" But Mile, de 
 Verneuil, who seemed in distress, was silent. 
 "How have I hurt you?" he went on, "and how can 
 I soothe you?" 
 
 "Tell me your name." 
 
 Then the two walked in silence, and they made 
 some progress thus. Suddenly Mile, de Verneuil 
 halted, like a person who has made up her mind on 
 a point of importance. 
 
 " Marquis of Montauran," said she, with dignity, 
 and yet not quite successfully disguising an agita- 
 tion that made her features quiver nervously, 
 "whatever it may cost me, I am happy to be able to 
 do you a service. We must part here. The escort 
 and the coach are too necessary to your safety for 
 you to refuse either one or the other. Fear nothing 
 from the Republicans ; all these soldiers, look you, 
 are men of honor, and the adjutant will faithfully 
 execute the orders which I am about to give him. 
 For my part, I can easily regain Alencon with mj^ 
 maid; some soldiers will accompany us. Heed me 
 well, for your life is at stake. If before you are in 
 safety you meet the hideous dandy whom you saw 
 at the inn, fly, for he will give you up at once. For 
 
 me " She paused. "For me I plunge back with 
 
 pride into the petty cares of life." And then she 
 went on in a low voice, and choking back her tears, 
 "Good-by. sir! May you be happy! Good-by!" 
 And she beckoned to Captain Merle, who was juBt 
 reaching the brow of the hill. 
 
 The young man was not prepared for so sudden 
 an ending. 
 
 "Wait!" he cried, Avith a kind of despair, cleverly 
 enough feigned. The girl's strange whim sur- 
 prised the stranger so much that though he would 
 at the moment have laid down his life for her, he 
 
TBE CHOUANS. 127 
 
 devised a most reprehensible trick in order at once 
 to hide his name and to satisfy Mile, de Verneuil's 
 curiosity". 
 
 "You have nearly guessed it," he said. "I am an 
 emigrant, under sentence of death, and I am called 
 the Vicomte de Bauvan. Love of my country has 
 brought me back to France, to my brother's side. I 
 hope to have my name erased from the list by the 
 aid of Madame de Beauharnais, now the First Con- 
 sul's wife, but if I do not succeed in this then I will 
 die on my natal soil, fighting by the side of my 
 friend Montauran. My first object is to go and see, 
 with the aid of a passport which he has given me, 
 whether any of my estates in Brittany remain to 
 me." 
 
 As the young noble spoke Mile, de Verneuil 
 examined him with her keen eye. She tried to 
 doubt the truth of his words, but, lulled into credu- 
 lous confidence, she slowly regained her serene 
 expression, and cried, " Sir ! is what you are telling 
 me true?" 
 
 "Perfectly true," replied the stranger, whose 
 standard of honor in dealing with women did not 
 appear to be high. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil drew a deep sigh like one who 
 comes back to life. 
 
 "Ah!" cried she, "I am quite happy." 
 
 "Then do you hate my poor Montauran very 
 much?" 
 
 "iSTo," said she. " You cannot understand me. I 
 could not wish you to be exposed to dangers against 
 which I will try to defend him, since he is your 
 friend." 
 
 "Who told you that Montauran is m danger?" 
 
 "Why, sir, even if I did not come from Paris, 
 where every one is talking of his enterprise, the 
 commandant at Alencon said enough to us about 
 him, I should think." 
 
 "Then I must ask you how you can preserve him 
 from danger?" 
 
 "And suppose I do not choose to answer?" said 
 flhe, with the air of disdain under which women 
 
128 THE CROUANS. 
 
 know so well how to conceal their emotions. " What 
 right have you to know my secrets?" 
 
 "The right which belongs to a man who loves 
 you. " 
 
 "What, already?" she said. " No, sir, you do not 
 love me ! You see in me an object of passing gal- 
 lantry, that is all. Did I not understand you at 
 once? Could any one who has been accustomed to 
 good society make a mistake, in the present state of 
 manners, when she heard a cadet of the Ecole 
 Polytechnique pick his words, and disguise, as 
 clumsily as you did, the breeding of a gentleman 
 under a Republican outside ? Why, your very hair 
 has a trace of powder, and there is an atmosphere 
 of gentility about you which any woman of fashion 
 must perceive at once. Therefore, trembling lest 
 my overseer, who is as sharp as a woman, should 
 recognize you, I dismissed him at once. Sir, a real 
 Republican officer, who had just left the Ecole 
 Polytechnique, would not fancy himself about to 
 make a conquest of me, or take me for a pretty 
 adventuress. Permit me, M. de Bauvan, to lay 
 before you some slight considerations of woman'ri 
 wit on this point. Are you so young as not to know 
 that of all creatures of our sex the most difficult to 
 conquer is she whose price is quoted in the market, 
 and who is already weary of pleasure? Such a 
 woman, they say, requires immense efforts to win 
 her, and yields only to her own caprices. To try to 
 excite affection in her is the ne plus ultra of cox- 
 combry. Putting aside this class of women, with 
 whom you are gallant enough, since they are all 
 bound to be beautiful, to rank me, do you not 
 understand that a girl, young, well-born, beautiful, 
 witty, you allow me all these gifts, is not for sale, 
 and can be won only in one way — by loving her? 
 You understand me? If she loves and chooses to 
 stoop to folly she must at least have some greatness 
 of feeling to excuse her. Pardon me this lavish- 
 ness of logic, so rare with those of our sex. But 
 for the sake of your happiness, and," she added, 
 with a bow, " of mine, I would not have either of 
 us deceived as to the other's real worth, nor would 
 
TBE CHOUAKS. 129 
 
 I have you think Mile, de Verneuil, be she angel 
 or fiend, woman or girl, capable of being caught 
 with common-place gallantries." 
 
 "Mademoiselle," sliid the pretended viscount, 
 whose surprise, though he concealed it, was im- 
 mense, and who at once became a man of the finest 
 manners, " I beg you to believe that I take you for a 
 very noble person, great of heart, and full of lofty 
 sentiments, or for a kind girl, just as you choose. " 
 
 "That is more than I ask for, sir," she said, 
 laughing. "Leave me my incognito. Besides, I 
 wear my mask better than you do, and it pleases 
 me to keep it on were it only for the purpose of 
 knowing whether people who talk to me of love are 
 sincere. * * * Therefore, do not play too bold 
 strokes with me. Listen, sir," she added, grasping 
 his arm firmly, " if you could convince me that you 
 love me truly no power on earth should tear us 
 asunder. Yes! I would gladly throw in my lot 
 with some man's great career, wed with some huge 
 ambition, share some high thoughts. Noble hearts 
 are not inconstant, for fidelity is one of their strong 
 points. I should be loved always, always happy. 
 But 1 should not be always ready to make myself 
 a ladder whereon my beloved might mount, to 
 sacrifice myself for him, to bear all from him, to 
 love him always, even when he had ceased to love 
 me. I have never yet dared to confide to another 
 heart the wishes of my own, the passionate enthni- 
 siasm which consumes me; but I may say some- 
 thing of the sort to you since we shall part as soon 
 as you are in safety." 
 
 "Part? Never!" he cried, electrified by the 
 speech of this energetic soul, that seemed wrestling 
 with mighty thoughts. 
 
 "Are you your own master?" replied she, with a 
 disdainful glance, which brought him to his level. 
 
 "My own master? Yes, except for my sentence 
 of death." 
 
 "Then," she said, with a voice full of bitter feel- 
 ing, "if all this were not a dream, how fair a life 
 were ours ! But if I have talked follies, let us do 
 none. When I think of all that you should be if 
 
130 TEE CE0UAN8. 
 
 you are to rate me at my just worth, everything 
 seems to me doubtful." 
 
 " And I should doubt of nothing if you would be 
 mine." 
 
 "Hush!" she cried, hearing these word* spoken 
 with a true accent of passion. " The fresh air is 
 getting really too much for you; let us^go to our 
 chaperons." 
 
 The coach was not long in catching the couple 
 up ; they took their seats once more, and for some 
 leagues journeyed in profound silence. But if both 
 had gathered matter for abundant thought their 
 eyes were no longer afraid of meeting. Both seemed 
 equally concerned in watching each other and in 
 hiding important secrets, but both felt the mutual 
 attraction of a desire which, since their conversa- 
 tion, had acquired the strength and range of a 
 passion, for each had recognized in the other quali- 
 ties which promised in their eyes yet livelier 
 delights — it might be from conflict, it might be from 
 union. Perchance each of them, already launched 
 on an adventurous career, had arrived at that 
 strange condition of mind when either out of mere 
 weariness or as a challenge to fate, men simply 
 decline to reflect seriously on their situation, and 
 abandon themselves to the chapter of accidents as 
 they pursue their object, precisely because esit 
 seems hopeless, and they are content to wait for 
 the fated ending. Has not moral, like physical 
 nature, gulfs and abysses, where strong minds love 
 to plunge at the risk of life, as a gambler loves to 
 stake his whole fortune? The young noble and 
 Mile, de Verneuil had, as it were, a glimpse of such 
 ideas as these, which both shared, after the conver- 
 sation of which they were the natural sequel, and 
 thus they made a sudden and vast stride in inti- 
 macy, the sympathy of their souls followina- that of 
 their senses. ISTevertheless, the more fatally they 
 felt themselves drawn each to the other the more 
 interest they took in mutual study, were it only to 
 augment, by the result of unconscious calculation, 
 the amount of their future joys. The young man', 
 still astonished at the strange girl's depth of 
 
TEE CEOtJANS. 131 
 
 thought, asked himself first how she managed to 
 combine so much acquired knowledge with so much 
 freshness and youth. Next he thought that he 
 could discern a certain strong desire of appearing 
 innocent in the extreme innocence with which 
 Marie endeavored to imbue her ways ; he suspected 
 her of feigning, found fault with himself for his 
 delight, and tried to see in the strange lady nothing 
 but a clever actress. He was right. Mile, de 
 Verneuil, like all young women who have gone 
 much into society, increased her apparent reserve 
 the warmer were her real feelings, and assumed in 
 the most natural way in the world the prudish 
 demeanor under which women are able to vail their 
 most violent desires. All of them would, if they 
 could, present a virgin front to passion, and if they 
 cannot their semblance of it is still an homage paid 
 to their love. The young noble thought all this 
 rapidly enough, and it pleased him. For both, in 
 fact, this exchange of study was sure to be an 
 advance in love ; and the lover soon came, by means 
 of it, to that phase of passion when a man finds in 
 the very faults of his naistress reasons for loving 
 her more. The pensiveness of Mile, de Verneuil 
 lasted longer than the emigrant's ; it might be that 
 her lively fancy made her look forward to a longer 
 future. The young man merely obeyed a single 
 one of the thousand feelings which his man's life 
 was sure to make him experience; the girl saw 
 her whole life before her, and delighted in arrang- 
 ing it in beauty, in filling it with happiness, with 
 honor, with noble sentiment. Happy in her own 
 thoughts, as much enamored of her dreams as of 
 reality, of the future as of the present, Marie tried 
 to hold back, so as to clinch her hold of the young 
 man's heart— an instinctive movement with her, as 
 with all women. She had made up her mind to 
 surrender entirely, but she still wished, so to say, 
 to haggle over details. She would have willingly 
 revoked everything that she had done— in speech, 
 in glance, in action— during the past, so as to make 
 it harmonize with the dignity of a woman who is 
 \pved. And so her eyes exhibited now and then a 
 
182 TBE CEOUAM 
 
 1 
 
 kind of affright, as she thought of the past conver- 
 sation in which she had taken so high a ground. 
 But as she looked on his face — so full of vigor —she 
 thought that such a being must be generous as he 
 was strong, and felt herself happy in a lot fairer 
 than that of most other women in that she had 
 found a lover in a man with a character of his own 
 — a man who, despite the sentence of death hanging 
 over his head, had come of his own accord to stake 
 it, and to make war against the Eepublic. The 
 thought of unshared dominion over such a soul 
 soon presented the color of all actual things quite 
 differently to her. There was the difference of a 
 dead and a living universe between the time when, 
 some five hours earlier, she had made up her face 
 and voice to serve as baits for this gentleman, and 
 the present moment, when a look of hers could 
 overcome him. Her cheerful laughs, her gay 
 coquetries, hid a depth of passion which presented 
 itself, like misfortune, with a smile. In the state 
 of mind in which Mile, de Verneuil then was, out 
 ward existence seemed to her a meer phantasma- 
 goria. The coach passed villages, valleys, hills, 
 whereof no impression charged her memory. She 
 came to Mayenne ; the soldiers of the escort were 
 relieved. Merle spoke to her, she answered, she 
 crossed the city, she began her journey afresh, but 
 faces, houses, streets, landscapes, men, all slipped 
 by her like the unsubstantiated shapes of a dream. 
 Night fell. But Marie traveled on under a starry 
 heaven, wrapped in soft light, along the Fougeres 
 road, without even thinking that the face of the 
 sky had changed, without even knowing what 
 Mayenne meant, what Fougeres, or whither she 
 was going. That she might in a few hours be 
 parted from the man she had chosen, and who, as 
 she thought, had chosen her, did not enter her 
 thoughts as possible. Love is the only passion 
 which knows nothing of past or future. If at times 
 her thoughts translated themselves into words, the 
 words which escaped her were almost destitute of 
 meaning. Yet still they echoed in her lover's heart 
 like a promise of delight. Both witnesses of this 
 
THE CE0UAN8. 133 
 
 birth of passion saw that it ^rew with terrible 
 rapidity. Francine knew Mane as well as the 
 strange lady knew the young man, and their knowl- 
 edge of the past filled them with silent expectation 
 of some alarming catastrophe. Nor as a matter of 
 fact were they long in seeing the end of the drama 
 to which Mile, de Verneuil had given, perhaps 
 unconsciously, the ominous name of tragedy. 
 
 The four travelers had journeyed about a league 
 beyond Mayenne, when they heard a horseman gal- 
 loping at the top of his speed toward them. He had 
 no sooner caught the carriage than he stooped to 
 gaze at Mile, de Verneuil, who recognized Corentin. 
 This sinister person permitted himself a meaning 
 gesture, the familiar nature of which was a kind of 
 insult, and disappeared, after striking her blood 
 cold with this vulgar signal. The incident seemed 
 to strike the emigrant disagreeably, and certainly 
 did not escape his so-called mother ; but Marie 
 touched him lightly, and, by a glance, seemed to 
 implore a refuge in his heart, as if it were the only 
 asylum open to her on earth. The young man's 
 brow cleared as he felt the pleasurable influence of 
 the gesture, in which his mistress had revealed, as 
 though by oversight, the extent of her attachment. 
 A fear which she did not understand had banished 
 all her coquetry, and for an instant love showed 
 himself unvailed ; they seemed not to dare to speak, 
 as if for fear of breaking the sweet spell of the 
 moment. Unluckily, the watchful eye of Madame 
 du Gua was in their midst, and she, like a miser 
 presiding at a feast, seemed to count their morsels 
 and dole them out their space of life. Given up to 
 their happiness, the two lovers arrived, without 
 consciousness of the long journey they had made, 
 at that part of the road which is at the bottom of 
 the valley of Ernee, the first of the three hollows 
 forming the scene of the events which open our 
 history. There Francine received, and pointed out 
 to her mistress, some singular figures which seemed 
 to flit like shadows across the trees and amid the 
 ajoncs which surrounded the fields. But when the 
 carriage came within range of these shadows a 
 
134 THE CS0UAN8. 
 
 volley of musketry (the balls passing over their 
 heads) told the travelers that there was a solid 
 reality in these apparitions. The escort had fallen 
 into an ambuscade. 
 
 At this lively fusillade Captain Merle felt a regret 
 as lively, that he had shared the miscalculation of 
 Mile, de Verneuil, who, in her belief that a quick 
 march by night would be exposed to no danger, had 
 only allowed him to take some three-score rnen. 
 Under Gerard's orders the captain at once divided 
 his little force into two columns, so as to take the 
 two sides of the road, and each officer set out at a 
 brisk run across the fields of broom and ajoncs, 
 desirous to engage the enemy without even waiting 
 to discover their numbers. The Blues began to beat 
 these thick bushes to left and to right with a valor 
 by no means tempered with discretion, and replied 
 to the Chouans' attack by a well sustained fire into 
 the broom-tufts whence the hostile shots came. 
 Mile, de Verneuil's first impulse had been to leap 
 from the coach and run back, so as to put as long a 
 space as possible between herself and the battle- 
 field ; but then, ashamed of her fear, and influenced 
 by the natural desire to show nobly in the eyes of a 
 beloved object, she stood motionless, and tried to 
 watch the combat calmly. The emigrant followed 
 her movements, took her hand, and placed it on his 
 heart. 
 
 "I was afraid," she said, smiling, "but now " 
 
 At that moment her maid exclaimed, in a fright, 
 "Marie! take care!" But Francine, who had made 
 as though to spring from the carriage, felt herself 
 stopped by a strong hand, the enormous weight of 
 which drew a sharp cry from her. But when she 
 turned her head and recognized the face of Marche- 
 a-Terre she became silent. 
 
 "To your mistake, then," said the stranger to 
 Mile, de Verneuil, " I shall owe the discovery of 
 secrets the sweetest to the heart. Thanks to 
 Francine, I learn that you bear the lovely name of 
 Marie — Marie, the name which I have always in- 
 voked in my moments of sorrow ! Marie, the name 
 that I shall henceforth invoke in my joy, and 
 
THE CHOUANS. 135 
 
 which I can never mention without sacrilegiously 
 mingling religion and- love. \^et can it be a crime 
 to love and pray at the same time?" As he spoke 
 each clutched the other's hand tight, and they 
 gazed in silence at each other, the very excess of 
 their feeling depriving them of the ability to ex- 
 press it. 
 
 "There is no danger for you," said Marche-a- 
 
 Terre, roughly, to Francine, infusing- into his voice, 
 
 naturally harsh and guttural, a sinister tone of 
 
 reproach, and emphasizing his words in a manner 
 
 which struck the innocent peasant with terror. 
 
 Never before had the poor girl seen ferocity in the 
 
 looks of Marche-a-Terre. Moonlight seemed the 
 
 only suitable illumination for his aspect, and the 
 
 fierce Breton, his bonnet in one hand, his heavy 
 
 rifle in the other, his form huddled together like a 
 
 gnome's, and wrapped in those floods of pallid light 
 
 which give such weird outlines to all shapes, looked 
 
 a creature of fairy-land rather than of the actual 
 
 world. The appearance, and the reproach it uttered, 
 
 had also a ghost-like rapidity. He turned abruptly 
 
 to Madame du Gua and exchanged some quick 
 
 words with her, of which Francine, who had almost 
 
 forgotten her Low-Breton, could catch nothing. 
 
 The lady appeared to be giving repeated commands 
 
 to Marche-a-Terre, and the brief colloquy ended by 
 
 an imperious gesture with which she pointed to the 
 
 two lovers. Before obeying Marche-a-Terre cast a 
 
 final glance at Francine; he seemed to pity her, 
 
 and to wish to speak to her, but the Breton girl 
 
 understood that her lover's silence was due to 
 
 orders. The man's tanned and rugged skin seemed 
 
 to wrinkle on his forehead, and hjs eyebrows were 
 
 strongly contracted. Was he resisting a fresh 
 
 order to kill Mile, de Verneuil? The grimace, no 
 
 doubt, made him look more hideous than ever to 
 
 Madame du G-ua ; but the flash of his eye took a 
 
 gentler meaning for Francine, who, guessing from 
 
 it that her woman's will could still master the 
 
 energy of this wild man, hoped still to reign, under 
 
 God, over his savage heart. The sweet converse in 
 
 which Marie was engaged was interrupted by 
 
136 TEE CUOUANS. 
 
 Madame du Gua, who came up and caught hold of 
 her, uttering a cry as if there were some sudden 
 danger. But her real object was merely to give one 
 of the members of the Alencon Eoyalist committee, 
 whom she recognized, an opportunity of speaking 
 freely to the emigrant. 
 
 "Do not trust the girl you met at 'The Three 
 Moors.'" 
 
 Having whispered these words in the young 
 man's ear, the Chevalier de Valois, mounted on a 
 Breton pony, disappeared in the broom from which 
 he had just emerged. At the same moment the 
 musketry swelled into a rolling fire of astonishing 
 briskness, but no close fighting took place. 
 
 "Adjutant," said Clef-des-Coeurs, "may it not be 
 a feigned attack, in order to carry off our travelers, 
 and put them to ransom?" 
 
 " The devil take me if you have not hit it!" cried 
 Gerard, hastening back to the road. 
 
 But at the same time the Chouans' fire slackened, 
 for the real object of the skirmish had been to effect 
 the communication which the chevalier had made 
 to the young man. Merle, who saw them making 
 off in no great numbers across the hedges, did not 
 think it worth while to entangle himself in a strug- 
 gle which could not be profitable, and might be 
 dangerous, while Gerard with an order or two re- 
 formed the escort on the road, and began his march 
 once more, having suffered no losses. The captain 
 had an opportunity of offering his hand to Mile, de 
 Verneuil, that she might take her seat, for the 
 young nobleman remained standing as if thunder- 
 struck. Surprised at this, the Parisian girl got in 
 without accepting the Republican's courtesy. She 
 turned toward her lover, saw his motionless atti- 
 tude, and was stujaefied at the change which the 
 chevalier's mysterious words had produced. The 
 young emigrant came slowly back, and his air 
 showed a deep sense of disgust. 
 
 "Was I not right?" whispered Madame du Gua, in 
 his ear, as she walked with him back to the car- 
 riage; "we are certainly in the hands of a creature 
 who has entered into a bargain for your life. But 
 
THE CHOUAm, 137 
 
 since she is fool enough to fall in love with you, in- 
 stead of attending to her business, (io not yourself 
 behave childishly, but feign love for her, till we 
 have reached the Vivetiere. When we are once 
 there — But can he be actually in love with her 
 already ?" said she to herself, seeing the young man 
 motionless in his place, like one asleep. 
 
 The coach rolled almost noiselessly along the 
 sandy road. At the first glance that Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil cast around her, all seemed changed. Death 
 was already creeping upon her love. There was 
 nothing, perhaps, but a mere shade of difference, 
 but such a shade, in the eyes of a loving woman, 
 affords as great a contrast as the liveliest colors. 
 Fancine had understood by Marche-a-Terre's look, 
 that the destiny of Mile, de Verneuil, over which 
 she had bidden him watch, was in other hands than 
 his ; and she exhibited a pale countenance, unable 
 to refrain from tears, when her mistress looked at 
 her. The unknown lady hid but ill, under feigned 
 smiles, the spite of feminine revenge, and the sud- 
 den change which her excessive attentions toward 
 Mile, de Verneuil infused into her attitude, her 
 voice, and her features, was of a nature to give 
 alarm to a sharp-sighted person. So Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil instinctively shuddered, asking herself the 
 while, "Why did I shudder? she is his mother," 
 and then she trembled all over as she suddenly said 
 to herself, "But is she really his mother?" She saw 
 before her an abyss which was finally illuminated 
 by a last glance which she cast at the stranger. 
 "The woman loves him!" she thought. "But why 
 load me with attentions, after showing me so much 
 coolness? Am I lost? Or is she afraid of me?" 
 
 As for the emigrant, he grew red and pale by 
 turns, and preserved a calm appearance only by 
 dropping his eyes so as to hide the singular emotions 
 which disturbed him. The agreeable curve of his 
 lips was spoiled by their being tightly pinched, and 
 his complexion yellowed with the violence of his 
 stormy thoughts. Mile, de Verneuil could not even 
 discover whether there was any love left amid this 
 rage. But the road, which at this spot was lined 
 
138 THE CBOUANS. 
 
 with trees, became dark, and prevented the silent 
 actors in this drama from questioning each other 
 with their eyes. The sighing of the wind, the rustle 
 of the tufted trees, the measured pulse of the 
 escort's tramp, gave the scene that solemn character 
 which quickens the heart's beats. It was not pos- 
 sible for Mile, de Verneuil to seek long in vain for 
 the cause of the change. The remembrance of 
 Corentin passed like lightning across her mind, and 
 brought with it the image, as it were, of her true 
 destiny, suddenly appearing before her. For the 
 first time since the morning she reflected seriously 
 on her position. Till that moment she had simply 
 let herself enjoy the happiness of loving without 
 thinking either of herself or of the future. Unable 
 any longer to endure her anguish, she waited with 
 the gentle patience of love for one of the young 
 man's glances, and returned it with one of such 
 lively supplication, with a pallor and a shudder 
 possessing so thrilling an eloquence, that he wav- 
 ered. But the catastrophe was only the more 
 thorough. 
 
 "Are you ill, mademoiselle?" he asked. 
 
 The voice without a touch of kindness, the ques- 
 tion itself, the look, the gesture, all helped to con- 
 vince the poor girl that the incidents of the day had 
 been part of a soul-mirage, which was vanishing 
 like the shapeless wreck which the wind carries 
 away. 
 "Am I ill?" she replied, with a forced laugh. "I 
 was going to put the same question to you." 
 
 "I thought you understood each other," said 
 Madame du Gua, with assumed good humor. 
 
 But neither the young nobleman nor Mile, de 
 "Verneuil answered. She, doubly offended, was 
 indignant at finding her mighty beauty without 
 might. She knew well enough that at anv moment 
 she pleased she could learn the enigma o"f the situ- 
 ation ; but she felt little curiosity to penetrate it, 
 and for the first time, perhaps, a woman recoiled 
 before a secret. Human life is sadly prolific of 
 circumstances where, in consequence it may be of 
 too deep a study, it may be of some sudden disaster, 
 
TRE OEOUANS. 139 
 
 our ideas lose all coherence, have no substance, no 
 regular starting-point ; where the present finds all 
 the bonds cut which unite it to the future and the 
 past. Such was Mile, de Verneuil's state. She 
 reclined, her head bent, in the back of the carriage, 
 and lay like an uprooted shrub, speechless and suf- 
 fering. She looked at no one, wrapped herself in 
 grief, and abode with such persistence in the 
 strange world of grief where the unhappy take 
 refuge, that she lost sight of things aroui^d. Ravens 
 passed, croaking, over the heads of the party, but 
 though, like all strong minds, she kept a corner of 
 her soul for superstitions, she paid no attention to 
 them. The travelers journeyed for some time in 
 total silence. 
 
 "Parted already!" thought Mile, de Verneuil to 
 herself. "Yet nothing round me has told tales! 
 Can it be Corentin? He has no interest in doing so. 
 Who has arisen as my accuser? I had scarcely 
 begun to be loved, and lo ! the horror of desertion 
 is already upon me. I sowed affection, and I reap 
 contempt. Is it my fate, then, alwaj^s to come in 
 sight of happiness and always to lose it?" 
 
 She was feeling a trouble strange to her heart, 
 for she loved really and for the first time. Yet she 
 was not so much given up to her grief but that she 
 could find resources against it in the pride natural 
 to a young and beautiful woman. She had not pub- 
 lished the secret of her love^ — a secret which tor- 
 tures will often fail to draw forth. She rallied, 
 and, ashamed of giving the measure of her passion 
 by her silent suffering, she shook her head gayly, 
 showed a smiling face, or rather a smiling mask, 
 and put constraint on her voice to disguise its 
 altered tone. 
 
 "Where are we?" she asked of Captain Merle, 
 who still kept his place at a little distance from the 
 coach. 
 
 " Three leagues and a half from Fougeres, made- 
 moiselle." 
 
 "Then we shall get there soon?" she said, to tempt 
 him to enter on a conversa,tion in which she in- 
 tended to show the young captain some favor. 
 
140 TMB CE0UAN8. 
 
 "These leagues," answered, Merle, overjoyed, "are 
 not very long in themselves, but in this country 
 they take the liberty of never coming to an end. 
 When you reach the summit of the ridge we are 
 climbing you will perceive a valley like that which 
 we shall soon quit, and on the horizon you will then 
 see the summit of the Pilgrim. Pray God, the 
 Chouans may not try to play a return match there. 
 Now you can understand that in going up and down 
 like this, one does not make much progress. From 
 the Pilgrim you will then see " 
 
 As he spoke the emigrant started a second time, 
 but so slightly that only Mile, de Verneuil noticed 
 the start. 
 
 "What is the Pilgrim?" asked the young lady, 
 briskly, interrupting the captain's lecture on Breton 
 topography. 
 
 "It is'," answered Merle, "a hill-top which gives 
 its name to the valley of Maine, whereupon we are 
 going to enter, and which separates that province 
 from the valley of the Couesnon At the other end 
 of this valley is Fougeres, the first town in Brittany. 
 We had a fight there, at the end of Vendemiaire, 
 with the Gars and his brigands. We were escort- 
 ing some conscripts, who, to save themselves from 
 leaving their country, wanted to kill us on the bor- 
 der line. But Hulot is an ugly customer, and he 
 gave them " 
 
 " Then you must have seen the Gars ?" asked she. 
 "What sort of a man is he?" 
 
 And as she spoke she never took her piercing and 
 sarcastic glance off the pretended Vicomte de 
 Bauvan. 
 
 "Well, really, mademoiselle," said Merle, who 
 was doomed to be interrupted, "he is so like the 
 Citizen du Gua that if he did not wear the uniform 
 of the Ecole Polytechnique I would bet that it is he." 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil gazed at the yotmg man, who, 
 cool and motionless, continued to regard her with 
 contempt. She saw nothing in him that could be- 
 tray a feeling of fear, but she let him know by a 
 bitter smile that she was discovering the secret he 
 had so dishonorably kept. And then, in a mocking 
 
THE CHOUAFS. 141 
 
 voice, her nostrils quivering with joy, her head on 
 one side, so as to look at Merle and exajHine the 
 young noble at the same time, she said to the Ee- 
 publican : 
 
 "The First Consul, captain, is very much con- 
 cerned about this chief. He is a bold man, they 
 say ; only he has a habit of too giddily undertaking 
 certain enterprises, especially when women are 
 concerned." 
 
 " That is just what we reckon upon," said the cap- 
 tain, " to pay off our score with him. Let us get 
 hold of him for only a couple of hours, and we will 
 put a little lead into his skull. If he met us the 
 gentleman from Coblentz would do the same by us, 
 and send us to the dark place, and so one good turn 
 deserves another." 
 
 "Oh!" said the emigrant, "there is nothing to 
 fear. Your soldiers will never get as far as the 
 Pilgrim — they are too weary, and, if you please, 
 they can rest but a step from here. My mother 
 alights at the Vivetiere, and there is the road to it 
 some gunshots off. These two ladies will be glad to 
 rest; they must be tired after coming without a 
 halt from Alencon here. And since mademoiselle," 
 said he, turning with forced politeness toward his 
 mistress, "has been so generous as to impart to our 
 journey at once safety and enjoyment, she will per- 
 haps condecend to accept an invitation to sup with 
 my mother? What is more, captain," he added, 
 addressing Merle, "the times are not so bad but 
 that a hogshead of cider may turn up at the Vive- 
 tiere for your men to tap. The Gars can hardly 
 have made a clean sweep; at least, my mother 
 thinks so " 
 
 "Your mother?" interrupted Mile, de Verneuil, 
 ironically catching him up, and making no reply 
 to the unusual invitation which was made to her. 
 
 " Has the evening made my age incredible to you, 
 mademoiselle ?" answered Madame du Qua. " I 
 was unfortunate enough to be married very young ; 
 my son was born when I was fifteen " 
 
 " Surely you mistake, madam ; do you not mean 
 thirty?" 
 
142 • TEE CHOUANS. 
 
 Madame du Gua grew pale, as she had to swallow 
 this insult ; she would have given much for venge- 
 ance, but found herself obliged to smile, for she was 
 anxious at any price, even that of suffering the 
 most biting epigrams, to find out what the girl's 
 real intentions were, and so she pretended not to 
 have understood. 
 
 " The Chouans have never had a more cruel leader 
 than the Gars, if we are to believe the reports about 
 him," said she, addressing Francine and her mis- 
 tress at the same time. 
 
 "Oh! I do not think him cruel," answered Mile, 
 de Verneuil ; " but he knows how to tell falsehoods, 
 and seems to me very credulous, Now, a partisan 
 chief should be no one's dupe." 
 "You know him, then?" asked the young emi- 
 grant, coldly. 
 
 "No," she replied, with a disdainful glance at 
 him ; " I thought I knew him " 
 
 "Oh! mademoiselle, he is certainly a keen hand," 
 said the captain, shaking his head, and giving to 
 the word he used (malin), by an expressive gesture, 
 the special shade of meaning which it then had and 
 has now lost. " These old stocks sometimes throw off 
 vigorous suckers. He comes from a country where 
 the ci-devants are, they say, not exactly in clover, 
 and men, you see, are like medlars — they ripen on 
 the straw. If the fellow keeps his wits about him he 
 may give us a long dance. He has found out the 
 way to meet our free companies with light com- 
 panies, and to neutralize all the Government's at- 
 tempts. If we burn a Eoyalist village he burns two 
 belonging to Kepublicans. He is carrying on oper- 
 ations over an immense area, and thus obliges us to 
 employ a great number of troops at a moment when 
 we have none to spare. Oh ! he knows his business." 
 
 "He is the assassin of his country!" said Gerard, 
 interrupting the captain, with a deep voice. 
 
 "But," said the young noble, "if his death will 
 deliver the country, shoot him as soon as you can." 
 
 Then he plunged his glance into Mile, de Ver- 
 nueil's soul, and there passed between them one of 
 tliose scenes without words whose dramatic vivacity 
 
THE CIIOUANS. 143 
 
 and intangible finesse speech can very imperfectly 
 render. Danger makes men interesting, and when 
 it is a question of life and death the vilest criminal 
 always excites a little pity. Therefore, though 
 Mile, de Verneuil was now confident that her scorn- 
 ful lover was this redoubted chief she would not 
 ascertain the fact at the moment by procuring his 
 execution. She had another curiosity to satisfy, 
 and preferring to make her passion the standard 
 of her faith or doubt, began a game of hazard with 
 danger. Her glance, steeped in treacherous scorn, 
 triumphantly pointed out the soldiers to the young 
 chief, and, while holding up the image of his peril 
 before him, she took pleasure in impressing on him 
 the painful thought that his life depended on a 
 word, and that her lips were on the point of opening 
 to pronounce it. Like an Indian savage, she seemed 
 to put the very lineaments of her enemy to the 
 question as he was bound to the stake, and shook 
 her tomahawk delicately, as though relishing a 
 vengeance innocent in effect, and punishing like a 
 mistress who still loves. 
 
 "Had I a son like yours," she said to the strange 
 lady, who was in evident alarm, " I should begin to 
 wear mourning for him on the day when I exposed 
 him to danger." 
 
 She received no answer, and though she turned 
 her head a score of times, first toward the officers, 
 and then sharply back toward Madame du Gua, she 
 could not catch between her and the Gars any 
 secret signal which assured her of a correspondence 
 which she at once suspected and wished not to sus- 
 pect — so pleasant is it to a woman to remain unde- 
 cided in a life and death struggle when the word of 
 decision is hers. The young general wore the calm- 
 est of smiles, and endured without flinching the 
 torture to which Mile, de Verneuil put him. His 
 attitude, and the expression of his features, spoke a 
 man careless of the danger to which he had know- 
 ingly exposed himself, and now and then he seemed 
 to say, " Here is an opportunity of avenging your 
 wounded vanity. Seize it ! I should be in despair 
 at having to relinquish my contempt for you." 
 
144 THE CUOUANS. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil on her side scrutinized the chief 
 from the height of her vantage with, in appearance, 
 a mixture of insolence and dignity — in appearance 
 only, for at the bottom of her heart she admired his 
 cool intrepidity. Delighted at discovering that her 
 lover bore an ancient name (for privilege of this 
 kind pleases all women) she felt an added pleasure 
 at meeting him in a situation where, defending a 
 cause ennobled by misfortune, he was wrestling 
 with all the might of a strong soul against the Re- 
 public which had so often prevailed, and at seeing 
 him grappling with danger and showing the prow^- 
 ess which has such power over women's hearts. So 
 she tried him afresh a score of times, following per- 
 haps the instinct which leads a woman to play with 
 her victim as a cat plays with the captured mouse. 
 
 " On what legal authority do you doom the Chou- 
 ans to death ?" asked she of Merle. 
 
 "Why, on that of the law of the 14th of last Fruc- 
 tidor, which outlaws the revolted departments and 
 establishes court-martial in them," replied the Re- 
 publican. 
 
 " What is the immediate reason which gives me 
 the honor of your attention ?" said she to the young 
 chief, who was examining her carefully. 
 
 " It is a feeling which a gentleman cannot express 
 to any woman, whosoever she be," answered the 
 Marquis of Montauran, in a low voice, stooping 
 toward her. "It was worth while," added he, 
 aloud, "to live at this time, in order to see girls* 
 playing the executioner, and outvying him in their 
 ax-play." 
 
 She gazed at Montauran, then, delighted at re- 
 ceiving a public insult from the man at the moment 
 when his life was in her hands, she said in his ear, 
 with a laugh of gentle mockery, "Your head is not 
 good enough. No executioner would care for it, 
 and I will keep it for myself." 
 
 • There is no word in whicii French has a more unfair advantage 
 over its translators than the donhle sense of ftlle, which can be used 
 indifferently in the same breath as simplv "pcirl," and as conveying a 
 gross insult. It may not be an enviable privilPE'e. but it exists The 
 Bomewbat similar play on mauvaise kie "below" is less idiomatic 
 
THE CIIOUANS. 143 
 
 The astonished marquis stared for some time at 
 this strange girl, whose love was still the lord of all, 
 even of the most stinging insults, and who took her 
 vengeance by pardoning an offense which women 
 never forgive. His eyes lost something of their 
 cold severity, and a touch of melancholy suffused 
 his features. His passion was already stronger 
 than he himself knew. Mile, de Verneuil, con- 
 tented with this pledge, slight as it was, of the 
 reconciliation she had sought, gave the chief a 
 tender look, threw at him a smile which was very 
 like a kiss, and then lay back in the carriage, un- 
 willing to play any more tricks with the future of 
 this comedy of happiness, and thinking that she 
 had knitted his bonds afresh by the smile. She 
 was so beautiful ! She was so cunning in making 
 the course of love run smooth ! She was so accus- 
 tomed to take everything in sport, to walk as chance 
 chose ! She was so fond of the unforeseen and the 
 storms of life ! 
 
 In accordance with the marquis' orders, the car- 
 riage shortly after left the highway, and made for 
 the Vivetiere along a hollow lane shut in by high 
 slopes planted with apple trees, which turned it 
 into a ditch rather than a road. The travelers 
 left the Blues behind them to make their slow way 
 to the manor house, whose gray roofs appeared 
 and disappeared by turns between the trees of the 
 lane, where not a few soldiers had to fall out to 
 wrench their shoes from the tenacious clay. 
 
 "This looks very much like the road to Paradise !" 
 cried Beau-Pied. 
 
 Thanks to the postilion, who knew his way, no 
 long time passed before Mile, de Verneuil saw the 
 Chateau de la Vivetiere. The house, perched on a 
 kind of promontory, was defended and surrounded 
 by two deep ponds, which left no way of access 
 but by following a narrow causeway. The part of 
 the peninsula on which the buildings and the gar- 
 dens lay was further protected for a certain dis- 
 tance behind the chateau by a svide moat, receiving 
 the overflow of the ponds with which it communi- 
 cg,ted. It was thus in fact an almost impregnable 
 
146 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 island, and an invaluable refuge for any leader, 
 since he could not be surprised except by treachery. 
 As she heard the rusty hinges of the gate creak, 
 and passed under the pointed arch of the gateway, 
 which had been in ruin since the late war. Mile, de 
 Verneuil put her head out, and the sinister colors of 
 the picture which met her eyes almost effaced the 
 thoughts of love and of coquetry with which she 
 had been lulling herself. The carriage entered a 
 large court-yard, almost square in shape, and in- 
 closed by the steep banks of the ponds. These wild 
 embankments, bathed by waters covered with huge 
 green patches, were unadorned save by leafless 
 trees of aquatic species, whose stunted trunks and 
 huge tufted heads, rising above rushes and brush- 
 wood, resembled grotesque statues. These un- 
 comely hedges seemed endowed with life and 
 speech as the frogs left them croaking, and the 
 water-hens, awakened by the noise of the coach, flut- 
 tered flapping over the surface of the ponds. The 
 court-yard, surrounded by tall, withered grass, by 
 ajoncs, by dwarf and climbing shrubs, was destitute 
 of all appearance of neatness or splendor. The 
 chateau itself appeared to have been long deserted ; 
 the roofs seemed crumbling under their weight of 
 vegetation; the walls, though built of the solid 
 schistous stone which the soil supplies in abund- 
 ance, were full of cracks to which the ivy clung. 
 Two wings, connected at right angles by a lofty 
 tower, and facing the pond, made up the whole 
 chateau, whose doors and blinds hanging rotten, 
 whose rusty balustrades and shattered windows 
 seemed liely to fall at the first breath of tempest. 
 The night breeze whistled through the ruins, to 
 which the moon with its uncertain light lent the 
 character and semblance of a huge specter. The 
 colors of this blue and gray granite, contrasted with 
 the black and yellow schist, must have been seen 
 in order to recognize the truth of the image which 
 this dark and empty carcass suggested. Its stones 
 wrenched asunder, its unglazed casements, its cren- 
 elated tower, its rooks open to the sky, gave it ex- 
 actly the air of a skeleton; and the very birds 
 
TEE CHOUANS. W 
 
 which took to flight hooting gave an additional 
 stroke to this vague resemblance. Some lofty fir 
 trees, planted behind the house, waved their dark 
 foliage above the roof, and some yews, originally 
 trained to give ornament to the corners, now 
 framed it with melancholy drapery-like funeral 
 palls. Lastly, the shape of the doors, the rude style 
 of the ornamentation, the lack of uniformity in the 
 buildings, were all characteristic of one of those 
 feudal manor houses whereon Brittany prides her- 
 self, and not without reason, perhaps, inasmuch as 
 they enrich this Gaelic country with a sort of his- 
 tory in monuments of the shadowy times preceding 
 the general establishment of the monarchy. Mile. 
 de Verneuil, in whose fancy the word " chateau" 
 always took the shape of a conventional type, was 
 struck by the funeral aspect of the picture, jumped 
 lightly from the coach and stood alone, gazing full 
 of alarm, and wondering what she had better do. 
 Francine heard Madame du Gua give a sigh of joy 
 at finding herself out of reach of th" Blues, and an 
 involuntary cry escaped her when the gate was 
 shut and she found herself caged in this kind of 
 natural fortress. Montauran had darted quickly to 
 Mile, de Verneuil, guessing the thoughts that occu- 
 pied her. 
 
 "This chateau," said he, with a touch of sadness, 
 "has been shattered by war, as the projects I built 
 for our happiness have been shattered by you." 
 
 "How so?" she asked, in deep surprise. 
 
 "Are you a woman, young, beautiful, noble, and 
 witty?" he said, with a tone of irony, repeating to 
 her the words which she had said to him so coquet- 
 tish ly in their conversation on the road. 
 
 "Who has told you the contrary?" 
 
 "Some trustworthy friends, who take an interest 
 in my safety and are watching to counterplot 
 treachery." 
 
 "Treachery!" she said, in a sarcastic tone. "Are 
 Alencon and Hulot so far off? You seem to lack 
 memory, an awkward defect for a partisan chief. 
 But from the moment when friends," she added, 
 with studied insolence, reign in your heart with 
 
1^:8 THE CHVUAKS. 
 
 such omnipotence — be content with your friends. 
 There is nothing comparable to the pleasures of 
 friendship. Farewell ! I will not set foot within 
 these walls, nor shall the soldiers of the Republic." 
 
 She darted toward the gate with an impulse of 
 scorn and wounded pride, but her action disclosed 
 a nobility of feeling and a despair which entirely 
 changed the ideas of the marquis, who felt the pain 
 of renouncing his desires too much not to be impru- 
 dent and credulous. He too was already in love, 
 and neither of the lovers had any desire to prolong 
 their quarrel. 
 
 "Add one word and I will believe you," he said, 
 in a beseeching tone. 
 
 "One word ?" she said, ironically, and with 
 clenched lips. "One word ? Will not even one 
 gesture do?" 
 
 "Scold me at least," said he, trying to seize a 
 hand which she drew away, "if, indeed, you dare to 
 sulk with a rebel chief who is now as mistrustful 
 and somber as just now he was confident and gay." 
 
 Marie looked at the marquis without anger, and 
 he added: 
 
 "You have my secret, and I have not yours." 
 
 But at these words her brow of alabaster seemed 
 to darken. Marie cast an angry look at the chief, 
 and answered, "My secret? Never!" 
 
 In love, every word and every look has its mo- 
 mentary eloquence, but on this occasion Mile, de 
 Verneuil gave no precise indication of her mean- 
 ing, and clever as Montauran was, the riddle of the 
 exclamation remained unsolved for him, though 
 her voice had betrayed some extraordinary emotion 
 which must have strongly tempted his curiosity. 
 
 "You have," he said, "an agreeable manner of 
 dispelling suspicion." 
 
 "Do you still entertain any?" she said, looking 
 him up and down as much as to say, "Have you 
 any rights over me?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle," answered the young man, with 
 an air at once humble and firm, "the power which 
 you exercise over the Republican troops, this 
 ©$cort '" 
 
THE CSOlfAKS. 149 
 
 "Ah! you remind me. Shall land my escort," 
 asked she, with a touch of irony, " will vour protec- 
 tors, I should say, be in safety here?" 
 
 "Yes, on the faith of a gentleman. Whoever 
 you are you and yours have nothing to fear from 
 me." 
 
 This pledge was given with an air of such sincer- 
 ity and generosity that Mile, de Verneuil could not 
 but feel fully reassured as to the fate of the Eepub- 
 licans. She was about to speak when the arrival of 
 Madame du Gua silenced her. This lady had been 
 able either to hear or to guess part of the conversa- 
 tion between the lovers, and was not a little anxious 
 at finding them in a posture which did not display 
 the least unkindly feeling. When he saw her the 
 marqiris offered his hand to Mile, de Verneuil, and 
 started briskly toward the house as if to rid himself 
 of an unwelcome companion. 
 
 " I am in their way," said the strange lady, remain- 
 ing motionless where she stood, and gazing at the 
 two reconciled lovers as they made their way 
 slowly toward the entrance stairs, where they 
 halted to talk as soon as they had put a certain dis- 
 tance between her and themselves. "Yes! yes! I 
 am in their way," she went on, speaking to herself, 
 " but in a little time the creature shall be no more 
 in mine. By heaven ! the pond shall be her grave. 
 Shall I not keep your ' faith of a gentleman ' for 
 you? Once under water, what has any one to fear? 
 Will she not be safe there ?" 
 
 She was gazing steadily at the clear mirror of the 
 little lake on the right when suddenly she heard 
 the brambles on the bank rustle, and saw by moon- 
 light the face of Marche-a-Terre rising behind the 
 knotty trunk of an old willow. Only those who 
 knew the Chouan could have made him out in the 
 midst of this crowd of pollarded stumps, among 
 which his own form easily confounded itself. 
 Madame du Grua first threw a watchful look around 
 her. She saw the postilion leading his horses off to 
 a stable in the wing of the chateau which faced 
 the bank where Marche-a-Terre was hidden ; while 
 Francine was making her way toward the two 
 
ISO THE CBOVANS. 
 
 lovers, who at the moment had forgotten every- 
 thing on earth. Then the strange lady stepped for- 
 ward with her finger on her lips to insist on com- 
 plete silence, after which the Chouan understood 
 rather than heard the following words : 
 
 " How many of you are here ?" 
 
 " Eighty -seven. " 
 
 "They are only sixty-five; I counted them." 
 
 "Good!" said the savage, with ferocious satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 Then the Chouan, who kept an eye on Francine's 
 least movement, dived behind the willow bark as 
 he saw her turn back to look for the female foe of 
 whom she was instinctively watchful. 
 
 Seven or eight persons, attracted by the noise of 
 the carriage wheels, showed themselves on the top 
 of the front stair-way, and cried, " 'Tis the Gars ! 
 'Tishe! Here he is!" At this cry others ran up, 
 and their presence disturbed the lovers' talk. The 
 Marquis of Montauran advanced hastily toward 
 these gentlemen, and bade them be silent with a 
 commanding gesture, pointing out to them the head 
 of the avenue where the Republican troops were 
 debouching. At sight of the well-known blue uni- 
 forms faced with red and the fiashing bayonets, 
 the astounded conspirators cried : 
 
 " Have you come to betray us ?" 
 
 "If I had I should hardly warn you of the 
 danger," answered the marquis, smiling bitterl3^ 
 "These Blues," he continued, after a pause, "are 
 the escort of this young lady, whose generosity has 
 miraculously delivered us from the danger to which 
 we had nearly fallen victims in an inn at Alencon. 
 We will tell you the story. Mademoiselle and her 
 escort are here on my parole, and must be received 
 as friends." 
 
 Madame du Gua and Francine having arrived at 
 the steps, the marquis gallantly presented his hand 
 to Mile. deVerneuil. The group of gentlemen fell 
 back into two rows in order to give them passage, 
 and all strove to distinguish the stranger's features 
 for Madame du Gua had already heightened their 
 curiosity by making some private signals. Mile, de 
 
TEE CH0UAN8. 151 
 
 Verneuil beheld in the first apartment a large table 
 handsomely laid for some score of guests. This 
 dining-room communicated with a large saloon in 
 which the company was shortly collected. Both 
 chambers were in harmony with the spectacle of 
 ruin which the exterior of the chateau presented. 
 The wainscot, wrought in polished walnut, but of 
 rough, coarse, ill-finished workmanship in very 
 high relief, was wrenched asunder and seemed 
 ready to fall. Its dark hue added yet more to the 
 melancholy aspect of rooms without curtains or 
 mirrors, where a few pieces of ancient and ram- 
 shackle furniture matched with the general effect 
 of dilapidation. Marie saw maps and plans lying 
 unrolled on a large table, and in the corners of the 
 room piles of swords and rifles. The whole bore 
 witness to an important conference between the 
 Chouan and Vendean chiefs. The marquis led 
 Mile, de Verneuil to a vast worm-eaten arm-chair 
 which stood by the fire-place, and Francine placed 
 herself behind her mistress, leaning on the back of 
 the venerable piece of furniture. 
 
 "You will excuse me for a moment, that I may 
 do my duty as host?" said the marquis, as he left 
 the couple and mixed in the groups which his guests 
 formed. 
 
 Francine saw al the chiefs, in consequence of a 
 word from Montauran, hastily hiding their maps, 
 their arms, and everything that coud excite the 
 suspicions of the Repubican oflficers; while some 
 laid aside broad belts which contained pistols and 
 hangers. The marquis recommended the greatest 
 possible discretion, and went out with apologies for 
 the necessity of looking after the reception of the 
 troublesome guests that chance was giving him. 
 Mile, de Verneuil, who had put her feet to the fire, 
 endeavoring to warm them, allowed Montauran to 
 leave without turning her head, and thus disap- 
 pointed the expectation of the company, who were 
 all anxious to see her. The gentlemen gathered 
 round the unknown lady, and while she carried on 
 with them a conversation sotto voce, there was not 
 
152 TEE CUOUANS. 
 
 one who did not turn round more than once to ex- 
 amine the two strangers. 
 
 "You know Montauran," she said, "he fell in love 
 with the girl at first sight, and you can quite under- 
 stand that the best advice sounded suspicious to 
 him when it came from my mouth. Our friends at 
 Paris, and Messieurs de Valois and d'Esgrignon, of 
 Alencon, as well, have all warned him of the snare 
 that is being laid for him by throwing some bag- 
 gage at his head, and yet he takes up with the first 
 he meets — a girl who, according to my information, 
 has stolen a great name in order to disgrace it," 
 and so forth. 
 
 This lady, in whom the reader must have already 
 recognized the woman who decided the Chouans on 
 attacking the turgotine, shall keep henceforward 
 in our history the appellation which helped her to 
 escape the dangers of her journey by Alencon. 
 The publication of her real name could only offend 
 a distinguished family, already deeply grieved at 
 the misconduct of a daughter whose fate has more- 
 over been the subject of another drama than this. 
 But the attitude of inquisitiveness which the com- 
 pany took soon became impertinent and almost 
 hostile. Some harsh exclamations reached Fran- 
 cine's ear, and she, after whispering to her mis- 
 tress, took refuge in the embrasure of a window. 
 Marie herself rose, tured toward the insulting 
 group, and cast on them dignified and even scorn- 
 ful glances. Her beauty, her elegant manners, and 
 her haughtiness, suddenly changed the disposition 
 of her eneraies, and gained her a flattering murmur 
 of admiration, which seemed to escape them against 
 their will. Two or three men, whose exterior 
 showed those habits of politeness and gallantry 
 which are learned in the exalted sphere of a court, 
 drew near Marie with a good grace. But the mod- 
 esty of her demeanor inspired them with respect ; 
 no one dared to address her, and she Avas so far 
 from occupying the position of accused that she 
 seemed to be their judge. Nor had these chiefs of 
 a war undertaken for God and the king much re- 
 semblance to the fancy portraits of them which she 
 
TBE CH0UAN8. ' 153 
 
 had amused herself with drawing. The struggle, 
 great as it really was, shrunk and assumed mean 
 proportions in her eyes when she saw before her, 
 with the exception of two or three vigorous faces, 
 mere country squires destitute of character and 
 vivacity. Marie dropped suddenly from poetry to 
 plain prose. The countenances about her gave a 
 first impression rather of a desire to intrigue than 
 of the love of glory. It was self-interest that had 
 really called these gentlemen to arms, and if they 
 became heroic on actual service here they showed 
 themselves in their natural colors. The loss of her 
 illusions made Mile, de Verneuil unjust, and pre- 
 vented her from recognizing the sincere devotion 
 which made some of these men so remarkable. 
 Yet most of them certainly showed a want of dis- 
 tinction in manner, and the few characteristic heads 
 which were notable among them were robbed of 
 grandeur by the formal etiquette of aristocracy. 
 Even though Marie was liberal enough to grant 
 shrewdness and acuteness of mind to these persons, 
 she found in them a complete lack of the magnifi- 
 cent simplicity to which she was accustomed in the 
 successful men of the Republic. This nocturnal 
 assembly, held in the ruined f ortalice, under gro- 
 tesque architectural devices which suited the faces 
 well enough, made her smile as she chose to see in 
 it a picture symbolizing the monarchy. Soon there 
 came to her the delightful thought that at any rate 
 the marquis played the most important part among 
 these folk, whose only merit in her eyes was their 
 devotion to a lost cause. She sketched in fancy the 
 form of her lover among the crowd, pleased herself 
 with setting him off against them, and saw in their 
 thin and meager personalities nothing but tools of 
 his great designs. At this moment the marquis' 
 steps rang in the neighboring room ; the conspir- 
 ators suddenly melted into separate groups, and the 
 whispering ceased. Like schoolboys who had been 
 planning some trick during their master's absence, 
 they eagerly feigned good behavior and silence. 
 Montauran entered, and Marie had the happiness 
 Qt admiring him among these men of whom he was 
 
154 THE CK0VAN8. 
 
 the youngest, the handsomest, the first. As a king 
 does amid his courtiers, he went from group to 
 group, distributing slight nods, hand-shakes, 
 glances, words of intelligence or reproach, playing 
 his part of party chief with a grace and coolness 
 difficult to anticipate in a young man whom she 
 had 9,t first taken for a mere giddy-pate. The mar- 
 quis' presence put an end to the inquisitiveness 
 which had been busy with Mile, de Verneuil, but 
 Madame du Gua's ill-nature soon produced its 
 effect. The Baron du Guenic (surnamed L'Intime) 
 who among all these men assembled by matters oi 
 such grave interest, seemed alone entitled by his 
 name and rank to use familiarity with Montauran, 
 took his arm, and led him aside. 
 
 " Listen, my dear marquis," said he; "we are all 
 in pain at seeing you about to commit an egregious 
 piece of folly." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" 
 
 " Do you know where this girl comes from, who 
 she really is, and what her designs on you are?" 
 
 "My dear L'Intime, be it said between ourselves, 
 my fancy will have passed by to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Granted, but how if the baggage gives you up 
 before daybreak?" 
 
 " I will answer you when you tell me why she has 
 not done so already," replied Montauran, assuming 
 in jest an air of coxcombry. 
 
 "Why, if she likes you, she probably would not 
 care to betray you till her fancy, too, has 'passed.' " 
 
 "My dear fellow, do look at that charming girl. 
 Observe her ways, and then say, if you dare, that 
 she is not a lady. If she cast favoring eyes on you 
 would you not in your inmost soul feel some respect 
 for her? A dame whom we know has prejudiced 
 you against her. But after the conversation wa 
 have had, if I found her to be one of the wanton* 
 our friends speak of, I would kill her." 
 
 "Do you think," said Madame du Gua, breaking 
 into the talk, "that Fouche is fool enough to pick 
 up the girl he sends against you at a street-corner? 
 He has proportioned her charms to your ability. 
 
THE GHOUANS. 155 
 
 But if you are blind your friends must keep their 
 eyes open to watch over you." 
 
 "Madam," answered the Gars, darting an angry 
 glace at her, " take care not to attempt anything 
 against this young person, or against her escort, 
 otherwise nothing shall save you from my venge- 
 ance. I will have the young lady treated with the 
 greatest respect, and as one who belongs to me. 
 We have, I believe, some connection with the Ver- 
 neuils." 
 
 The opposition with which the marquis met had 
 the usual effect of similar obstacles on young people. 
 Although he had in appearance treated Mile, de 
 Verneuil very cavalierly, and had made believe 
 that his passion for her was a mere caprice, he had 
 just, in an impulse of pride, taken a long step for- 
 ward. After making the lady's cause his, he found 
 his honor concerned in her being respectfully 
 treated, so he went from group to group giving 
 assurances, after the fashion of a man dangerous 
 to cross, thatthe stranger was really Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil, and forthwith all murmurs were silenced. 
 When Montauran had re-established a kind of peace 
 in the saloon and had satisfied all exigencies, he 
 drew near his mistress with an eager air, and whis- 
 pered to her : 
 
 " These people have deprived me of some minutes 
 of happiness." 
 
 "I am glad to have you near me," answered she, 
 laughing. " I warn you that I am curious, so do 
 not be too tired of my questions. Tell me first who 
 is that good man who wears a green cloth waist- 
 coat?" 
 
 " 'Tis the well-known Major Brigaut, a man of 
 the Marais, comrade of the late Mercier, called La 
 Vendee." 
 
 "And who is the fat, red-faced priest with whom 
 he is just now talking about me?" went on Mile, de 
 Verneuil. 
 
 "You want to know what they are saying?" 
 
 "Do 1 want to know? Do you call that a ques- 
 tion?" 
 
 "But I cannot tell you without insulting you," 
 
156 TSE CHOVAM. 
 
 "As soon as you allow me to be insulted "without 
 exacting vengeance for the insults proffered me in 
 your house, farewell, marquis ! I will not stay a 
 moment longer here ; as it is, I am ashamed of de- 
 ceiving these poor Republicans who are so loyal 
 and confiding," and she made some steps, but the 
 marquis followed her. 
 
 " My dear Marie, listen to me. On my honor, I 
 silenced their unkind words before knowing 
 whether they are true words or false. Neverthe- 
 less, in my situation, when our allies in the Govern- 
 ment offices at Paris have warned me to mistrust 
 every kind of woman I meet on my path, telling me 
 at the same time that Fouche has made up his mind 
 to employ some street-walking Judith against me, 
 my best friends may surely be pardoned for think- 
 ing that you are too beautiful to be an honest 
 woman " 
 
 And as he spoke the marquis plunged his eyes 
 into those of Mile, de Verneuil, who blushed, and 
 could not keep back her tears. 
 
 "I deserved this insult," she said. "I would fain 
 see you sure that I am a worthless creature, and 
 yet know myself loved ; then I should doubt you no 
 more. For my part, I believed you when you de- 
 ceived me, and you disbelieve me when I speak the 
 truth. Enough of this, sir," she said, frowning, 
 and with the paleness of approaching death on her 
 face; "adieu!" 
 
 She dashed from the room with a despairing 
 movement ; but the young marquis said in her ear : 
 
 " Marie ! my life is yours !" 
 
 She stopped and looked at him. "No! no!" she 
 said. " I am generous. Farewell ! I thought not, 
 as I came with you, of my past or of your future. I 
 was mad!" 
 
 "What! you leave me at the moment when I 
 offer you my life?" 
 
 " You are offering it in a moment of passion, of 
 desire " 
 
 " But without regret, and forever ! " said he. 
 
 She re-entered the room, and to hide his emotion 
 the marquis continued their conversation ; 
 
TRE CE0UAN8. 157 
 
 'M He fat man whose name you asked me is a 
 redoubtable person. He is the Abbe Gudin, one of 
 those Jesuits who are certainly headstrong enough, 
 and perhaps devoted enough, to remain in France 
 notwithstanding the edict of 1763, which banished 
 them. He is a fire-brand of war in these distiicts, 
 and the organizer of the association called the 
 Sacred Heart, Accustomed to make religion his 
 tool, he persuades the affiliated members that they 
 will come to life again, and knows how to keep up; 
 their fanaticism by clever prophecies. You "see, 
 one has to make use of each man's private interest 
 to gain a great end. In that lies the whole secret 
 of politics." 
 
 " And the other, in a green old age — the muscular 
 man whose face is so repulsive ? There ! the man 
 dressed in a tattered lawyer's gown." 
 
 " Lawyer ! he aspires to the rank of marechal de 
 camp. Have you never heard speak of Longuy?" 
 
 "What! 'tis he?" said Mile, de Verneuil, af- 
 frighted. " You employ such men as that ?" 
 
 "Hush! he might hear you. Do you see the 
 other, engaged in criminal conversation with 
 Madame du Gua?" 
 
 "The man in black, who looks like a judge?" 
 
 "He is one of our diplomatists. La Billardiere, 
 son of a counselor in the Breton Parliament, whose 
 real name is something like Flamet, but he is in the 
 prince's confidence." 
 
 " And his neighbor, who is just now clutching his 
 clay pipe, and who rests all the fingers of his right 
 hand on the wainscot like a clown?" said Mile, de 
 Verneuil, with a laugh. 
 
 "You have guessed him, by heavens! 'Tis a 
 former gamekeeper of the lady's defunct husband. 
 He commands one of the companies with which I 
 meet the mobile battalions. He and Marche-a- 
 Terre are perhaps the most conscientious servants 
 that the king has hereabouts." 
 
 "But she — who is she?" 
 
 "She," continued the marquis, "she is the last 
 mistress that Charette had. She has great influ- 
 ence on all these people." 
 
158 THE CE0UAN8. 
 
 "Has she remained faithful to him?" 
 
 But the marquis ma,de no other answei than a 
 slight grimace, expressing doubt. 
 
 "Do you think well of her?" 
 
 "Eeally, you are very inquisitive." 
 
 " She is my enemy, because she no longer can be 
 my rival," said Mile, de Verneuil, laughing. " 1 for- 
 give her past slips ; let her forgive me mine. And 
 the oflScer with the mustaches?" 
 
 " Pardon me if I do not name him. He wants tc 
 get rid of the First Consul by attacking him arms 
 in hand. Whether he succeeds or not you will hear 
 of him some day. He wiU be famous." 
 
 " And you have come to take command of people 
 like that?" she said, with horror. "These are the 
 king's defenders. Where, then, are the gentlemen, 
 the great lords?" 
 
 "Well," said the marquis, somewhat tauntingly, 
 "they are scattered about all the courts of Europe. 
 Who else is enlisting kings, cabinets, armies in the 
 service of the House of Bourbon, and urging them 
 against this Republic, which threatens all mon- 
 archies with death, and social order with complete 
 destruction?" 
 
 "Ah!" she said, with generous emotion, "be to 
 me henceforth the pure source whence I may draw 
 such further ideas as I must learn. I have no ob- 
 jection to that. But allow me to think that you are 
 the only noble who does bis duty by attacking 
 France with Frenchmen, and not with foreign aid. 
 I am a woman, and I feel that if a child of mine 
 struck me in anger I could pardon him, but if he 
 looked on while a stranger tore me to pieces I should 
 regard him as a monster." 
 
 "You will always be a Republican," said the mar- 
 quis, delightfully intoxicated by the glowing tones 
 which confirmed his hopes. 
 
 "A Republican? I am not that any more. I 
 could not esteem you if you were to submit to the 
 First Consul," she went on, "but neither would I 
 see you at the head of men who put a corner of 
 France to pillage, instead of attacking the Republic 
 in front. For whom are you fighting? What io 
 
TEE CEOUANS. 159 
 
 you expect from a king restored to the throne by 
 your hands? Once upon a time a woman undertook 
 this same glorious task, and the king, after his 
 deliverance, let her be burned alive. These royal 
 folk are the anointed of the Lord, and there is 
 danger in touching consecrated things. Leave God 
 alone to place, displace, or replace them on their 
 purple seats. If you have weighed the reward 
 which will come to you, you are ten times greater in 
 my eyes than I thought you, and if so you may 
 trample me under your feet if you like; I will 
 gladly permit you to do so." 
 
 " You are charming ! Do not teach your lessons 
 to these gentlemen, or I shall be left without 
 soldiers." 
 
 " Ah ! if you would let me convert you we would 
 go a thousand miles hence." 
 
 "These men whom you seem to despise," replied 
 the marquis in a graver tone, " will know how to 
 die in the struggle, and their faults will be for- 
 gotten; besides, if my attempts meet with some 
 success, will not the laurels of triumph hide all else?" 
 
 " You are the only man here who seems to me to 
 have anything to lose." 
 
 "I am not the only one," said he, with real mod- 
 esty; "there are two new Vendean chiefs. The 
 iirst, whom you heard them call Grand-Jacques, is 
 the Oomte de Fontaine ; the other is La Billardiere, 
 whom I have pointed out to you already." 
 
 "And do you forget Quiberon, where La Bil- 
 lardiere played a very singular part?" said she, 
 struck by a sudden memory. 
 
 " La Billardiere took on himself a great deal of 
 responsibility ; believe me, the service of princes is 
 not a bed of roses." 
 
 "Ah ! you make me shudder," cried Marie. 
 "Marquis!" she went on, in a tone seemingly indi- 
 cating a reticence, the mystery of which concerned 
 him personally, "a single instant is enough to de- 
 stroy an illusion and to unvail secrets on which the 
 
 life and happiness of many men depend " She 
 
 stopped herself, as if she feared to say too much. 
 
160 THE CSOUANS. 
 
 and added, " I would fain know that the Republican 
 soldiers are safe." 
 
 "I will be prudent," said he, smiling, to disguise 
 his emotion, "but speak to me no more of your 
 soldiers. I have answered for them already, on my 
 honor as a gentleman." 
 
 "And after all, what right have I to lead you?" 
 said she ; " be you always the master of us two. 
 Did I not tell you that it would put me to despair to 
 be mistress of a slave?" 
 
 "My lord marquis," said Major Brigaut, respect- 
 fully interrupting this conversation, " will the Blues 
 stay long here ?" 
 
 " They will go as soon as they have rested," cried 
 Marie. 
 
 The marquis, directing inquiring looks toward 
 the company, saw that there was a flutter among 
 them, left Mile, de Verneuil, and allowed Madame 
 du Qua to come and take his place by her side. 
 This lady wore a mask of laughing perfidy, which 
 even the young chief's bitter smile did not disturb. 
 But at the same moment Francine uttered a cry 
 which she herself promptly checked. Mile, de 
 Verneuil, astonished at seeing her faithful coimtry 
 maid flying toward the dining-room, turned her 
 gaze on Madame du Gua, and her surprise increased 
 as she noted the pallor which had spread over the 
 face of her enemy. Full of curiosity to know the 
 secret of this abrupt departure, she advanced 
 toward the recess of the window, whither her rival 
 followed her, with the object of removing the sus- 
 picions which her indiscretion might have excited, 
 and smiled at her with an indefinable air of malice, 
 as, after both had cast a glance on the lake and its 
 landscape, they returned together to the fire-place ; 
 Marie without having seen anything to justify 
 Francine's fiight, Madame du Gua satisfied that her 
 orders were obeyed. 
 
 The lake, at the edge of which Marche-a-Terre, 
 like a spirit conjured up by the lady, had appeared 
 in the court, ran to join the moat "surrounding the 
 gardens in a series of misty reaches, sometimes 
 broadening into ponds, sometimes contracted like 
 
TUB CEO U AM. ie» 
 
 canals in a park. The steeply shelving bank which 
 these clear waters washed was but some fathoms 
 distant from the window. Now Francine, who had 
 been absorbed in watching the black lines sketched 
 by the heads of some old willows on the face of 
 the waters, was gazing half absently at the regular 
 curves which the light breeze gave to their 
 branches. Suddenly it seemed to her that she saw 
 one of these shapes moving on the watery mirror, 
 with the irregular and willful motion which shows 
 animal life; the form was vague enough, but 
 seemed to be human. Francine at first set her vision 
 down to the shadowy outlines which the moonlight 
 
 Eroduced through the branches ; but soon a second 
 ead showed itself, and then others appeared in the 
 distance, the small shrubs ©n the bank bent and rose 
 again sharply, and Francine perceived in the long 
 line of the hedge a gradual motion like that of a 
 mighty Indian serpent of fabulous contour. Next, 
 divers points of light flashed and shifted their posi- 
 tion here and there among the brooms and the tall 
 brambles. Marche-a-Terre's beloved redoubled her 
 attention, and in doing so she seemed to recognize 
 the foremost of the black figures which were pass- 
 ing along this animated shore. The man's shape 
 was very indistinct, but the beating of her heart 
 assured her that it was really Marche-a-Terre, 
 whom she saw. Convinced by a gesture, and eager 
 to know whether this mysterious movement hid 
 some treachery or not, she darted toward the court- 
 yard, and when she had reached the middle of this 
 green expanse, she scanned by turns the two wings 
 and the two banks without observing any trace of 
 this secret movement in the bank which faced the 
 uninhabited part of the building. She strained her 
 ear, and heard a slight rustle like that which the 
 Steps of a wild beast might produce in the silent 
 woods; she shuddered, but she did not tremble. 
 Young and innocent as she still was, curiosity 
 quickly suggested a trick to her. She saw the car- 
 riage, ran to it, hid herself in it, and only raised 
 her head with the caution of the hare in whose ears 
 the echo of the far-off hunt resounds. Then she 
 
162 TBE CSOUAM. 
 
 saw Pille-Miche coming out of the stable. The 
 Chouan was accompanied by two peasants, all three 
 carrying trusses of straw ; these they spread out in 
 such a manner as to make a long bed or litter be- 
 fore the deserted wing and parallel to the bank 
 with the dwarf trees, where the Chouans were 
 moving with a silence which gave evidence of the 
 preparation of some hideous stratagem. 
 
 " You are giving them as much straw as if they 
 were really going to sleep here. Enough, Pille- 
 Miche, enough!" said a low, harsh voice, which 
 Francine knew. 
 
 "Will they not sleep there ?" answered Pille- 
 Miche, emitting a foolish guffaw. "But are you 
 not afraid that the Gars will be angry?" he added, 
 so low that Francine could not hear him. 
 
 "Well, suppose he is angry," replied Marche-a- 
 Terre, under his breath ; " we shall have killed the 
 Blues all the same. But," he went on, "there is a 
 carriage which we two must run in." 
 
 Pille-Miche drew the coach by the pole and 
 Marche-a-Terre pushed one of the wheels so smartly 
 that Francine found herself in the barn, and on the 
 point of being shut up there, before she had had 
 time to reflect on her position. Pille-Miche went 
 forth to help in bringing in the cask of cider which 
 the marquis had ordered to be served out to the 
 soldiers of the escort, and Marche-a-Terre was pass- 
 ing by the coach in order to go out and shut the 
 door, when he felt himself stopped by a hand which 
 caught the long hair of his goatskin. He met cer- 
 tain eyes whose sweetness exercised magnetic 
 Eower over him, and he stood for a moment as if 
 ewitched. Francine jumped briskly out of the 
 carriage, and said to him, in the aggressive tone 
 which suits a vexed woman so admirably : 
 
 "Pierre, what was the news you brought to that 
 lady and her son on the highway? What are they 
 doing here? Why are you hiding? I will know- 
 all!" 
 
 At these words the Chouan's face took an ex- 
 pression which Francine had never known him to 
 wear. The Breton led his innocent mistress to the 
 
THE CHOUANS. ]63 
 
 door-step, and there turning her face toward the 
 white blaze of the moon, he answered, staring at 
 her with a terrible look : 
 
 " Yes, Francine, I will tell you, by my damnation ! 
 but only when you have sworn on these beads," and 
 he drew an old rosary from underneath the goat- 
 skin, "on this relic which you know," he went on, 
 "to answer me truly one single question." 
 
 Francine blushed as she looked at the beads, 
 which had doubtless been a love token between 
 them. 
 
 "On this it was," said the Chouan, with a voice 
 
 full of feeling, " that you swore " but he did not 
 
 finish. The peasant girl laid her hand on the lips 
 of her wild lover to silence him. 
 
 "Need I swear?" said she. 
 
 He took his mistress gently by the hand, gazed at 
 her for a minute, and went on, " Is the young lady 
 whom you serve really named Mile, de Verneuil?" 
 
 Francine stood with her arms hanging by her 
 sides, her eyelids drooping, her head bent. She 
 was pale and speechless. 
 
 "She is a wanton!" continued Marche-a-Terre, in 
 a terrible voice. As he spoke the pretty hand tried 
 to cover his lips once more, but this time he started 
 violently back, and the Breton girl saw before her 
 no longer a lover, but a wild beast in all the sav- 
 agery of its nature. The Chouan's eyebrows were 
 fiercely contracted, his lips were drawn back, and 
 he showed his teeth like a dog at bay in his master's 
 defense. " I left you a flower, and I find you a car- 
 rion! Ah! why did we ever part? You have come 
 to betray us — to deliver up the Gars!" 
 
 His words were rather bellowings than articulate 
 speech. But though Francine was in terror at this 
 last reproach she summoned courage to look at his 
 fierce face, raised eyes as of an angel to his, and 
 answered, calmly, " I will stake my salvation that 
 that is false. These are the notions of your lady 
 there!" 
 
 He lowered his eyes in turn. Then she took his 
 hand, turned toward him with a caressing move- 
 ment, and said: 
 
164 1'BK CHOUAKS. 
 
 "Pierre, what have we to do with all this? Listen 
 to me. . I cannot tell how you can understand any- 
 thing oif it, for I understand nothing. But remem- 
 ber that this fair and noble young lady is my bene- 
 factress, that she is yours, too, and that we live like 
 two sisters. No harm must ever happen to her 
 when we are by, at least in our life-time. Swear to 
 me that it shall be so. I have no one here to trust 
 to but you !" 
 
 "I am not master here!" replied the Chouan, 
 sulkily, a.i)d his face darkened. She took hold of 
 his great flapping ears and twisted them gently, as 
 if she was playing with a cat. 
 
 "Well," said she, seeing him look less stern, 
 " promise me that you will use all the power you 
 have in the service of our benefactress." 
 
 He shook his head, as if doubtful of success, and 
 the gesture made the Breton girl shudder. At this 
 critical moment the escort reached the causeway. 
 The tramp of the soldiers and the rattle o£ their 
 arms woke the echoes of the court-yard, and 
 seemed to decide Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 "I will save her — perhaps," he said to his mis- 
 tress, "if you can manage to make her stay in the 
 house," and he added, "Stay you by her there, and 
 observe the deepest silence; if not I answer for 
 nothing!" 
 
 "I promise," she answered, in her affright. 
 
 "Well, then, go in. Go in at once, and hide your 
 fear from everybody, even your mistress." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She pressed the hand of the Chouan, who looked 
 at her with a fatherly air while she flitted lightly as 
 a bird to the entrance steps. Then he plunged into 
 the hedge like an actor who runs into the wings 
 when the curtain rises on a tragedy. 
 
 " Do you know. Merle, that this place looks to me 
 just like a mouse-trap !" said Gerard, as he reached 
 the chateau. 
 
 "I see it myself," said the captain, thoughtfully. 
 
 The two officers made haste to post sentries so as 
 to make sure of the gate and the causeway ; then 
 
TEE CHOUANS. 166 
 
 they cast mistrustful looks at the banks and the 
 surrounding landscape. 
 
 "Bah!" said Merle, "we must either enter this old 
 barrack with confidence or not wo in at all." 
 
 " Let us ^o in," said Gerard. 
 
 The soldiers, dismissed from the ranks by a word 
 of their leaders, quickly stacked their muskets and 
 pitched the colors in front of the bed of straw, in 
 the midst whereof appeared the cask of cider. Then 
 they broke into groups, and two peasants began to 
 serve out butter and rye bread to thorn. The mar- 
 quis came to receive the two oflficers, and conducted 
 them to the saloon, but when Gerard had mounted 
 the steps and had gazed at the two wings of the 
 building where the old larches spread their black 
 boughs, he called Beau-Pied and Clef-des-Cceurs to 
 him. 
 
 "You two are to explore the gardens between 
 you, and to beat the hedges. Do you understand? 
 Then you will post a sentry by the stand of colors." 
 
 " May we light our fire before beginning the hunt, 
 adjutant?" said Clef -des-Coeurs, and Gerard nodded. 
 
 "Look you, Clef-des-CoBurs," said Beau-Pied, "the 
 adjutant is wrong to run his head into this wasp's 
 nest. If Hulot was in command he would never 
 have jammed himself up. We are in a kind of 
 stew-pan!" 
 
 "You are a donkey," replied Clef-des-Cceurs. 
 "Why can't you, the king of all sly fellows, ^uess 
 that this watch-box is the chateau of that amiable 
 young lady after whom our merry Merle, the most 
 accomplished of captains, is whistling? He will 
 marry her ; that is as clear as a well-polished bay- 
 onet. She will do the demi-brigade credit, a woman 
 like that!" 
 
 "True," said Beau-Pied, "and you might add that 
 this cider is good. But I can't drink in comfort in 
 front of these beastly hedges. I seem to be always 
 seeing before me Larose and Vieux-Chapeau as 
 they tumbled into the ditch on the Pilgrim. I shall 
 remember poor Larose's pigtail all my life. It 
 wagged like a knocker on a street door. " 
 
 "Beau-Pied, my friend, you have too much imag- 
 
166 TBE CS0UAN8. 
 
 ination for a soldier. You ought to make songs at 
 the National Institute." 
 
 "If I have too much imagination," replied Beau- 
 Pied, "you have got none. It will be some time 
 before they make you consul !" 
 
 A laugh from the soldiers put an end to the con- 
 versation, for Clef-des-Coeurs found he had no cart- 
 ridge in his box as an answer to his adversary. 
 
 "Are you going to make your rounds? I will 
 take the right hand," said Beau-Pied. 
 
 "All right, I will take the left," answered his 
 comrade ; " but wait a minute first. I want to drink 
 a glass of cider ; my throat is gummed up like the 
 sticking-plaster on Hulot's best hat." 
 
 Now, the left hand side of the garden, which Clef- 
 des-Coeurs thus neglected to explore at once, was 
 unluckily that very dangerous bank where Fran- 
 cine had seen men moving. All is chance in war. 
 
 As Gerard entered the saloon and bowed to the 
 company he cast a penetrating glance on the men 
 of whom that company was composed. His sus- 
 picions returned upon his mind with greater 
 strength than ever ; he suddenly went to Mile, de 
 Verneuil, and said to her, in a low tone, " I think 
 you had better withdraw quickly ; we are not safe 
 here." 
 
 "Are you afraid of anything in my house?" she 
 asked, laughing. "You are safer here than you 
 would be at Mayenne." 
 
 A woman always answers confidently for her 
 lover, and the two ofiicers were less anxious. 
 
 The company immediately went into the dining- 
 room, in spite of some casual mention of a some- 
 what important guest who was late. Mile, de 
 Verneuil was able, thanks to the usual silence at 
 the beginning of dinner, to bestow some attention 
 on this assembly, which in its actual circumstances 
 was curious enough, and of which she was in a 
 manner the cause, in virtue of the ignorance which 
 women, who are accustomed to take nothing seri- 
 ously, carry into the most critical incidents of life. 
 One fact suddenly struck her— that the two Repub- 
 lican officers dominated the whole company by the 
 
WE CHQVANS. 167 
 
 imposing character df cheir countenances. Their 
 long hair drawn back from the temples, and clubbed 
 in a huge pigtail behind the neck, gave to their 
 foreheads the pure and noble outline which so 
 adorns youthful heads. Their threadbare blue uni- 
 forms, with the worn red facings, even their epau- 
 lettes, flung back in marching, and showing, as 
 they were wont to do throughout the army, even in 
 the case of generals, evidence of the lack of great- 
 coats, made a striking contrast between these mar- 
 tial figures and the company in which they were. 
 
 "Ah! there is the nation, there is liberty!" 
 thought she, then glancing at the Eoyalists, "and 
 there is a single man, a king, and privilege !" 
 
 She could not help admiring the figure of Merle, 
 so exactly did the lively soldier answer to the type 
 of the French warrior who can whistle an air in the 
 midst of bullets, and who never forgets to pass a 
 joke on the comrade who makes a blunder. Ger- 
 ard, on the other hand, had a commanding pres- 
 ence, grave and cool. He seemed to possess one of 
 those truly Eepublican souls who at the time 
 thronged the French armies, and, inspiring them 
 with a spirit of devotion as noble as it was unobtru- 
 sive, impressed on them a character of hitherto 
 unknown energy. 
 
 "There is one of those who take long views," said 
 Mile de Verneuil; "they take their stand on the 
 present, and dominate it; they destroy the past, but 
 it is for the good of the future." 
 
 The thought saddened her, because it did not 
 apply to her lover, toward whom she turned, that 
 she might avenge herself by a fresh feeling of ad- 
 miration on the Republic, which she already began 
 to hate. As she saw the marquis surrounded by 
 men, bold enough, fanatical enough, and gifted 
 with sufficient power of speculating on the future, 
 to attack a vigorous Republic, in the hope of restor- 
 ing a dead monarchy, a religion laid under inter- 
 dict, princes errant, and privileges out of date, she 
 thought, " He at least looks as far as the other, for, 
 amid the ruins where he ensconces himself, he is 
 striving to make a future out of the past." 
 
168 TEM CH0UAN8. 
 
 Her mind, feeding full on fancies, wavered be- 
 tween the new ruins and the old. Her conscience, 
 indeed, warned her one man was fighting for a 
 single individual, the other for his country; but 
 that sentiment had carried her to the same point 
 at which others arrive by a process of reasoning — to 
 the acknowledgment that the king is the country. 
 
 The marquis, hearing the step of a man in the 
 saloon, rose to go and meet him. He recognized 
 the belated guest, who, surprised at his company, 
 was about to speak. But the Gars hid from the 
 Eepublicans the sign which he made desiring the 
 new-comer to be silent and join the feast. As the 
 two officers studied the countenances of their hosts 
 the suspicions which they had first entertained re- 
 vived. The Abbe Gudin's priestly garb, and the 
 eccentricity of the Chouans' attire alarmed their 
 prudence ; they became more watchful than ever, 
 and soon made out some amusing contrasts between 
 the behavior and the language of the guests. While 
 the Republicanism which some showed was exag- 
 gerated the ways of others were aristocratic in the 
 extreme. Some glances which they caught passing 
 between the marquis and his guests, some phrases 
 of double meaning indiscreetly uttered, and, most 
 of all, the full round beards which adorned the 
 throats of several guests, and which were hidden 
 awkwardly enough by their cravats, at last told 
 the two officers a truth which struck both at the 
 same moment. They communicated their common 
 thought to each other by a single interchange of 
 looks, for Madame du Gua had dextrously divided 
 them, an they were confined to eye language. Their 
 situation made it imperative that they should be- 
 have warily, for they knew not whether they were 
 masters of the chateau or had fallen into an ambus- 
 cade — whether Mile, de Verneuil was the dupe or 
 the accomplice of this puzzling adventure. But an 
 unforeseen event hastened the catastrophe before 
 they had had time to estimate its full gravity. The 
 new guest was one of those high-complexioned per- 
 sons, squarely built throughout, who lean back as 
 they walk, who seem to make a commotion in the 
 
tRE CMOUANS. 169 
 
 air around them, and who think that every one will 
 take more looks than one as they pass. Despite his 
 rank, he had taken life as a joke which one must 
 make the best of, but though a worshiper of self, he 
 was good-natured, polite, and intelligent enough 
 after the fashion of those country gentlemen who, 
 having finished their education at court, return to 
 their estates, and will not admit the idea that they 
 can even in a score of years have grown rusty 
 there. Such men make a grave blunder with per- 
 fect self-possession, say silly things in a witty way, 
 distrust good fortune with a great deal of shrewd- 
 ness, and take extraordinary pains to get them- 
 selves into a mess. When, by plying knife and 
 fork in the style of a good trencherman, he had 
 made up for lost time, he cast his eyes over the 
 company. His astonishment was redoubled as he 
 saw the two officers, and he directed a questioning 
 glance at Madame du Gua, who by way of sole 
 reply pointed Mile, de Verneuil out to him. When 
 he saw the enchantress whose beauty was already 
 beginning to stifle the feelings which Madame du 
 Gua had excited in the company's minds, the portly 
 stranger let slip one of those insolent and mocking 
 smiles which seem to contain the whole of an equiv- 
 ocal story. He leaned toward his neighbor's ear, 
 saying two or three words, and these words, which 
 remained a secret for the officers and Marie, jour- 
 neyed from ear to ear, from lip to lip, till they 
 reached the heart of him on whom they were to in- 
 flict a mortal wound. The Vendean and Chouan 
 chiefs turned their glances with merciless curiosity 
 on the Marquis of Montauran, while those of 
 Madame du Gua, flashing with joy, traveled from 
 the marquis to the astonished Mile, de Verneuil. 
 The officers interrogated each other anxiously but 
 mutely, as they waited for the end of this strange 
 scene. Then, in a moment, the forks ceased to play 
 in every hand, silence reigned in the hall, and all 
 eyes were concentrated on the Gars. A frightful 
 burst of rage flushed his face with anger, and then 
 bleached it to the color of wax. The young chief 
 turned to the guest from whom this train of slow 
 
170 THE mOUANS. 
 
 match had started, and said, in a voice that seemed 
 muffled in crape : .,,.„,. 
 
 " Death of my life ! Count, is that true?" 
 
 "On my honor," said the count, bowing gravely. 
 
 The marquis dropped his eyes for a moment, and 
 then, raising them quickly, directed thena at Marie, 
 who was watching the struggle, and received a 
 deadly glance. . , , . 
 
 "I would give my life," said he, in alow tone, 
 " for instant vengeance ! '' 
 
 The mere movement of his lips interpreted this 
 phrase to Madame du Gua, and she smiled on the 
 young man as one smiles at a friend whose misery 
 will soon be over. The scorn for Mile, de Verneuil 
 which was depicted on every face put the finishing 
 touch to the wrath of the two Republicans, who 
 rose abruptly. 
 
 "What do you desire, citizens?" asked Madame 
 du Gua. 
 
 " Our swords, citizeness," said Gerard, with sar- 
 casm. 
 
 "You do not need them at table," said the mar- 
 quis, coldly. 
 
 "Fo, but we are about to play a game which you 
 know," answered Gerard.* "We shall have a little 
 closer view of each other than we had at the Pil- 
 grim!" 
 
 The assembly was struck dumb, but at the same 
 moment a volley, discharged with a regularity ap- 
 palling to the officers, crashed out in the court- 
 yard. They darted to the entrance steps, and thence 
 they saw some hundred Ohouans taking aim at a 
 few soldiers who had survived the first volley, and 
 shooting them down like hares. The Bretons had 
 come forth from the bank where Marche-a-Terre 
 had posted them — a post occupied at the peril of 
 their lives, for as they executed their movement, 
 and after 'the last shots died away, there was heard 
 above the groans of the dying the sound of some 
 
 * The text has here en reparaissant, "re-appearing." It has not 
 been said that Gerard had left the room, nor could he well have done 
 80. The words are probably an oversight. — Tr<fnslator's NoU, 
 
WE CSOUANS. 171 
 
 Ohouans falling into the water with the splash of 
 stones dropping into an abyss. Pille-Miche leveled 
 his piece at Gerard, and Marche-a-Terre covered 
 Merle. 
 
 "Captain," said the marquis, coolly, to Merle, re- 
 peating the words which the Eepublican had uttered 
 respecting himself, " you see, men are like medlars, 
 they ripen on straw." And with a wave of his hand 
 he showed him the whole escort of Blues stretched 
 on the blood-stained litter, where the Chouans were 
 dispatching the living and stripping the dead with 
 incredible rapidity. " I was right in telling you that 
 your soldiers would not reach the Pilgrim," added 
 the marquis, " also I think your head will be full of 
 lead before mine is. What say you?" 
 
 Montauran felt a hideous desire to sate his rage, 
 And his irony toward the vanquished, the savagery, 
 and even the treachery of this military execution, 
 which had been carried out without his orders, but 
 for which he thus made himself responsible, corre- 
 sponded with the secret wishes of his heart. In his 
 fury he would have annihilated France itself, and 
 the murdered Blues, with the two officers who were 
 still alive, though all were innocent of the crime for 
 which he was demanding vengeance, were in his 
 hands like the cards which a desperate gamester 
 tears with his teeth. 
 
 "I would rather perish thus than triumph like 
 you!" said Gerard, and as he saw his men lying 
 naked in their blood, he cried, "You have foully 
 murdered them!" 
 
 "Yes, sir, as Louis XVI. was murdered," replied 
 the marquis, sharply. 
 
 "Sir," replied Gerard, haughtily, "there is a mys- 
 tery in the trial of a king which you will never 
 comprehend." 
 
 " What ! bring a king to trial !" cried the marquis, 
 excitedly. 
 
 " What ! bear arms against France !" retorted Ger- 
 ard, in a tone of disdain. 
 
 "Nonsense!" said the marquis. 
 
 "Patricide!" cried the Eepublican. 
 
 "Regicide!" returned the other. 
 
172 THE CHOVANS. 
 
 "What," said Merle, merrily enough, "are you 
 seizing the moment of your death to bandy argu- 
 ments?" 
 
 "You say well," said Gerard, coolly, turning once 
 more toward the marquis. " Sir, if it is your inten- 
 tion to kill us, do us at least the favor to shoot us at 
 once." 
 
 " How like you !" ''struck in the captain ; " always 
 in a hurry to have done! My good friend, when a 
 man has a long journey to make, and is not likely 
 to breakfast next day he takes time with his 
 supper." 
 
 But Gerard, without a word, walked swiftly and 
 proudly to the wall. Pille-Miche took aim at him, 
 and seeing the marquis motionless, he took his 
 chief's silence for an order, fired, and the adjutant- 
 major fell like a tree. Marche-a-Terre ran forward 
 to share this new booty with Pille-Miche, and they 
 wrangled and grumbled like two hungry ravens 
 over the still warm corpse. 
 
 " If you wish to finish your supper, captain, you 
 are free to come with me," said the marquis to 
 Merle, whom he wished to keep for exchange. 
 
 The captain went mechanically into the house 
 with the maqruis, saying, in a low tone, as if re- 
 proaching himself, " It is that devil of a wench who 
 is the cause of this ! What will Hulot say?" 
 
 "Wench!" said the marquis, with a stifled cry; 
 "then she is really and truly a wench?" 
 
 It might have been thought that the captain had 
 dealt a mortal blow to Montauran, who followed 
 him pale, gloomy, disordered, and with tottering 
 steps. Meanwhile there had passed in the dining- 
 room another scene, which in the absence of the 
 marquis took so sinister a character that Marie, 
 finding herself without her champion, might reason- 
 ably believe in the death-warrant she saw in her 
 rival's eyes. At the sound of the volley every guest 
 had risen save Madame du Gua. 
 
 "Do not be alarmed," said she; " 'tis nothing. 
 Our folk are only killing the Blues!" But as soon 
 as she saw that the marquis had left the room she 
 started up. "This young lady here," she cried, 
 
THE CHOUANS. 173 
 
 with the calmness of smothered fury, "came to 
 carry off the Gars from us. She came to try and 
 give him up to the Eepublic." 
 
 " Since this morning I could have given him up 
 twenty times over," replied Mile, de Verneuil, "and 
 I saved his life instead." 
 
 But Madame du Gua dashed at her rival like a 
 flash of lightning. In her blind excitement she 
 wrenched open the flimsy frogs on the spencer of 
 the girl, who was taken unawares by this sudden 
 assault, violated with brutal hand the "sacred asylum 
 where the letter was hidden, tore the stuff, the trim- 
 mings, the corset, the shift, nay, even made the 
 most of this search so as to slake her jealous hatred, 
 and so ardently and cruelly mauled the panting 
 breast of her rival that she left on it the bloody 
 traces of her nails, feeling a delight in subjecting 
 her to so vile a profanation. As Marie feebly at- 
 tempted to withstand the furious woman, her hood 
 became unfastened and fell, her hair burst its bonds 
 and rolled down in wavy curls, a modest blush 
 glowed on her face, and then two tears made their 
 moist and burning way down her cheeks, leaving 
 her bright eyes brighter still. In short, the disorder 
 of the struggle exposed her shuddering to the gaze 
 of the guests, and the most calculous judges must 
 have believed her innocent as they saw her suffer. 
 
 Hatred is so blind that Madame du Gua did not 
 notice that no one listened to her, as in her triumph 
 she cried out, "See, gentlemen! have I slandered 
 the horrid creature?" 
 
 "Not so very horrid," whispered the portly guest 
 who had been the cause of the misfortune ; " for my 
 part I am uncommonly fond of horrid things like 
 that!" 
 
 "Here," continued the vindictive Vendean lady, 
 "is an order, signed 'Laplace,' and countersigned 
 ' Dubois. ' " At these names some persons raised 
 their heads in attention. "And this is its tenor," 
 went on Madame du Gua, " 'Citizen commandants 
 of the forces of all ranks, district administrators, 
 procurators, syndics, and so forth, in the revolted 
 departments, and especially those of the places 
 
174 THE CH0UAN8. 
 
 where the ci-devant Marquis de Montauran, brigand 
 chief, surnamed the Gars, may be found, are to 
 afford succor and help to citizeness Marie Verneuil, 
 and to obey any orders which she may give them, 
 each in such matters as concern him, etc., etc' " 
 
 " To think of an opera girl taking an illustrious 
 name in order to soil it with such infamy!" she 
 added. The company showed a movement of 
 surprise. 
 
 " The game is not fair if the Eepublic employs 
 such pretty women against us I" said the Baron du 
 Guenic, pleasantly. 
 
 "Especially girls who have nothing left to stake," 
 rejoined Madame du Gua. 
 
 "Nothing?" said the Chevalier du Vissard. >" Why, 
 mademoiselle has resources which must bring her 
 in a plenteous income." 
 
 "The Eepublic must be in very merry mood to 
 send llidies of pleasure to lay traps for us!" cried 
 Abbe Gudin. 
 
 " But, unluckily, mademoiselle looks for pleasures 
 which kill," said Madame du Gua, with an expres- 
 sion of hideous joy, which denoted the end of her 
 jokes. 
 
 "How is it, then, that you are still alive, madam?" 
 said the victim, regaining her feet after repairing 
 the disorder of her dress. This stinging epigram 
 produced some respect for so undaunted a martyr, 
 and struck silence on the company. Madame du 
 Gua saw flitting over the chief's lips a sarcastic 
 smile which maddened her, and not perceiving that 
 the marquis and the captain had come in. "Pille- 
 Miche," she said to the Chouan, "take her away, 
 she is my share of the spoil, and I give her to you. 
 Do with her whatever you like." 
 
 As she spoke the word "whatever," the company 
 shuddered, for the frightful heads of Pille-Miche 
 and Marche-a-Terre showed themselves behind the 
 marquis, and the meaning of the intended punish- 
 ment appeared in all its horror. 
 
 Francine remained standing, her hands clasped, 
 her eyes streaming, as if thunder-struck. But Mile.' 
 de Verneuil, who m the face of danger recovered 
 
TEE moUANS. 
 
 1% 
 
 all her presence of mind, cast a look of disdain at 
 the assembly, repossessed herself of the letter which 
 Madame du Gua hold, raised her head, and with 
 eyes dry, but flashing fire, darted to the door where 
 stood Merle's sword. Here she met the marquis, 
 cold and motionless as a statue. There was no plea 
 in her favor on his face with its fixed and rigid feat- 
 ures. Struck to the heart, she felt life become hate- 
 ful. So, then, the man who had shown her such 
 affection had just listened to the jeers which had 
 
 'sl'Uililli 
 
 been heaped upon her, and had remained an un- 
 moved witness of the outrage she had suffered when 
 those beauties which a woman keeps as the priv- 
 ilege of love had been subjected to the common 
 gaze. She might perhaps have pardoned Montau- 
 ran for his contemptuous feelings ; she was indig- 
 nant at having been seen by him in a posture of dis- 
 grace. She darted at him a glance full of half irra- 
 tional hatred, and felt terrible desires of vengeance 
 springing up in her heart. With death dogging 
 
176 TEE caoVANS. 
 
 her steps, her impotence choked her. As it were a 
 whirlwind of madness rose to her brain, her boiling 
 blood made her see everything around in the glare 
 of a conflagration, and then instead of killing her- 
 self, she seized the sword, flourished it at the mar- 
 quis, and drove it on him up to the hilt. But the 
 blade slipped between his arm and his side; the 
 Gars caught Marie by her wrist and dragged her 
 from the room, assisted by Pille-Miche, who threw 
 himself on the mad woman at the moment when 
 she tried to kill the marquis. At this spectacle 
 Francine uttered piercing cries. " Pierre ! Pierre ! 
 Pierre!" she shrieked, in piteous tones, and as she 
 cried she followed her mistress. 
 
 The marquis left the company to its astonish- 
 ment, and went forth, shutting the door after him. 
 When Pie reached the entrance steps he was still 
 holding the girl's wrist, and clutching it convul- 
 sively, while the nervous hands of Pille-Miche 
 nearly crushed the bones of her arm, but she felt 
 only the burning grasp of the young chief, at whom 
 she directed a cold gaze. 
 
 "Sir," she said, "you hurt me." 
 
 But the only answer of the marquis was to stare 
 for a moment at his mistress. 
 
 "Have you, then, something to take base venge- 
 ance for, as well as that woman?" she said, and 
 then seeing the corpses stretched on the straw, she 
 cried, with a shudder, " The faith of a gentleman ! 
 ha, ha, ha !" and after this burst of hideous laughter 
 she added, "A happy day!" 
 
 "Yes, a happy one," he answered, "and one with- 
 out a morrow." 
 
 He dropped Mile, de Verneuil's hand, after gazing 
 with a long, last look at the exquisite creature 
 whom he could hardly bring himself to renounce. 
 Either of these lofty spirits would bend. The mar- 
 quis perhaps expected tears, but the girl's eyes 
 remained proudly dry. He turned brusquely away, 
 leaving Pille-Miche his victim. 
 
 "Marquis!" she said, "God will hear me, and I 
 shall pray Him to give you a happy day without a 
 morrow!" 
 
THM CHOUANS. 177 
 
 Pille-Miche, who was something embarrassed 
 with so fair a prey, drew her off gently, and with a 
 mixture of respect and contempt. The marquis 
 sighed, returned to the chamber, and showed his 
 guests the face as of a dead man whose eyes have 
 not been closed. 
 
 That Captain Merle should still be there was un- 
 intelligible to the actors in this tragedy; and they 
 all looked at him with surprise, their looks ques- 
 tioning each other. Merle observed the Chouan's 
 astonishment, and still keeping up his part, he said 
 to them, with a forced smile : 
 
 " I hardly think, gentlemen, that you will refuse 
 a glass of wine to a man who is about to take his 
 last journey." At the very same minute at which 
 these words were spoken, with a Gallic gayety 
 which ought to have pleased the Vendeans, Mon- 
 tauran reappeared, and his pale face and glazed 
 eyes chilled all the guests. 
 
 "You shall see," said the captain, "that the dead 
 man will set the living ones going." 
 
 "Ah!" said the marquis, with the gesture of a 
 man suddenly awakening, " you are there, my dear 
 court-martial?" 
 
 And he handed him a bottle of vin de grave as if 
 to fill his glass. 
 
 "Ah! no, thanks, citizen marquis. I might lose 
 my head, you see." 
 
 At this sally Madame du Gua said to the guests, 
 smiling : 
 "Come, let us excuse him the dessert." 
 "You are very severe in your revenge, madam," 
 said the captain. " You forget my murdered friend, 
 who is waiting for me. I bide tryst." 
 
 "Captain," said the marquis, throwing his glore 
 to him, "you are a free man. There, that will be 
 your passport. The King's Huntsmen know that 
 one must not kill down all the game." 
 
 " Life, by all means ! " answered Merle. " But you 
 are wrong. I give you my word that I shall play 
 the game strictly with you. You will get no quar- 
 ter from me. Clever as you may be you are not 
 Gerard's equal, and though your head will never 
 
178 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 make amends to me for his, I must have it, and I 
 will have it." 
 
 "Why was he in such a hurry?" retorted the mar- 
 quis. 
 
 "Farewell! I could have drank with my own 
 executioners, but I cannot stay with the murderers 
 of my friend," said the captain, disappearing, and 
 leaving the guests in astonishment. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, what do you say now of the 
 aldermen, the doctors, the lawyers, who govern the 
 Kepublic?" said the Gars, coolly. 
 
 " God's death ! marquis," answered the Count de 
 Bauvan, " whatever you may say, they are very ill- 
 mannered. It seems to me that that fellow insulted 
 us." 
 
 But the captain's sudden retirement had a hidden 
 motive. The girl who had been the subject of so 
 much contumely and humiliation, and who perhaps 
 was falling a victim at the very moment, had, dur- 
 ing the scene, shown him beauties so difficult to 
 forget that he said to himself as he went out : 
 
 "If she is a wench she is no common one, and I 
 can do with her as a wife. " 
 
 He doubted so little his ability to save her from 
 these savages that his first thought after receiving 
 his own life had been to take her forthwith under 
 his protection. Unluckily, when he arrived at the 
 entrance, the captain found the court-yard deserted. 
 He looked around him, listened in the silence, and 
 heard nothing but the far-off laughter of the Cho- 
 uans, who were drinking in the gardens while shar- 
 ing their booty. He ventured to look round the 
 fatal wing in front of which his men had been shot 
 down, and from the corner, by the feeble light of a 
 few candles, he could distinguish the various groups 
 of the King's Huntsmen. Neither Pille-Miche nor 
 Marche-a-Terre, nor the young lady was there, but 
 at the same moment he felt the skirt of his coat 
 gently pulled, and turning, he saw Francine on her 
 knees. 
 
 " Where is she ?" said he. 
 
 " I do not know. Pierre drove me away^ telling 
 me not to stir," . 
 
TBE CEOTJANS. 179 
 
 " Which way have they gone?" 
 
 " That way," said she, pointing to the causeway. 
 The captain and Francine then saw in this direction 
 certain shadows thrown by the moonlight on th© 
 waters of the lake, and they recognized feminine 
 outlines whose elegance, indistinct as they were, 
 made both their hearts beat. 
 
 "Oh, it is she!" said the Breton girl. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil appeared to be quietly standing 
 in the midst of a group whose attitudes indicated 
 discussion. 
 
 "They are more than one!" cried the captain. 
 "Never mind; let us go." 
 
 "You will get yourself killed to no profit," said 
 Francine. 
 
 " I have died once to-day already," answered he, 
 lightly. And both bent their steps toward the 
 dark gateway behind which the scene was passing. 
 In the midst of the way Francine halted. 
 
 "No! I will go no farther!" said she, gently. 
 "Pierre told me not to meddle. I know him, and 
 we shall spoil all. Do what you like, Mr. Officer, 
 but pray depart. If Pierre were to see you with me 
 he would kill you." 
 
 At that moment Pille-Miche showed himself out- 
 side the gate, saw the captain, and cried, leveling 
 his gun at him : 
 
 " Saint Anne of Auray ! the reCtor of Antrain was 
 right when he said that the Blues made bargains 
 with the devil. Wait a bit ; I will teach you to 
 come alive again, I will !" 
 
 "Ah! but I have had my life given me," cried 
 Merle, seeing the threat. "Here is your chief's 
 glove." 
 
 "Yes! that is just like a ghost!" retorted the 
 Chouan. "I won't give you your life. Ave MariaV 
 
 He fired, and the bullet hit the captain in the 
 head and dropped him. When Francine drew near 
 Merle she heard him murmur these words, "I had 
 rather stay with them than return without them." 
 
 The Chouan plunged on the Blue to strip him, 
 saying. "The good thing about these ghosts is that 
 they come alive again with their clothes on." But 
 
180 THE CaOUANS. 
 
 when he saw, after the captain's gesture of show- 
 ing the chief's glove, this sacred passport in his 
 hand, he stood dumf ounded. " I would I were not 
 in the skin of my mother's son!" he cried, and van- 
 ished with the speed of a bird. 
 
 To understand this meeting, which proved so 
 fatal to the captain, it is necessary to follow Mile. 
 de Verneuil. When the marquis, overcome with 
 despair and rage, abandoned her to Pille-Miche, at 
 that moment Francine convulsively caught Marche- 
 a-Terre's arm, and reminded him with tears in her 
 eyes of the promise he had made her. A few paces 
 from them rille-Miche was dragging off his victim, 
 
 J'ust as he would have hauled after him any w^orth- 
 ess burden. Marie, with streaming hair and bowed 
 head, turned her eyes toward the lake ; but, held 
 back by a grasp of steel, she was obliged slowly to 
 follow the Chouan, who turned more than once 
 either to look at her or to hasten her steps, and at 
 each turn some festive thought sketched on his face 
 a horrible smile. 
 
 "Isn't she smart?" he cried, with clumsy emphasis. 
 
 As she heard these words, Francine recovered 
 her speech. 
 
 "Pierre!" she said. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Is he going to kill mademoiselle?" 
 
 "Not at once," answered Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 " But she will not take it quietlv, and if she dies I 
 will die!" 
 
 " Ah ! very well— you are too fond of her. Let 
 her die!" said Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 " If we are ever rich and happy it is to her that 
 we shall owe our happiness. But what does that 
 matter? Did you not promise to save her from all 
 evil?" 
 
 "I will try; but stay you there, and do not 
 budge." 
 
 March e-a-Terre's arm was at once released, and 
 Francine, a prey to the most terrible anxiety, 
 waited in the court-yard. Marche-a-Terre rejoined 
 his comrade at the moment when Pille-Miche had 
 entered the barn and had forced his victim t© get 
 
TBB CH0UAN8. 181 
 
 into the carriage. He now demanded the help of 
 his mate to run it out. 
 
 " "What are you going to do with all this?" asked 
 Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 "Well, the Grande-Garce has given me the 
 woman, and all she has is mine." 
 
 " That is all very well as to the carriage — you will 
 make some money of it ; but the woman will scratch 
 your eyes out." 
 
 Pille-Miche laughed loudly, and replied : 
 
 "Why,* I shall carry her to my place, and tie her 
 hands." 
 
 "Well, then, let us put the horses to," said 
 Marche-a-Terre, and a moment later, leaving his 
 comrade to guard the prey, he brought the carriage 
 out of the door on to the causeway. Pille-Miche got 
 in by MUe. de Verneuil, but did not notice that she 
 was gathering herself up for a spring into the lake. 
 
 "Hullo! Pille-Miche," cried Marche-a-Terre, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I will buy your whole booty from you." 
 
 "Are you joking?" asked the Chouan, pulling 
 his prisoner toward him by her skirts as a butcher 
 might pull a calf trying to escape. 
 
 "Let me see her; I will make you a bid." 
 
 The unhappy girl was obliged to alight, and stood 
 between the two Chouans, each of whom held her 
 by a hand, staring at her as the elders must have 
 stared at Susanna in her bath. 
 
 " Will you take," said Marche-a-Terre, heaving a 
 sigh, "will you take thirty good livres a year?" 
 
 "You mean it?" 
 
 "Done!" said Marche-a-Terre, holding out his 
 hand. 
 
 " And done ! There is plenty in that to get Breton 
 girls 'with, and smart ones, too But whose is the 
 carriage to be?" said Pille-Miche, thinking better 
 of it. 
 
 * Balzac has put some jargon in Pille-Miohe's mouth. He is said to 
 have written Les Chouans on the spot; but quUn, itou, etc., are not, I 
 think, Breton, and are suspiciously identical with the words in the 
 famous patois-scenes in Moliere's Don Juan, — Translator's Note, 
 
182 TBE CS0UAN8. 
 
 "Mine!" said Marche-a-Terre, in a terrific tone of 
 voice, exhibiting the kind of superiority over all his 
 mates which was given him by his ferocious char- 
 acter. 
 
 "But suppose there is gold in the carriage?" 
 
 " Did you not say 'Done' ?" 
 
 "Yes, I did." 
 
 " Well, then, go and fetch the postilion who lies 
 bound in the stable." 
 
 " But suppose there is gold in " 
 
 "Is there?" asked Marche-a-Terre, roughly of 
 Marie, jogging her arm. 
 
 "I have about a hundred crowns," answered Mile, 
 de Verneuil. 
 
 At these words the two Chouans exchanged looks. 
 
 " Come, good friend, let us not quarrel about a 
 Blue girl," whispered Pille-Miche to Marche-a- 
 Terre. " Let us tip her into the pond with a stone 
 round her neck, and share the hundred crowns!" 
 
 "I will give you them out of my share of D'Orge- 
 mont's ransom," cried Marche-a-Terre, choking 
 down a growl caused by this sacrifice. 
 
 Pille-Miche, with a hoarse cry of joy, went to 
 fetch the postilion, and his alacrity brought bad 
 luck to the captain, who met him. When Marche- 
 a-Terre heard the shot he rushed quickly to the 
 spot, where Francine, still aghast, was praying by 
 the captain's body, on her knees and with clasped 
 hands, so much terror had the sight of the murder 
 struck into her. 
 
 "Run to your mistress," said the Chouan to her 
 abruptly; "she is saved." 
 
 He himself hastened to fetch the postilion, re- 
 turned with the speed of lightning, and as he passed 
 again by the body of Merle, caught sight of the 
 Gars' glove still clutched convulsively in the dead 
 man's hand. 
 
 "Oh, ho " cried he, "Pille-Miche has struck a foul 
 blow there! He is not sure of living on his annu- 
 ity!" He tore the glove away, and said to Mile, de 
 Verneuil, who had already taken her place in the 
 coach by Francine's side. " Here ! take this glove. 
 If any one attacks you on the way, cry 'Oh ! the 
 
THE CBOUANS. 183 
 
 Gars,' show this passport, and no harm will happen 
 to you. Francine," he added, turning: to her, and 
 pressing her hand hard, "we are quits with this 
 woman. Come with me, and let the devil take 
 her!" 
 
 "You would have me abandon her now?" an- 
 swered Francine, in a sorrowful tone. 
 
 Marche-a-Terre scratched his ear and his brow, 
 then lifted his head with a savage look in his eyes. 
 
 "You are right!" he said. "I will leave you to 
 her for a week. If after that you do not come with 
 me- -— " He did not finish his sentence, but clapped 
 his palm fiercely on the muzzle of his rifle, and 
 after taking aim at his mistress in pantomime, he 
 made off without waiting for a reply. 
 
 The Chouan had no sooner gone than a voice, 
 which seemed to come from the pond, cried, in a 
 low tone, "Madam! madam!" The postilion and 
 the two women shuddered with horror, for some 
 corpses had floated up to' the spot. But a Blue, 
 who had been hidden behind a tree, showed him- 
 self. 
 
 " Let me get up on your coach-box, or I am a dead 
 man," said he. "That damned glass of cider that 
 Clef-des-Cceurs would drink has cost more than one 
 pint of blood. If he had done like me, and made 
 his rounds, our poor fellows would not be there 
 floating like barges." 
 
 While these things went on without, the chiefs 
 who had been delegated from La Vendee, and those 
 of the Chouans, were consulting, glass in hand, 
 under the presidency of the Marquis of Montauran. 
 The discussion, which was enlivened by frequent 
 libations of Bordeaux, became of serious impor- 
 tance toward the end of the meal. At dessert, 
 when a common plan of operations had been ar- 
 ranged, the Royalists drank to the health of the 
 Bourbons ; and thus then Pille-Miche's shot gave, 
 as it were, an echo of the ruinous war which these 
 gay and noble conspirators wished to make on the 
 Republic. Madame du Gua started, and at the 
 motion, caused by her delight at thinking herself 
 relieved of her rival, the company looked at each 
 
184 TSE CHOUANS. 
 
 other in silence, while the marquis rose from table 
 and went out. 
 
 "After all, he was fond of her," said Madame du 
 Gua, sarcastically. " Go and keep him company, 
 Monsieur de Fontaine. He will bore us to extinc- 
 tion if we leave him to his blue devils." 
 
 She went to the window looking on the court- 
 yard to try to see the corpse of Marie, and from 
 this point she was able to descry, by the last rays of 
 the setting- moon, the coach ascending the avenue 
 with incredible speed, while the vail of Mile, de 
 Verneuil, blown out by the wind, floated from 
 within it. Seeing this, Madame du Gua left the 
 meeting in a rage. The marquis, leaning on the 
 entrance balustrade, and plunged in somber 
 thought, was gazing at about a hundred and fifty 
 Chouans, who, having concluded the partition of 
 the booty in the gardens, had come back to finish 
 the bread and the cask of cider promised to the 
 Blues. These soldiers (new style), on whom the 
 hopes of the Monarchy rested, were drinking in 
 knots, while on the bank which faced the entrance 
 seven or eig-ht of them amused themselves with 
 tying stones to the corpses of the Blues, and throw- 
 ing them into the water. This spectacle, added to 
 tho various pictures made up by the strange cos- 
 tume and savage physiognomies of the reckless and 
 barbarous Gars, was so singular and so novel to M. 
 de Fontaine, who had had before him in the Ven- 
 dean troops some approach to nobility and disci- 
 pline, that he seized the occasion to say to the Mar- 
 quis of Montauran : 
 
 "What do you hope to make of brutes like these?" 
 
 "Nothing much you think, my dear count?" an- 
 swered the Gars. 
 
 " Will they ever be able to maneuver in the face 
 of the Republicans?" 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "Will they be able even to comprehend and carry 
 out your orders?" 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "Then, what good will they do you?" 
 
 "The good of enabling me to stab the Republic to 
 
THE CSOTJANS. 185 
 
 the heart," answered the marquis, in a voice of 
 thunder. "The good of giving me Fougeres in 
 three days, and all Brittany in ten! Come, sir!" 
 he continued, in a milder tone; "go you to La 
 Vendee. Let D'Hutichamp, Suzannet, the Abbe 
 Bernier, make only as much haste as I do ; let them 
 not treat with the First Consul, as some would have 
 me fear, and," he squeezed the Vendean's hand 
 hard, "in twenty days we shall be within thirty 
 leagues of Paris!" 
 
 "But the Republic is sending against us sixty 
 thousand men and General Brune !" 
 
 "What, sixty thousand, really?" said the marquis, 
 with a mocking laugh. " And what will Bonaparte 
 make the Italian campaign with? As for General 
 Brune, he is not coming. Bonaparte has sent him 
 against the English in Holland, and General Hedou- 
 ville, the friend of our friend Barras, takes his place 
 here. Do you understand me?" 
 
 When he heard the marquis speak thus M. de 
 Fontaine looked at him with an arch and meaning 
 air, which seemed to reproach with not himself 
 understanding the hidden sense of the words ad- 
 dressed to him. The two gentlemen from this 
 moment understood each other perfectly, but the 
 
 ^oung chief answered the thoughts thus expressed 
 y looks with an indefinable smile. 
 
 "M. de Fontaine, do you know my arms? Our 
 motto is. Persevere unto death." 
 
 The count took Montauran's hand, and pressed it, 
 saying, "I was left for dead at the Four- Ways, so 
 you are not likely to doubt me. But believe my 
 experience; times are changed." 
 
 "They are, indeed," said La Billardiere, who 
 joined them ; " you are young, marquis. Listen to 
 me. Not all your estates have been sold " 
 
 " Ah ! can you conceive devotion without sacri- 
 fice?" said Montauran. 
 
 "Do you know the king well?" said La Billardiere. 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Then I admire you." 
 
 "King and priest are one!" answered the young 
 chief, "and I fight for the faith!" 
 
186 TBE GROVANa. 
 
 They parted, the Vendean convinced of the 
 necessity of letting events take theii' course, and 
 keeping his beliefs in his heart ; La Billardiere to 
 return to England, Montauran to fight desperately, 
 and to force the Vendeans, by the successes of 
 which he dreamed, to join his enterprises. 
 
 The course of events had agitated Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil's soul with so many enactions that she dropped 
 exhausted, and, as it were, dead, in the corner of 
 the carriage, after giving the order to drive to Fou- 
 geres. Francine imitated her mistress' silence and 
 the postilion, who was in dread of some new ad- 
 venture, made the best of his way to the high-road, 
 and soon reached the summit of the Pilgrim. Then 
 Marie de Verneuil crossed in the dense white fog of 
 early morning the beautiful and spacious valley of 
 the Couesnon, where our story began, and hardly 
 noticed from the top of the hill the schistous rock 
 whereon is built the town of Fougeres, from which 
 the travelers were still some two leagues distant. 
 Herself perished with cold, she thought of the poot 
 soldier wno was behind the carriage, and insisted, 
 despite his refusals, on his taking the place next 
 Francine. The sight of Fougeres drew her for a 
 moment from her reverie, and besides, since the 
 guard at the gate of Saint Leonard refused to allow 
 unknown persons to enter the town, she was 
 obliged to produce her letter from the Government. 
 She found herself safe from all hostile attempts 
 when she had entered the fortress, of which, at the 
 moment, its inhabitants formed the sole garrison, 
 but the postilion could find her no better resting- 
 place than the auberge da la Poste. 
 
 "Madam," said the Blue, whom she had rescued, 
 "if you ever want a saber cut administered to any 
 person, my life is yours. I am good at that. My 
 name is Jean Faucon, called Beau-Pied, sergeant in 
 the First company of Hulot's boys, the seventy- 
 second demi-brigade, surnamed the Mayencaise. 
 Excuse my presumption, but I can only offer you a 
 sergeant's life, since, for the moment, I have noth- 
 ing else to put at your service." He turned on his 
 heel and went his way, whistling. 
 
THE CHOUANS. 187 
 
 " The lower one goes in society," said Marie, bit- 
 terly, "the less of ostentation one finds, and the 
 more of generous sentiment ; a marquis returns me 
 death for life; a sergeant — but there, enough of 
 this!" 
 
 When the beautiful Parisian had bestowed her- 
 self in a well-warmed bed, her faithful Francine 
 expected, in vain, her usual affectionate good-night ; 
 but her mistress, seeing her uneasy, and still stand- 
 ing made her a sign, full of sadness : 
 
 " They call that a day, Francine!" she said. "I 
 am ten years older." 
 
 Next morning, as she was getting up, Oorentin 
 presented himself to call upon Marie, who permitted 
 him to enter, saying to Francine, " My misfortune 
 must be immense, for I can even put up with the 
 sight of Corentin." 
 
 Nevertheless, when she saw the man once more, 
 she felt for the thousandth time the instinctive re- 
 pugnance which two years' acquaintance had not 
 been able to check. 
 
 "Well," said he, with a smile; "I thought you 
 were going to succeed. Was it not he whom you 
 had got hold of?" 
 
 "Corentin," she said, slowly, with a pained ex- 
 
 Fression, "say nothing to me about this matter till 
 speak of it myself." 
 
 He walked up and down the room, casting side- 
 long looks at Mile, de Verneuil, and trying to divine 
 the secret thoughts of this singular girl, whose 
 glance was of force enough to disconcert, at tianes, 
 the cleverest men. 
 
 "I foresaw your defeat," he went on, after a min- 
 ute's silence. " If it pleases you to make your head- 
 quarters in this town, I have already acquainted 
 myself with matters. We are in the very heart of 
 Chouanism. Will you stay here?" 
 
 She acquiesced with a nod of the head, which 
 enabled Corentm to guess with partial truth the 
 events of the night before. 
 
 "I have hired you a house which has been con- 
 fiscated, but not sold. They are much behindhand 
 in this country, and nobody dared to buy the place, 
 
188 THE CUOUAKS. 
 
 because it belongs to an emigrant who passes for 
 being ill-tempered. It is near Saint Leonard's 
 Church, and, 'pon honor,* there is a lovely view 
 from it. Something may be done with the cabin, 
 which is convenient. Will you come there ?" 
 
 "Immediately," cried she. 
 
 "But I must have a few hours more to get things 
 clean and in order, so that you may find them to 
 your taste." 
 
 "What does it matter?" said she. "I could live, 
 without minding it, in a cloister or a prison. Never- 
 theless, pray manage so that I may be able to rest 
 there this evening in the most complete solitude. 
 There ! leave me. Your presence is intolerable. I 
 wish to be alone with Francine, with whom I can 
 perhaps get on better than with myself. Farewell ! 
 Go! do go!" 
 
 These words, rapidly spoken, and dashed by turns 
 with coquetry, tyranny, and passion, showed that 
 she had recovered complete tranquillity. Sleep 
 had, nodoubt, slowly expelled her impressions of 
 the day before, and reflection determined her on 
 vengeance. If, now and then, some somber thoughts 
 pictured themselves on her face, they only showed 
 the faculty which some women have of burying the 
 most passionate sentiments in their souls, and the 
 dissimulation which allows them to smile graciously 
 while they calculate a victim's doom. She remained 
 alone, studying how she could get the marquis alive 
 into her hands. For the first time she had passed a 
 portion of her life as she could have wished ; but 
 nothing remained with her of this episode but one 
 feeling— that of thirst for vengeance, vengeance 
 vast and complete. This was her sole thought, her 
 single passion. Francine's words and attentions 
 found her dumb. She seemed to be asleep with her 
 eyes open, and the whole long day passed without 
 her making sign, by a single gesture or action, of 
 that outward life which reveals our thoughts. She 
 remained stretched on an ottoman which she had 
 
 • Corentin says mo paole d'honnea, using the lisp which was one of 
 the numerous affectations of the Incroycibles. — Tran$laior's jfoU. 
 
TEE CHOUANS. 189 
 
 constructed out of chairs and pillows. Only at 
 
 night-time did she let fall carelessly the following 
 words, looking at Francine as she spoke : 
 
 " Child, I learned yesterday that one may live for 
 nothing out love, and to-day I learn that one may 
 die for nothing but vengeance. Yes ! to find him 
 wherever he may be, to meet him once more, to 
 seduce him and make him mine, I would give my 
 life. But if in the course of a few days I do not 
 find, stretched at my feet in abject humility, this 
 man who has scorned me — if I do not make him my 
 slave — I shall be less than nothing — I shall be no 
 more a woman — I shall be no more myself!" 
 
 The house which Corentin had suggested to Mile. 
 de Verneuil gave him opportunity enough to con- 
 sult the girl's inborn taste for luxury and elegance. 
 He got together everything which he knew ought 
 to please her, with the eagerness of a lover toward 
 his mistress, or, better still, with the obsequiousness 
 of s nan of importance who is anxious to ingratiate 
 himself with some inferior of whom he has need. 
 Next day he came to invite Mile, de Verneuil to 
 take up her quarters in these improvised lodgings. 
 
 Although she did little or nothing but change her 
 T ncomfortable ottoman for a sofa of antique pattern 
 which Corentin had managed to discover for her, 
 the fanciful Parisian took possession of the house as 
 though it had been her own property. She showed 
 at once a royal indifference for everything, and a 
 sudden caprice for quite insignificant objects of fur- 
 niture, which she at once appropriated as if they 
 had been old favorites _; traits common enough, but 
 still not to be rejected in painting exceptional char- 
 acters. She seemed as though she had already been 
 familiar with this abode in dreams, and she sub- 
 sisted on hatred there as she might have subsisted 
 in the same place on love. 
 
 "At any rate," said she to herself, "I have not ex- 
 cited in him a feeling of the pity which is insulting 
 and mortal. I do not owe him my life. Oh ! first, 
 sole, and last love of mine, what an ending is 
 yours!" Then she made a spring on the startled 
 
190 TSB CS0UAN8. 
 
 Francine. "Are you in love? Yes! yes! I remem- 
 ber that you are. Ah ! it is lucky for me that I have 
 beside me a woman who can enter into my feelings. 
 Well, my poor Francine, does not man seem to you 
 a horrible creature? Eh? He said he loved me, 
 and he could not stand the feeblest tests. Why, if 
 the whole world had repulsed him, my heart should 
 have been his refuge ; if the universe had accused 
 him I would have taken his part. Once upon a 
 time I saw the world before me full of beings who 
 went and came, all of them indifferent to me ; it 
 was melancholy, but not odious. Now, what is the 
 world without him ? Shall he live without me to_ be 
 near him, to see him, to speak to him, to feel him, 
 to hold him— to hold him fast? Rather will I 
 butcher him myself as he sleeps !" 
 
 Francine gazed at her in horror and silence for a 
 minute. "Kill the man whom one loves?" she said, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 "Yes, when he loves no longer!" 
 
 But after this terrible speech she hid her face in 
 her hands, sat down, and was silent. 
 
 On the next day a man presented himself abruptly 
 before her without being announced. His counte- 
 nance was stern. It was Hulot, and Corentin ac- 
 companied him. She raised her eyes, and shud- 
 dered. 
 
 "Have you come," she said, "to demand account 
 of your friends? They are dead I" 
 
 "1 know it," answered Hulot, "but it was not in 
 the Republic's service." 
 
 "It was for my sake, and by my fault," she re- 
 plied. "You are about to speak to me of the 
 country. Does the country restore life to those who 
 die for her? Does she' ever avenge them? I shall 
 avenge these!" she cried. 
 
 The mournful image of the catastrophe of which 
 she had been the victim had suddenly risen before 
 her, and the gracious creature in whose eyes modesty 
 was the first artifice of woman strode like a maniac 
 with convulsive step toward the astonished com- 
 mandant. 
 
 "In return for these massacred soldiers I will 
 
THE CEOUAKS. 191 
 
 bring to the ax of your scaffolds a head worth thou- 
 sands of heads!" she said. "Women are not often 
 warriors, but old as you are you may learn some 
 tricks of war in my school. I will hand over to 
 your bayonets his ancestors and himself, his future 
 and his past. As I was kind and true to him, so 
 now I will be treacherous and false. Yes, com- 
 niandant, I will lure this young noble into my em- 
 braces, and he shall quit them only to take his death 
 journey. I will take care never to have a rival. 
 The wretch has pronounced his own sentence, 'a 
 day without a morrow !' We shall both be avenged 
 — your Republic and I. Your Republic!" she con- 
 tinued, in a voice whose strang-e variations of tone 
 alarmed Hulot. " But shall the rebel die for having 
 borne arms against his country? Shall France 
 steal my vengeance from me ? Nay ; how small a 
 thing is life ! One death atones for only one crime. 
 Yet, if he has but one life to give I shall have some 
 hours in which to show him that he loses more than 
 one life. Above all, commandant, for you will have 
 the killing of him," and she heaved a sigh, "take 
 care that nothing betrays my treason, that he dies 
 sure of my fidelity ; that is all I ask of you. Let 
 him see nothing but me — me and my endearments !" 
 
 She held her peace, but, flushed as was her face, 
 Hulot and Corentin could see that wrath and fury 
 had not entirely extinguished modesty. Marie 
 shuddered violently as she spoke the last words ; 
 they seemed to eclio in her ears as if she could not 
 believe that she had uttered them, and she gave a 
 naive start, with the involuntary gesture of a 
 woman whose vail drops. 
 
 "But you had him in your hands!" said Corentin. 
 
 "It is very likely," said she, bitterly. 
 
 "Why did you stop me when I had got him?" 
 asked Hulot. 
 
 "Eh, commandant? We did not know that it 
 would prove to be he. " 
 
 Suddenly the excited woman, who was pacing 
 the room hastily, and flinging flaming glances at 
 the spectators of the storm, became calm. 
 
 "I had forgotten myself," she said, in a masculine 
 
192 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 tone. " What is the good of talking? We must go 
 and find him." 
 
 "Go and find him!" said Hulot. "Take care, my 
 dear child, to do nothing of the kind. We are not 
 masters of the country districts, and if you venture 
 out of the town you will be killed or taken before 
 you have gone a hundred yards. " 
 
 "Those who are eager for vengeance take no 
 count of danger," she said, disdainfully dismissing 
 
 from her presence the two men, whose sight struck 
 her with shame. 
 
 "What a notion it was of those police fellows in 
 Paris ! But she will never give him up to us," he 
 added, shaking his head. 
 
 " Oh, yes, she will," replied Corentin. 
 
 "Don't you see that she loves him?" reioined 
 Hulot. 
 
 " That is exactly the reason. Besides," said 
 
TMM CHOUAm. 183 
 
 Corentin, fixing his eyes on the astonished com- 
 mandant, "I am here to i)revent her making a fool 
 of herself; for in my opinion, comrade, there is no 
 such thing as love worth three hundred thousand 
 francs." 
 
 "When this diplomatist, who did not lie abroad, 
 left the soldier, Hulot gazed after him, and as soon 
 as he heard the noise of his step no longer, he 
 sighed and said to himself : 
 
 " Then it is sometimes a lucky thing to be only a 
 fool like me? — God's thunder! If I meet the Gars, 
 we will fight it out hand to hand, or my name is not 
 Hulot, for if that fox there brought him before me 
 as judge, now that they have set up courts-martial, 
 I should think my conscience in as sorry a case as 
 the shirt of a recruit who is going through his bap- 
 tism of fire." 
 
 The massa,cre at the Vivetiere, and his own eager- 
 ness to avenge his two friends, had been as influen- 
 tial in making Hulot resume command of his demi- 
 brigade as the answer in which a new minister, 
 Berthier, had assured hm that his resignation 
 could not be accepted imder the circumstances. 
 With the ministerial dispatch the^ "^ had come a con- 
 fidential note, in which, without 'nforming him 
 fully of Mile, de Verneuil's mission, the minister 
 wrote that the incident, which lay quite outside 
 warlike operations, need have no obstructive effect 
 on them. "The share of the military leaders in 
 this matter should be limited," said he, "to giving 
 the honorable citizeness such assistance as oppor- 
 tunity afforded. " Therefore, as it was reported to 
 him that the Chouan movements indicated a con- 
 centration of their forces on Fougeres, Hulot had 
 secretly brought up, by forced marches, two bat- 
 talions of his demi-brigade to this important plac^. 
 The danger his country ran, his hatred of aris- 
 tocracy, whose partisans were threatening a great 
 extent of ground, and his private friendship, had 
 combined to restore to the old soldier the fire of his 
 youth. 
 
 "And this is the life I longed to lead I" said Mile, 
 de Verneuil, when she found herself alone with 
 
194 
 
 THB CSOTTANa. 
 
 Francine. "Be the hours as swift as they may, 
 they are to me as centuries in thought." 
 
 Suddenly she caught Francine's hand, and in a 
 tone like that of the robin which first gives tongue 
 after a storm, slowly uttered these words, " I can- 
 not help it, child; I see always before me those 
 charming lips, that short and gently upturned chin, 
 those eyes full of fire. I hear the 'hie-up' of the 
 postilion. In short, I dream; and why, when I 
 wake is my hatred so strong?" 
 
 5r.rtu»w 
 
 She drew a long sigh, rose, and then for the first 
 time bent her eyes on the country which was being 
 delivered over to civil war by the cruel nobleman 
 whom, without allies, she designed to attack En- 
 ticed by the landscape, she went forth to breathe 
 the open air more freely, and if her road was chosen 
 by chance, it must certainly have been by that 
 black magic of our souls which makes us ground 
 our hopes on the absurd that she was led to the 
 
TEE CB0UAN8. 19-5 
 
 public walks of the town. The thoughts conceived 
 under the influence of this charm not seldom come 
 true; but the foresight is then set down to the 
 power which men call presentiment — a power un- 
 explained but real, which the passions find always 
 at their service, like a flatterer who, amid his false- 
 hoods, sometimes speaks the truth. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A DAT WITHOUT A MOEEOW. 
 
 As the concluding events of this story had much 
 to do with the disposition of the places in which 
 they occurred, it is indispensable to describe these 
 places minutely, for otherwise the catastrophe 
 would be hard to comprehend. 
 
 The town of Fougeres is partly seated on a schis- 
 tous rock, which might be thought to have fallen 
 forward from the hills inclosing the great valley of 
 the Couesnon to the west, and called by different 
 names in different places. In this direction the 
 town is separated from these hills by a gorge, at 
 the bottom of which runs a small stream called the 
 Nancon ; the eastward side of the rock looks toward 
 the same landscape which is enjoyed from the sum- 
 mit of the Pilgrim ; and the western commands no 
 view but the winding valley of the Nancon. But 
 there is a spot whence it is possible to take in a 
 pegment of the circle made by the great valley, as 
 well as the agreeable windings of the small one 
 which debouches into it. This spot, which was 
 chosen by the inhabitants for a promenade, and to 
 vi^hich Mile, de Verneuil was making her way, was 
 the precise stage on wKich the drama begun at the 
 Vivetiere was to work itself out, and so, picturesque 
 as the other quarters of Fougeres may be, attention 
 must be exclusively devoted to the details of the 
 scene which discovers itself from the upper part of 
 the promenade. 
 
 In order to give an idea of the appearance which 
 the rock of Fougeres has when viewed from this 
 
196 TBE CROrTANS. . 
 
 side, we may compare it to one of those huge towers 
 round which Saracen architects have wound, tier 
 above tier, wide balconies connected with others by 
 spii.'al staircases. The rock culminates in a Gothic 
 church, whose steeple, smaller spirelets, and but- 
 tresses, almost exactly complete the sugar-loaf 
 shape. Before the gate of this church, which is 
 dedicated to Saint Leonard, there is a small, irreg- 
 ularly shaped square, the earth of which is held up 
 by a wall thrown into the form of a balustrade, and 
 communicating by a flight of steps with the public 
 walks. This esplanade runs round the rock like a 
 second cornice, some fathoms below the Square of 
 Saint Leonard, and affords a wide, tree-planted 
 space, which abuts on the fortifications of the town. 
 Next, some score of yards below the walls and 
 rocks which support this terrace itself, due partly 
 to the chance lie of the schist, and partly to patient 
 industry, there is a winding road called the Queen's 
 Staircase, wrought in the rock, and leading to a 
 bridge built over the Nancon by Anne of Brittany. 
 Last of all, under this road, which holds the place 
 of a third cornice, there are gardens descending in 
 terraces to the river-bank, and resembling the tiers 
 of a stage loaded with flowers. 
 
 Parallel to the promenade certain lofty rocks, 
 which take the name of the suburb whence they 
 rise, and are called the hills of Saint Sulpice, 
 stretch along the river, and sink in a gentle slope 
 toward the great valley, wherein they curve sharply 
 toward the north. These rocks, steep, barren, and 
 bare, seem almost to touch the schists of the prom- 
 enade ; in some places they come within gunshot 
 of them, and they protect from the northerly winds 
 a narrow valley some hundred fathoms deep, where 
 the Nancon, split into three arms, waters a meadow 
 studded with buildings and pleasantly wooded. 
 
 Toward the south, at the spot where the town, 
 properly so called, ends and the Faubourg Saint 
 Leonard begins, the rock of Fougeres makes a 
 bend, ^rows less scarped, diminishes in height, and 
 winds mto the great valley, following the course of 
 the river, which it thus pushes close to the hills of 
 
THE CH0UAN8. 197 
 
 Saint Sulpice, and making^ a narrow pass, whence 
 the water escapes in two channels and empties 
 itself into the Couesnon. This picturesque group 
 of rocky heights is called the Nid-aux-Crocs ; the 
 glen which it forms is named the Valley of Gibarry, 
 and its fat meadows supply a great part of the 
 butter known to epicures under the name of Pre- 
 valaye butter. 
 
 At the spot where the promenade abuts on the 
 fortifications there rises a tower called the Pape- 
 gaut's Tower, and on the other side of this square 
 building, on the summit of which is the house where 
 Mile, de Verneuil was lodged, there rises some- 
 times a stretch of wall, sometimes the rock itself, 
 when it happens to present a sheer face ; and the 
 part of the town which is seated on this impreg- 
 nable and lofty pedestal makes, as it were, a huge 
 half -moon, at the end of which the rocks bend and 
 sweep away, to give passage to the Nancon. There 
 lies the gate of Saint Sulpice, leading to the fau- 
 bourg of the same name. Then, on a granite torus 
 commanding three valleys where many roads meet, 
 rise the ancient crenelated towers of the feudal 
 castle of Fougeres, one of the hugest of the build- 
 ings erected by the dukes of Brittany, with walls 
 fifteen fathoms high and fifteen feet thick. To the 
 east it is defended by a pond, whence issues the 
 Nancon to fill the moats and turn the mills between 
 the draw-bridge of the fortress and the Porte Saint 
 Sulpice ; to the west it is protected by the scarped 
 masses of granite on which it rests. 
 
 Thus from the walks to this splendid relic of the 
 Middle Ages, swathed in its cloak of ivy and decked 
 out with towers square or round, in each of which 
 a whole regiment could be lodged, the castle, the 
 town, and the rock on which it is built, all protected 
 by straight curtains of wall or scarps of rock 
 dressed sheer, make a huge horseshoe of precipices, 
 on the face of which, time aiding them, the Bretons 
 have wrought some narrow paths. Here and there 
 bowlders project like ornaments ; elsewhere water 
 drips from cracks out of which issue stunted trees. 
 Farther off slabs of granite, at a less sharp angle 
 
198 THE CE0UAN8. 
 
 than 'the others, support grass which attracts the 
 goats. And eveiywhere the briers, springing from 
 moist crevices, festoon the black and rugged sur- 
 face with rosy garlands. At the end of what 
 looks like a huge funnel the little stream winds in 
 its meadow of perpetual greenery, softly disposed 
 like a carpet. 
 
 At the foot of the castle, and amid some knolls of 
 granite rises the church dedicated to Saint Sulpice, 
 which gives its name to the suburb on the other 
 side of the Nancon. This suburb, lying, as it were, 
 at the foot of an abyss, with its pointed steeple far 
 less in height than the rocks,* which seem about to 
 fall on the church itself, and its surrounding ham- 
 let, are picturesquely watered by some aflfluents of 
 the Nancon, shaded by trees and adorned with 
 gardens. These cut irregularly into the half -moon 
 made by the walks, the town, and the castle, and 
 produce by their details a graceful contrast to the 
 solemn air of the amphitheater which they front. 
 Finally, the whole of Fougeres, with its suburbs 
 and churches, with the hills of Saint Sulpice them- 
 selves, is framed in by the heights of Rille, which 
 form part of the general fringe of the great valley 
 of the Couesuon. 
 
 Such are the most prominent features of this nat- 
 ural panorama, whose main character is that of 
 savage wildness, softened here and there by smil- 
 ing passages, by a happy mixture of the most im- 
 posing works of man with the freaks of a soil tor- 
 mented by unlooked-for contrasts, and distinguished 
 by an unexpectedness which produces surpise," as- 
 tonishment, and almost confusion. In no part of 
 France does the traveler see such contrasts, on such 
 a scale of grandeur, as those which are offered by 
 the great basin of the Couesnon and the valleys 
 which lurk between the rocks of Fougeres and the 
 heights of Rille. These are of the rare kind of 
 beauties, where chance is triumphant, and which 
 yet lack none of the harmonies of nature. Here are 
 
 * The Frencli illustrated text has cloches, a misprint, and nonsense. 
 The older editions read, properly, roches.—Translatoiy's Note. 
 
THE CIIOUANS. 199 
 
 clear, limpid, running waters; mountains clothed 
 with the luxuriant vegetation of the district ; dark 
 rocks and gay buildings ; strongholds thrown up by 
 nature, and granite towers built by man ; all the 
 tricks of light and shade, all the contrasts between 
 different kinds of foliage, in which artists so much 
 delight ; groups of houses, where an active popula- 
 tion swarms ; and desert spaces, where the granite 
 will not even tolerate the blanched mosses which 
 are wont to eling to stone — in short, all the sugges- 
 tions which can be asked of a landscape, grace and 
 terror, poetry full of ever new magic, sublime 
 spectacles, charming pastorals. Brittany is there 
 in full flower. 
 
 The tower called the Papegaut's Tower, on which 
 the house occupied by Mile, de Verneuil stands, 
 springs from the very bottom of the precipice a,nd 
 rises to the staircase which runs cornice-wise in 
 front of Saint Leonard's Church. From this house, 
 which is isolated on three sides, the eye takes in at 
 once the great horseshoe, which starts from the 
 tower itself, the winding glen of TSTancon, and Saint 
 Leonard's Square. It forms part of a range of 
 buildings, three centuries old, built of wood, and 
 lying parallel to the north side of the church, with 
 which they make a blind alley, opening on a slop- 
 ing street which skirts the church and leads to the 
 gate of Saint Leonard, toward which Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil was now descending. 
 
 Marie naturally did not think of going into the 
 square in front of the church, below which she 
 found herself, but bent her steps toward the walks. 
 She had no sooner passed the little green gate in 
 front of the guard, which was then established in 
 Saint Leonard's gate tower, than her emotions 
 were at once subdued to silence by the splendor of 
 the view. She first admired the great section of 
 the Couesnon Valley, which her eyes took in from 
 the top of the Pilgrim to the plateau over which 
 passes the Vitre road. Then she rested them on the 
 ISTid-aux-Crocs and the windings of the Gibarry Glen, 
 the crests of which were bathed by the misty light 
 of the setting sun. She was almost startled at the 
 
200 THE moVANS. 
 
 depth of the Nancon Valley, whose tallest poplars 
 scarcely reached the garden walks underneath the 
 Queen's Staircase. One surprise after another 
 opened before her as she went, until she reached a 
 point whence she could perceive both the great 
 valley across the Gibarry Glen and the charming 
 landscape framed by the horseshoe of the town, by 
 the rocks of Saint Sulpice, and by the heights of 
 Rille. At this hour of the day the smoke from the 
 houses in the suburb and the valleys made a kind 
 of cloud in the air, which only allowed objects to 
 be visible as if through a bluish canopy. The gar- 
 ish tints of day began to fade; the firmament be- 
 came pearl-grai in color; the moon threw her 
 mantle of light )ver the beautiful abyss, and the 
 whole scene had a tendency to plunge the soul into 
 reverie, and help it to call up beloved images. Of 
 a sudden she lost all interest in the shingled roofs 
 of the Faubourg Saint Sulpice, in the church, 
 whose aspiring steeple is lost in the depths of the 
 valley, in the hoary draperies of ivy and clematis 
 that clothe the walls of the old fortress, across 
 which the Nancon boils under the mill-wheels, in 
 the whole landscape. The setting sun in vain flung 
 gold dust and sheets of crimson on the pretty houses 
 scattered about the rocks, by the waters, and in the 
 meadows, for she remained gazing motionless at 
 the cliffs of Saint Sulpice. The wild hope which 
 had led her to the walks had miraculously come 
 true. Across the ajoncs and the broom that grew 
 on the opposite heights she thought she could dis- 
 tinguish, despite their goatskin garments, several 
 of the guests at the Vivetiere. The Gars, whose 
 least movements stood out against the soft light of 
 sunset, was particularly conspicuous. A few paces 
 behind the principal group she saw her formidable 
 foe, Madame du Gua. For an instant Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil thought she must be dreaming, but her 
 rival's hate soon gave her proof that the dream was 
 alive. Her rant attention to the marquis' slightest 
 
 festure prevented her from observing that Madame 
 u Gua was carefully taking aim at her with a long 
 fpwling-piece. Soon a gunshot woke the echoes o£ 
 
TBS CHOUANS. 201 
 
 the mountain, and the bullet whistling close to 
 Marie showed her her rival's skill. 
 
 "She leaves her card upon me!" said she to her- 
 self, with a smile. 
 
 At the same moment numerous cries of, " Who 
 goes there?" resounded from sentinel to sentinel, 
 from the castle to the gate of Saint Leonard, and 
 warned the Chouans of the watchfulness of the men 
 of Fougeres, inasmuch as the least vulnerable part 
 of their ramparts was so well guarded. 
 
 " 'Tis she; and 'tis he!" thought Marie. To go 
 and seek the marquis, to follow him, to surprise 
 him, were thoughts which came to her like flashes 
 of lightning. "But I am unarmed!" she cried, 
 and she remembered that at the time of leaving 
 Paris she had put in one of her boxes an elegant 
 dagger, which had once been worn by a sultana, 
 and with which she chose to provide herself on her 
 waj^ to the seat of war, like those pleasant folk who 
 equip themselves with note-books to receive their 
 impression of travel. But she had then been less 
 induced by the prospect of having blood to shed 
 than by the pleasure of wearing a pretty gemmed 
 kandjar, and of playing with its blade, as clear as 
 the glance of an eye. Three days earlier, when she 
 had longed to kill herself in order to escape the 
 horrible punishment which her rival designed for 
 her, she had bitterly regretted having left this 
 weapon in her box. She quickly went home, found 
 the dagger, stuck it in her belt, drew a large shawl 
 close round her shoulders and waist, wrapped her 
 hair in a black lace mantilla, covered her head with 
 a flapping Chouan hat belonging _ to one of the ser- 
 vants,'and with the presence of mind which passion 
 sometinaes lends, took the marquis' glove which 
 Marche-a-Terre had given her for a passport. Then, 
 replying to Francine's alarms, "What would you 
 have? I would go to seek him in hell !" she returned 
 to the promenade. 
 
 The Gars was still on the same spot, but alone. 
 Judging from the direction of his telescope, he 
 appeared to be examining with a soldier's careful 
 scrutiny the different crossings over the Fancon, 
 
202 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 the Queen's Staircase, and the road which, starting 
 from the gate of Saint Sulpice, winds past the 
 church and joins the highway under the castle 
 guns. Mile, de Verneuil slipped into the by-paths 
 traced by the goats and their herds on the slopes of 
 the promenade, reached the Queen's Staircase, ar- 
 rived at the bottom of the cliflf, crossed the Nancon, 
 and traversed the suburb. Then guessing, like a 
 bird in the desert, her way across the dangerous 
 scarps of the Saint Sulpice crags, she soon gained 
 a slippery path traced over granite blocks, and in- 
 spite of the broom, the prickly ajoncs, and the 
 screes with which it bristled, she set herself to 
 climb it with a degree of energy which it may be 
 man never knows, but which woman, when hurried 
 on by passion, may for a time possess. Night over- 
 took her at the moment when, having reached the 
 summit, she was looking about, by help of the pale 
 moon's rays, for the road which the marquis must 
 have taken. Persevering but fruitless explorations, 
 and the silence which prevailed in the country, 
 showed her that the Chouans and their chief had 
 withdrawn. The exertion which passion had en- 
 abled her to make flagged with the hope which had 
 inspired it. Finding herself alone, benighted, and 
 in the midst of a country unknown to her and beset 
 by war, she began to reflect, and Hulot's warning 
 and Madame du Gua's shot made her shudder with 
 fear. The stillness of night, so deep on the hills, 
 allowed her to hear the smallest falling leaf even a 
 great way off, and such slight noises kept vibra- 
 ting in the air as though to enable her to take sad 
 measure of the solitude and the silence. In the 
 upper sky the wind blew fresh, and drove the 
 clouds violently before it, producing waves of 
 shadow and light, the effects of which increased 
 her terror by giving a fantastic and hideous appear- 
 ance to the most harmless objects. She turned her 
 eyes to the houses of Fougeres, whose homely lights 
 burned like so many earthly stars, and suddenly 
 Bhe had a distinct view of the Papegaut's Tower. 
 The distance which she must travel in order to re- 
 turn to it was nothing, but the road was a precipice. 
 
TEE CHOUANS. 203 
 
 She had a good enough memory of the depths bor- 
 dering the narrow path by which she had come to 
 know that she was in more danger if she retraced 
 her steps to Fougeres than if she pursued her ad- 
 venture. The thought occurred to her that the 
 marquis' glove would free her night walk from all 
 danger if the Chouans held the country ; her only 
 formidable foe was Madame du Gua. As she 
 thought of her Marie clutched her dagger, and 
 tried to make her way toward a house whose roof 
 she had seen by glimpses as she reached the crags 
 of Saint Sulpice. But she made slow progress, for 
 the majestic gloom which weighs on a being who is 
 alone in the night in the midst of a wild district, 
 where lofty mountain-tops bow their heads on all 
 sides, like a meeting of giants, was new to her. 
 
 The rustle of her dress caught by the ajoncs made 
 her start more than once, and more than once she 
 hurried, slackening her pace again as she thought 
 that her last hour was come. But before long the 
 surroundings took a character to which the boldest 
 men might have succumbed, and threw Mile, de 
 Verneuil into one of those panics which bear 
 so hardly on the springs of life, that everything, 
 strength or weakness, takes a touch of exaggera- 
 tion in different individuals. At such times the 
 feeblest show an extraordinary strength, and the 
 strongest go mad with terror. Marie heard, at 
 a short distance, curious noises, at once distinct 
 and confused, just as the night was at once dark 
 and clear. They seemed to show alarm and tumult, 
 the ear straining itself in vain to comprehend. 
 They rose from the bosom of the earth, which 
 seemed shaken under the feet of a "vast multitude 
 of men marching. An interval of light allowed 
 Mile, de Verneuil to see, a few paces from her, a 
 long file of ghastly figures, swaying like ears in a 
 corn-field, and slipping along like ghosts, but she 
 could only just see them, for the darkness fell again 
 like a black curtain, and hid from her a terrible 
 
 Eicture full of yellow, flashing eyes. She started 
 riskly backward, and ran to the top of a slope, so 
 
204 THE CS0UAN8. 
 
 as to escape three of the terrible shapes who were 
 coming toward her. 
 
 "Did you see him?" asked one. 
 
 "I felt a cold blast as he passed near me," an- 
 swered a hoarse voice. 
 
 "For me, I breathed the damp air and smell of a 
 grave-yard," said the third. 
 
 " Was he white ?" went on the first. 
 
 "Why," said the second, "did he alone of all those 
 who fell at the Pilgrim come back ?" 
 
 ""Why," said the third, "why are those who be- 
 long to the Sacred Heart made favorites? For my 
 part. I would rather die without confession than 
 wander as he does, without eating or drinking, 
 without blood in his veins or flesh on his bones." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 This exclamation, or rather cry of horror, burst 
 from the group as one of the three Chouans pointed 
 out the slender form and pale face of Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil.. who fled with terrifying speed, and without 
 their hearing the least noiise. 
 
 "He is there 1" "He is here!" "Where is he?" 
 "There!" "Here!" "He is gone!" "No!" "Yes!" 
 "Do you see him?" The words echoed like the dull 
 plash of waves on the shore. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil stepped boldly out in the direc- 
 tion of the house, and saw the indistinct forms of 
 a multitude of persons who fled, as she approached, 
 with signs of panic terror. It was as though she 
 was carried along by an unknown power, whose in- 
 fluence was too much for her; and the lightness of 
 her body, which seemed inexplicable, became a 
 new subject of alarm to herself. These foims, 
 which rose in masses as she came near, and as if 
 they came from beneath the ground where they 
 appeared to be stretched, uttered groans which 
 were not in the least human. At last she gained, 
 with some difficulty, a ruined garden whose hedges 
 and gates were broken through. She was stopped 
 by a sentinel, but she showed him her glove, and, as 
 the moonlight shone on her face, the rifle dropped 
 from the Chouan's hands as he leveled it at Marie, 
 and he uttered the same hoarse cry which was 
 
THE CHOUANS. 203 
 
 echoing all over the country. She could see a large 
 range of buildings where some lights indicated in- 
 habited rooms, and she reached the walls without 
 finding any obstacle. Through the very first win- 
 dow to which she bent her steps, she saw Madame 
 du Gua with the chiefs who had been assembled at 
 the Vivetiere. Losing her self-command, partly 
 at the sight, partly through her sense of danger, 
 she flung herself sharply back on a small opening 
 guarded by thick iron bars, and distinguished, in a 
 long vaulted apartment, the marquis, alone, mel- 
 ancholy, and close to her. The reflections of the 
 fire, before which he was sitting in a clumsy chair, 
 threw on his face ruddy fiickers which gave the 
 whole scene the character of a vision. Trembling, 
 but otherwise motionless, the poor girl clung close 
 to the bars, and in the deep silence which prevailed 
 she hoped to hear him if he spoke. As she saw 
 him dejected, discouraged, pale, she flattered her- 
 self that she was one of the causes of his sadness. 
 And then her wrath changed to pity, her pity to 
 affection, and she felt all of a sudden that what had 
 brought her there was not merely vengeance. The 
 marquis turned his head and stood aghast as he 
 saw, as if in a cloud, the face of Mile, de Verneuil ; 
 he let slip a gesture of scorn and impatience as he 
 cried, " Must I then see this she-devil always, even 
 when I am awake?" 
 
 The profound disdain which he had conceived for 
 her drew from the poor girl a frenzied laugh, which 
 made the young chief start ; he darted to the case- 
 ment, and Mile, de Verneuil fled. She heard close 
 behind her the steps of a man whom she thought 
 to be Montauran, and in order to escape him noth- 
 ing seemed to her an obstacle. She could have 
 scaled walls and flown in the air, she could have 
 taken the road to hell itself, in order to avoid read- 
 ing once more in letters of fire the words, "He de- 
 spises you!" which were written on the man's fore- 
 head, and which her inner voice shouted to her, as 
 she went, with trumpet sound. After going she 
 knew not whither, she stopped, feeling a damp air 
 penetrate her being, Frightened at the steps of 
 
206 THE CUOUANS. 
 
 more persons than one, and urged by fear, she ran 
 down a staircase which led her to the bottom of a 
 cellar. When she had reached the lowest step she 
 hearkened, trying to distinguish the direction 
 which her pursuers were taking, but though there 
 was noise enough outside she could hear the doleful 
 groanings of a human voice, which added to her 
 terror. A flash of light which came from the top 
 of the stair made her fear that her persecutors had 
 discovered her retreat, and her desire to escape 
 them gave her new strength. She could not easily 
 explain to herself, when shortly afterward she col- 
 lected her thoughts, in what way she had been able 
 to climb upon the dwarf wall where she had hidden 
 herself. She did not even at first perceive the 
 cramped position which the attitude of her body in- 
 flicted on her. But the cramp became unbearable 
 before long, for she looked, under a vaulted arch, 
 like a statue of the crouching Venus stuck by an 
 amateur in too narrow a niche. The wall, which 
 was pretty wide and built of granite, formed a par- 
 tition between the stair-way itself and a cellar from 
 whence the groans came. Soon she saw a man 
 whom she did not know, covered with goatskins, 
 descending beneath her, and turning under the 
 vaulting without eriving any sign of hasty search. 
 Impatient to know whether any chance of safety 
 would present itself. Mile, de Verneuil anxiously 
 waited for the light which the stranger carried to 
 lighten the cellar, on whose floor she perceived a 
 shapeless but living heap, which was making en- 
 deavors to reach a certain part of the wall by a 
 violent succession of movements, resembling the 
 irregular writhings of a carp stranded on the bank, 
 A small torch of resin soon diffused its bluish and 
 uncertain light in the cellar. Despite the romantic 
 gloom which Mile, de Verneuil's imagination shed 
 upon the vaults as they re-echoed the Founds of 
 dolorous supplication, she could not help perceiving 
 the plain fact that she was in an underground kit- 
 chen, long disused. When the light was thrown 
 upon the shapeless heap it became a short and very 
 fat man, whose limbs had all been carefully tied 
 
THE CH0UAN8. 207 
 
 bat who seemed to have been left on the damp flags 
 without further attention by those who had seized 
 him. At sight of the stranger, who held the torch 
 in one hand and a fagot in the other, the prisoner 
 muttered a deep groan, which had so powerful an 
 effect on Mile, de Verneuil's feelings that she for- 
 got her own terror, her despair, and the hori'ible 
 cramped position of her limbs, which were stiffening 
 from being doubled up. She did all she could to re- 
 main motionless. The Chouan threw his fagot into 
 the fire-place after trying the strength of an old 
 pot-hook and chain which hung down a tall iron 
 fire-back, and lighted the wood with his torch. It 
 was not without terror that Mile, de Verneuil then 
 recognized the cunning Pille-Miche, to whom her 
 rival had delivered her up, and whose face, with 
 the fiame flickering on it, resembled the grotesque 
 manikins that the Germans carve in boxwood. The 
 wail which had escaped the captive brought a huge 
 smile on his countenance, which was furrowed with 
 wrinkles and tanned by the sun. 
 
 "You see," he said to the victim, "that Christians 
 like us do not break their word as you do. The fire 
 here will take the stiffness out of your legs, and 
 your hands, and your tongue. But there ! there ! I 
 can't see a dripping-pan to put under your feet; 
 they are so plump, they might put the fire out. 
 Your house must be very ill-furnished that a man 
 cannot find wherewithal to serve its master prop^ 
 erly when he warms himself." 
 
 The sufferer uttered a sharp yell, as if he hoped 
 to make himself heard outside the vaults, and bring 
 a deliverer. 
 
 "Oh! you can sing to your heart's content. Mon- 
 sieur d'Orgemont ! They have all gone to bed up 
 stairs, and Marche-a-Terre is coming after me. He 
 will shut the cellar door." 
 
 As he spoke Pille-Miche sounded with his rifle- 
 butt the chimney-piece, the flags that paved the 
 kitchen floor, the walls, and the stoves, to try and 
 find the hiding-place where the miser had put his 
 gold. The search was conducted with such skill 
 that D'Orgemont held his breath, as if he feared to 
 
208 THE CU0UAN8. 
 
 have been betrayed by some frightened servant ; 
 for, though he had not made a confidant of any one, 
 his ways of life might have given occasion to 
 shrewd inferences. From time to time Pilie-Miche 
 turned sharply round to look at his victim, as if he 
 were playing the children's game where they try 
 to guess, by the unguarded expression of some one 
 who has hidden a given object, whether they ai-e 
 "warm" or "cold." D'Orgemont pretended a cer- 
 tain terror as he saw the Chouan striking the 
 stoves, which returned a hollow sound, and seemed 
 to wish thus to amuse Pille-Miche's credulous greed 
 for a time. At that moment three other Chouan s, 
 plunging into the staircase, made their appearance 
 suddenly in the kitchen. 
 
 "Marie Lambrequin has come alive again!" said 
 Marche-a-Terre, with a look and gesture which 
 showed that all other matters of interest grew 
 trifling beside such important news. 
 
 "I am not surprised at that," answered Pille- 
 Miche. " He used to take the communion so often ! 
 You would have thought that le bon JDieu was 
 his private property." 
 
 "Yes! But," said Mene-aBien, "that did him as 
 much good as shoes do to a dead man. It seems he 
 had not received absolution before the affair at the 
 Pilgrim; he had played the fool with Goguelu's 
 girl, and thus was caught in mortal sin. So Abbe 
 Gudin says that he will have to wait for two months 
 as a ghost before coming back really and truly. 
 We all of us saw him pass before us— pale, and cold, 
 and unsubstantial, and smelling of the grave-yard." 
 
 "And his reverence says, that if the ghost can 
 get hold of any one, he will carry him off as his 
 mate," added the fourth Chouan. This last speak- 
 er's grotesque figure distracted Marche-a-Terre 
 from the rehgious musings into which he had been 
 plunged by a miracle, which, according to Abbe 
 Gudin, fervent faith might repeat for the benefit of 
 every pious defender of church and king. 
 
 "You see, Galope-Chopine," said he to the neo- 
 phyte, with some gravity, "what are the conse- 
 quencee of the slightest shortcoming in the duties 
 
THE CHOUANS. 209 
 
 ordered by our holy religion. Saint Anne of Auray 
 bids us have no mercy for the smallest fault among 
 ourselves. Your cousin Pille-Miche has begged for 
 you the place of overseer of Fougeres ; the Gars 
 consents to intrust you with it, and you will be well 
 paid. But you know what meal we bake traitor's 
 cake of?" 
 
 "Yes, Master Marche-a-Terre." 
 
 "And you know why I say this to you? There 
 are people who say that you are too fond of cider 
 and of big penny-pieces. But you must not try to 
 make pickings; you must stick to us, and us only." 
 
 "Saving your reverence, Master Marche-a-Terre, 
 cider and penny-pieces are two good things, which 
 do not hinder a man from saving his soul." 
 
 "If my cousin makes any mistake," said Pille- 
 Miche, "it will only be through ignorance." 
 
 "No matter how a misfortune comes," cried 
 Marche-a-Terre, in a voice which made the vault 
 quiver, " I shall not miss him. You will be surety 
 for him," he added, turning to Pille-Miche, "for if 
 he does wrong I shall ask an account of it at the 
 lining of your goatskins." 
 
 "But,asking your pardon. Master Marche-a-Terre," 
 replied Galope-Chopine, "has it not happened to 
 you more than once to believe that Anti-Chwrns are 
 Chtiins f 
 
 "My friend," said March-a-Terre, dryly, "don't 
 make that mistake again, or I will sliver you like a 
 turnip. As for the messengers of the Gars, they 
 will have his glove ; but since that business at the 
 Vivetiere the Grande-Garce puts a green ribbon 
 in it." 
 
 Pille-Miche jogged his comrade's elbow sharply, 
 pointing to D'Orgemont, who pretended to be 
 asleep; but both Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche 
 knew by experience that nobody had yet gone 
 to sleep at their fireside. And though the last 
 words to Galope-Chopine had been spoken in a low 
 tone, since the victim might have understood them, 
 the four Chouans all stared at him for a moment, 
 and, no doubt, thought that fear had deprived him 
 of the use of his senses. Suddenly, at a slight sign 
 
2i0 TBE CSOUANS. 
 
 from Marche-a-Tfeire, Pille-Miche took off D'Orge- 
 mont's shoes and stockings, Mene-a-Bien and 
 Galope-Chopine seized him round the body, and 
 carried him to the fire. Then Marche-a-Terre him- 
 self took one of the cords that had bound the fagot 
 and tied the miser's feet to the pot-hook. These 
 combined proceedings, and their incredible swift- 
 ness, made the victim utter cries which became 
 heart-rending when Pille-Miche brought the coals 
 together under his legs. 
 
 "My friends! my good friends!" cried D'Orge- 
 mont; "you will hurt me!, I am a Christian like 
 yourselves!" 
 
 "You lie in your throat!" answered Marche-a- 
 Terre. "Your brother denied God. As for you, 
 you bought Juvigny Abbey. Abbe Gudin says that 
 we need feel no scruple as to roasting renegades:;" 
 
 "But, brethren in God, I do not refuse to pay 
 you." 
 
 "We gave you a fortnight. Two months have 
 passed, and here is Galope-Chopine, who has not 
 received a farthing." 
 
 "You received nothing, Galope-Chopine?" asked 
 the miser, despairingly. 
 
 " Nothing, Monsieur d'Orgemont," answered 
 Galope-Chopine, alarmed. 
 
 The yells, which had changed into a continuous 
 growl, like a man's death-rattle, began again with 
 unheard-of violence, but the four Chouans, as much 
 used to this spectacle as they were to seeing their 
 dogs walk without shoes, gazed so coolly at D'Orge- 
 mont as he writhed and howled, that they looked 
 like travelers waiting by an inn fire till the roast 
 was done enough to eat. 
 
 "I am dying! I am dying!" said the victim, 
 "and you will not get my money !" 
 
 Despite the energy of the yells, Pille-Miche 
 noticed that the fire had not yefc caught the skin ; 
 and they poked the coals very artistically, so as to 
 makethem blaze up a little, whereat D'Orgemont 
 said, in a broken voice : 
 
 "My friends ! Unbind me. * * * What do 
 you want? A hundred crowns? A thousand? Ten 
 
TBE CH0UAN8. 211 
 
 thousand? A hundred thousand? I offer two hun- 
 dred crowns!" 
 
 The voice was so pitiful that Mile, de Verneuil 
 forgot her own danger and allowed an exclamation 
 to escape her. 
 
 " Who spoke?" asked Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 The Chouans cast startled glances round them ; 
 for, brave as they were before the deadly mouths 
 of guns, they could not stand a ghost. Pille-Miche 
 alone listened with undistracted attention to the 
 conf«ssion which increasing pain wrung from his 
 victim. 
 
 "Five hundred crowns? * * * Yes! I will give 
 them!" said the miser. 
 
 " Bah ! Where are they ?" observed Pille-Miche, 
 calmly. 
 
 " What ? They are under the first apple-tree. 
 * * * Holy Virgin ! At the end of the garden — 
 on the left. * * * you are brigands ! robbers ! 
 Ah ! I am dying. * * * There are ten thousand 
 francs there!" 
 
 " I won't have francs," said Marche-a-Terre ; "they 
 must be livres. The Republic's crowns have heathen 
 figures on them which will never pass." 
 
 " They are in livres, in good louis d'or. Untie 
 me ! untie me ! You know where my life is — that 
 is to say, my treasure. " 
 
 The four Ohouans looked at each other, consider- 
 ing which of them could be trusted to go and un- 
 earth the money. But by this time their cannibal 
 barbarity had so horrified Mile, de Verneuil that, 
 without knowing whether or no the part which her 
 pale face marked out for her would suffice to pre- 
 serve her from danger, she boldly cried, in a deep* 
 Tioned voice : 
 
 "Do you not fear the wrath of God? Untie him, 
 savages!" 
 
 Tha Chouans raised their heads, saw in the air 
 eyes which flashed like two stars, and fled in terror. 
 Mile, de Verneuil jumped down into the kitchen, 
 flew to D'Orgemont, pulled him so sharply from the 
 fire that the fagot cords gave way, and then, draw- 
 ing her dagger, cut the bonds with which he was 
 
212 TRE CHOUAm. 
 
 bound. When the miser stood up, a free man, the 
 first expression on his face was a laugh — one of 
 pain, but still sardonic. " Go to the apple-tree ! Go, 
 brigands !" he said. "Aha! I have outwitted them 
 twice. They shall not catch me a third time !" 
 
 At the same moment a woman's voice giounded 
 without. " A ghost ?" cried Madame du Gua. 
 "Fools ! 'Tis she ! A thousand crowns to him who 
 brings me the harlot's head!" 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil turned pale, but the miser 
 smiled, took her hand, drew her under the chimney- 
 mantel, and prevented her from leaving any trace 
 of her passage by leading her so as not to disturb 
 the fire, which filled but a small space. He touched 
 a spring, the iron fire-back rose, and when their 
 common foes re-entered the cellar the heavy door of 
 the hiding-place had already noiselessly closed. 
 Then the Parisian girl understood the carp-like wrig- 
 glings which she had seen the luckless banker 
 make. 
 
 "There, madam!" cried Marche-a-Terre. "The 
 ghost has taken the Blue for his mate !" 
 
 The alarm must have been great for so deep a 
 silence followed these words that D'Orgemont and 
 his fair companion heard the Chouans whis- 
 pering, "Ava Sancta Anna Auriaca gratia plena, 
 Vominus tecum," etc. 
 
 "The fools are praying!" cried D'Orgemont. 
 
 "Are you not afraid," said Mile, de Verneuil, in- 
 terrupting her companion, " of discovering our " 
 
 A laugh from the old miser dissipated her fears. 
 
 " The plate is bedded in a slab of granite ten inches 
 thick. We can hear them, and they cannot hear 
 us." 
 
 Then taking his liberatress' hand gently he led 
 her toward a crack whence came puffs of fresh air 
 and she understood that the opening had been 
 worked in the chimney. 
 
 "Ah!" went on D'Orgemont, "the devil! My legs 
 smart a little. That 'Filly of Charette,' as they call 
 her at Nantes is not fool enough to contradict her 
 faithful followers ; she knows well enough that if 
 they were less brutishlj^ ignorant they would not 
 
THE OHO VANS. 
 
 213 
 
 fight against their own interests. There she is, 
 praying, too. It must be good to see her saying 
 her Ave to Saint Anne of Auray ! She had much 
 better rob a coach so as to pay me back the four 
 thousand francs she owes me. With costs and in- 
 
 TrLiullIi 
 
 j.Zfe/Jie*'- 
 
 terest it comes to a good four thousand seven hun- 
 dred and eighty, besides centimes." 
 
 Their prayer finished, the Chouans rose and went 
 out. 
 
 But old D'OrgemoAt clutched Mile, de Verneuil's 
 band, to warn her that there was still danger. 
 
214 TEE OBOUANS. 
 
 "No, madam!" cried Pille-Miche, after some 
 minutes' silence, "you may stay there ten years. 
 They will not come back!" 
 
 "But she has not gone out; she must be here," 
 said Charette's Filly, obstinately. 
 
 " No, madam ; no ! they have flown through the 
 walls. Did not the devil carry off a priest who -had 
 taken the oath in that very place before us?" 
 
 "What, Pille-Miche! do not you, who are as 
 much of a miser as he is, see that the old skin-flint 
 might very well have spent some thousands of 
 livres on niaking a recess with a secret entrance in 
 the foundations of these vaults ?" 
 
 The miser and the young girl heard Pille-Miche 
 give a great laugh. 
 
 "Right! very right!" said he. 
 
 "Stay here!" said Madame du Gua; "wait for 
 them when they go out. For one gunshot I will 
 give you all you can find in our usurer's treasury. 
 If you wish me to forgive you for having sold the 
 girl when I told you to kill her, obey me !" 
 
 "Usurer!" said old D'Orgemont; "and yet I 
 charged her no more than nine per cent. 'Tis true 
 that I had a mortgage as security. But there! you 
 see how grateful she is. Come, madam, if God 
 punishes us for doing ill the devil is there to punish 
 us for doing good; and man, placed between the 
 two without knowledge of futurity, has always 
 given me the idea of a problem of proportion in 
 which X is an un discoverable quantity." 
 
 He heaved a hollow sigh which was a character- 
 istic of his, the air which passed through his larynx 
 seeming to encounter and strike on two old and 
 slack fiddle-strings. But the noise which Pille- 
 Miche and Madame du Gua made as they once 
 more sounded the walls, the vaulted ceiling, and 
 the pavement, seemed to reassure D'Orgemont, 
 who seized his deliverer's hand to help her in climb- 
 ing a narrow corkscrew staircase worked in the 
 thickness of a granite wall. When they had 
 climbed some score of steps the feeble glimmer of a 
 lamp shone above their heads. The miser stopped, 
 turned toward his companion, and gazed at her 
 
THE CH0UAN8. ] 
 
 215 
 
 face as he would have scrutinized, handled, and re- 
 handled a bill which was risky to discount, and 
 uttered once more his boding sigh. 
 
 "By placing you here," he said, "I have paid you 
 back in full the service you did me. Therefore I do 
 not see why I should give you " 
 
 " Sir 1 laa^e me here. I ask nothing of you," she 
 said. 
 
 ■mm il 
 
 MM 
 
 M I 
 
 Her last words, and perhaps the disdain which 
 her beautiful face expressed, reassured the little 
 old man, for he answered, sighing again: 
 
 " Ah ! I have done too much already by bringing 
 you here not to go on with it." 
 
 He helped Marie politely to climb some steps of 
 rather puzzling arrangement, and ushered her, half 
 with a good grace, half reluctantly, into a tiny 
 
216 TEE CHOnAKS. 
 
 closet, four feet square, lighted by a lamp which 
 hung from the vaulting. It was easy to see that 
 the miser had made all his arrangements for spend- 
 ing more than one day in this retreat if the events 
 of the civil war forced him to do so. ■ 
 
 " Do not go close to the wall, the white will come 
 off," said D'Orgemont, suddenly, and with con- 
 siderable haste he thrust his hand between the 
 young girl's shawl and the wall, which seemed to 
 have just been re-whitened. But the old miser's 
 gesture produced an effect quite contrary to that 
 which he intended. Mile, de Verneuil instantly 
 looked straight before her, and saw in a corner a 
 sort of erection, the shape of which drew from her 
 a cry of terror, for she could divine that a human 
 form had been plastered over and stood up there. 
 D'Orgemont imposed silence on her with a terrify- 
 ing look, but his little china-blue eyes showed as 
 much alarm as his companion's. 
 
 " Silly girl ! do you think I murdered him? 'Tis 
 my brother," said he, with a melancholy variation 
 on his usual sigh, " the first rector who took the 
 oath. This was the only refuge where he was safe 
 from the rage of the Chouans and of the other 
 priests. That they should persecute a worthy man, 
 so well conducted ! He was my elder brother, and 
 none but he had the patience to teach me decimal 
 notation. Ah ! he was a good priest, and a saving ; 
 he knew how to lay up! 'Tis four years since he 
 died, of -what disease 1 know not; but look vou, 
 these priests have a habit of kneeling from tinie to 
 time to pray, and perhaps he could not accustom 
 himself to standing here as I do. I bestowed him 
 there ; anywhere else they would have unearthed 
 him. Some day I may be able to bury him in holy 
 ground, as the poor man, who only took the oaths 
 for fear, used to say." 
 
 A tear dropped from the little old man's dry 
 eyes, and his red wig looked less ugly thencefor- 
 ward to the young girl. She averted her eyes out 
 of secret reverence for his . sorrow ; hut in spite of 
 his emotion D'Orgemont repeated, "Don't go near 
 the wall, you will " 
 
TEE CHOUANS. 217 
 
 Nor did his eyes take themselves off those of 
 Mile, de Verneuil, as though he hoped thus to pre- 
 vent her bestowing more particular attention on 
 the side walls of the closet, where the air, half ex- 
 hausted, gave scanty play to the lungs. Yet Marie 
 succeeded in stealing a glance from the surveillance 
 of her Argus, and from the odd bumps on the walls 
 she came to the conclusion that the miser had built 
 them up himself with bags of silver and gold. For 
 a moment's space D'Orgemont had plunged into a 
 fantastic kind of ecstasy. The pain which his 
 scorched legs gave him. and his alarm at perceiv- 
 ing a human being in the midst of his treasures, 
 were legible in every wrinkle; but at the same 
 time his dried-up eyes expressed by their unaccus- 
 tomed luster the liberal passion which was caused 
 in him by the dangerous vicinity of his deliverers, 
 whose pink and white cheeks were a magnet to 
 kisses, and whose velvety black eyes made the 
 blood flow so hotly through his heart that he knew 
 not whether it presaged life or death. 
 
 " Are you married ?" he asked her, in a quivering 
 voice. 
 
 "No!" she answered, with a smile. 
 
 "I am worth something," he said, heaving his sigh, 
 "though I am not as rich as they all say. A girl 
 like you ought to like diamonds, jewels, equipages, 
 and gold !" he added, with a scared look round him ; 
 "I have all that to give after my death, and if you 
 liked. " 
 
 The old man's eye showed so much calculation, 
 even in this fleeting moment of passion, that as she 
 shook her head negatively. Mile, de Verneuil could 
 not help thinking that the miser's desire for her 
 hand came chiefly from the wish to bury his secret 
 in the heart of a second self. 
 
 "Money!" she said, throwing at D'Orgemont a 
 sarcastic glance which at once vexed and pleafJed 
 him, "money is nothing to me. You would be thrice 
 as rich as you are if all the money I have reflised 
 were there." 
 
 " Don't touch the w !" 
 
218 TBE CSOUANS. 
 
 "And yet nothing was asked of me in return but 
 a kind glance," she added, with pride unbelievable. 
 
 " You were wrong ; it was a very good bargain. 
 Why, think " 
 
 "Think you," interrupted Mile, de Verneuil, "that 
 I have just heard yonder the sound of a voice one 
 accent of which is more precious to me than all 
 your riches." 
 
 " You do not know them " 
 
 But before the miser could hinder her Marie dis- 
 placed with a finger touch a small colored print of 
 Louis XV. on horseback, and suddenly saw benetith 
 her the marquis, who was busily loading a blunder- 
 buss. The opening, hidden by the little panel on 
 which the print was pasted, no doubt, corresponded 
 to some decoration on the ceiling of the neighboring 
 chamber, which appeared to be the Royalist gener- 
 al's bedroom. D'Orgemont, with extreme precau- 
 tion, pushed the old print back and looked sternly 
 at the damsel. 
 
 " Speak not a word, if you love your life. You 
 have cast your grapling," whispered he after a 
 pause, " on a pretty vessel enough. Do you know 
 that the Marquis of Montauran has a hundred thou- 
 sand livres a year in leaseholds which have not yet 
 been sold ? Now, a consular decree which I have 
 read in the lUe-et Vilaine Sunday Times * had just 
 put a stop to sequestration. Aha ! You think the 
 Gars there a prettier man, do you not? Your eyes 
 flash like a pair of new louis d'or." 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil' s glance had gained animation 
 as she heard the well-known voice sound once more. 
 Since he had been in her present situation, stand- 
 ing, as it were, plunged in a gold and silver mine, 
 the elasticity of her spirit, which had given way 
 under the pressure of events, had renewed its vigor. 
 She seemed to have taken a sinister resolve, and to 
 see her way to put it in execution. 
 
 " There is no recovery from such scorn as this," 
 
 * In original ' 'Primidi de I'lUe-et-Vilaine, " Primidi being the first day 
 in each decade of that Eepublioan calendar which was one of th» odd- 
 est recorded childishnesses of democracy. — Translator's Note, 
 
THE CHOVANS. 
 
 219 
 
 she was saying to herself, "and if it is written that 
 he shall no more love me I will kill him ! no other 
 woman shall have him!" 
 
 "No, abbe! no," cried the young chief, whose 
 voice now reached them; "it must be so." 
 
 "My lord marquis," objected Abbe Gudin, in a 
 haughty tone, " you will scandalize all Brittany if 
 you give this ball at Saint James. Preachers, and 
 not dancers, are wanted to put our villages in 
 motion. You must get fusees, not fiddles." 
 
 "Abbe, you are clever en- 
 ough to know that without a 
 general assembly of our par- 
 ty I cannot find out what I 
 can undertake with them. 
 No kind of espionage, which, 
 by the way, I hate, seems to| 
 me more convenient for the 
 examination of their counte- 
 nances, and the discovery of 
 their minds, than a dinner. 
 We will make them talk, 
 glass in hand." 
 
 Marie started as she heard 
 the words, for she conceived 
 the idea of going to this ball 
 and avenging herself there. 
 
 " Do you think I am a fool 
 that you preach to me against 
 dancing?" went on Montau-; 
 ran. " Would you not yourself 
 figure in a chaconne with all 
 the good will in the world to get re-established under 
 your new name of Peres de la Foi f Can you be 
 ignorant that Bretons go straight from the mass to 
 the dance ? Can you be ignorant again that Hyde 
 de Neuville and D'Andigne had an interview five 
 days ago with the First Consul on the question of 
 restoring His Majesty Louis XVIII. If I am get- 
 ting ready now to try so rash a coup de main, my 
 sole reason is that I may throw the weight of our 
 hobnailed shoes in the scale of this negotiation. 
 Can you be ignorant that all the Vendean chiefs, 
 
220 THE CHOUANS. _ 
 
 even Fontaine, talk of surrender? Ah! sir, it is 
 clear that the princes have been deceived as to the 
 state of France. The devotion of which people talk 
 to them is official devotion. Only, abbe, if I have 
 dipped my foot in blood, 1 will not plunge in it up 
 to my waist without knowing what I am about. I 
 have devoted myself to the king's service, and not 
 to that of a parcel of hotheads, of men head over 
 ears in debt like Rifoel, of chauffeurs* of " 
 
 "Say at once, sir," interrupted the Abbe Gudin, 
 " of abbes who take tithes on the highway to main- 
 tain the war!" 
 
 " Why should I not say it?" answered the mar- 
 quis, sharply ; " I will say more — the heroic age of 
 La Vendee is past!" 
 
 " My lord marquis, we shall be able to do miracles 
 without you." 
 
 "Yes! miracles like Marie Lambrequin's," said 
 the marquis, laughing. " Come, abbe, do not let us 
 quarrel. I know that you are not careful of your 
 own skin, and can pick off a Blue as well as say 
 an oremus. With God's help I hope to make you 
 take a part, miter on head, at the king's coro- 
 nation. " 
 
 These last words must have had a magical effect 
 on the abbe, for the ring of a rifle was heard, and 
 he cried, "My lord marquis! I have fifty cart- 
 ridges in my pocket, and my life is the king's!" 
 
 "There is another of my debtors," said the miser 
 to Mile, de Verneuil; "I am not speaking of a 
 wretched five or six hundred crowns that he owes 
 me, but of a debt of blood which I hope wiU be paid 
 some day. The accursed Jesuit can never have 
 such bad luck as I wish him. He had sworn my 
 brother's death, and he roused the whole country 
 against him. And why? Because the poor fellow 
 feared the new laws." 
 
 Then, after putting his ear to a certain spot in 
 the hiding-place, " The brigands are making off — 
 
 • The plan of roasting the feet of those who were supposed to con- 
 ceal treasure was common enough; bui English has no single word for 
 it like chauffeurs. — Tra,nslator's Note. 
 
THE CHOUANS. 321 
 
 the whole pack of them," said he; "they are going 
 to do some other miracle. Let us hope that they 
 will not try to bid me good-by as they did last time 
 by setting fire to the house." 
 
 Some half -hour later, during which time Mile, de 
 Verneuil and D'Orgemont gazed at each other as 
 each might have gazed at a picture, the rough, 
 coarse voice of Galope-Chopine cried, in a low tone, 
 "There is no more danger, M. d'Orgemont, but this 
 time I earned my thirty crowns well." 
 
 " My child," said the miser, " swear that you will 
 shut your eyes." 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil covered her eyelids with one of 
 her hands, but to make surer still the old man blew 
 out the lamp, took his deliveress by the hand, and 
 helped her to take five or six steps in an awkward 
 passage. At the end of a minute or two he gently 
 removed her hand from her eyes, and she found 
 herself in the room which Montauran had just quit- 
 ted, and which was the miser's own. 
 
 "My dear child," said the old man, "you can go, 
 do not stare round you like that. You are, no 
 doubt, without money — here are ten crowns for you ; 
 there are clipped ones among them, but they will 
 pass. When you come out of the garden you will 
 find a path leading to the town, or as they say now, 
 to the district. But the Chouans are at Fougeres, 
 and it is unlikely that you will be able to enter 
 there directly, so you may have need of a safe rest- 
 ing-place. Mark well what I am going lo say to 
 you, and only make use of it in the extremity of 
 danger. You will see on the road which leads by 
 the Gibarry Valley to the Nid-aux-Crocs, a farm 
 where Long Cibot, called Galope-Chopine, dwells. 
 Go in, say to his wife, 'Good-day, Becaniere!' and 
 Barbette will hide you. If Galope-Chopine finds 
 you out he will take you for the ghost if it is night, 
 or ten crowns will tame him if it is day. Good-by ! 
 we are quits. But if you chose," said he, pointing 
 with a sweep of the hand to the fields surrounding 
 his house, "all that should be yours!" 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil cast a grateful glance on this 
 
222 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 odd being, and succeeded in drawing from him a 
 sigh of unusually varied tone. 
 
 "Of course you will pay me my ten crowns? 
 Please observe that I say nothing about interest. 
 You can pay them in to my credit with Master 
 Patrat, the Fougeres notary — who, if you chose, 
 would draw up our marriage contract, my lovely 
 treasure. Farewell!" 
 
 "Farewell!" said she, with a smile and a wave of 
 her hand. 
 
 "If you want money," he cried after her, "I will 
 lend it to you at five per cent. ! yes, at five merely ! 
 did I say five?" but she had gone. "She seems a 
 nice girl," added D'Orgemont; "still, I will change 
 the trick of my chimney." Then he took a twelve- 
 pound loaf and a ham, and went bacJ£ to his hiding- 
 place. 
 
 When Mile, de Verneuil stepped out in the open 
 country she felt as though new born, and the cool 
 morning refreshed her face, which for some hours 
 past seemed to her to have been stricken by a burn- 
 ing atmosphere. She tried to find the path which 
 the miser had indicated, but since moonset the 
 darkness had become so intense that she was 
 obliged to go at a venture. Soon the fear of falling 
 among the cliffs struck a chill to her heart and 
 saved her life, for she made a sudden stop with the 
 presentiment that another step would find the earth 
 yawning beneath her. The cooler breeze which 
 kissed her hair, the ripple of the waters, as well as 
 her own instinct, ga^ve her a hint that she had come 
 to the end of the rocks of Saint Sulpice. She threw 
 her arms round a tree, and waited for the dawn in 
 a state of lively anxiety, for she heard a noise of 
 weapons, of horses, and of human tongues. She 
 felt thankful to the night which protected her from 
 the danger of falling into the hands of the Chouans 
 if they really, as the miser had said, were surround- 
 ing Fougeres. 
 
 Like bonfires suddenly kindled by night, as a 
 signal of liberty, some gleams of faint purple ran 
 along the mountain-tops, the lower slopes retaining 
 a bluish tinge in contrast with the dewy clouds 
 
THE CEOUANS. 223 
 
 floating over the valleys. Soon a crimson disk rose 
 slowly on the horizon ; the skies gave answering 
 light; the ups and downs of the landscape, the 
 steeple of Saint Leonard's, the rocks, the meadows, 
 which had been buried in shadow, reappeared little 
 by little, and the trees on the hill-tops showed their 
 outlines in the nascent blaze. Rising with a grace- 
 ful bound, the sun shook himself free from his rib- 
 bons of flame-color, of ochre, and of sapphire. 
 His lively light sketched harmonies of level lines 
 from hill to hill, and flowed from vale to vale. The 
 gloom fled, and day overwhelmed all nature. A 
 sharp breeze shivered through the air; the birds 
 sang; on all sides life awoke. But the girl had 
 hardly had time to lower her gaze to the main body 
 of this striking landscape when, by a phenomenon 
 common enough in these well-watered countries, 
 sheets of mist spread themselves, filling the valleys, 
 climbing the tallest hills, and burying the fertile 
 basins in a cloak, as of snow. And soon Mile, de 
 Verneuil could fancy that she saw before her one of 
 those seas of ice wherewith the Alps are furnished. 
 Then the cloudy air became billowy as the ocean, 
 and sent up dense waves which, softly swinging to 
 and fro, undulating and even whirling rapidly, 
 dyed themselves with bright rosy hues from the 
 rays of the sun, with here and there clear patches 
 like lakes of liquid silver. Suddenly the north 
 wind, breathing on the phantasmagoria, blew the 
 fog away, leaving a heavy dew * on the turf. Then 
 Mile, de Verneuil could see a huge brown mass 
 installed on the rocks of Fougeres. Seven or eight 
 hundred armed Chouans were swarming in the 
 Faubourg Saint Sulpice like ants in an ant-heap, 
 and the precincts of the castle, where were posted 
 three thousand men, who had come up as if by 
 enchantment, were furiously attacked. The town, 
 despite its grassy ramparts and its ancient, griz- 
 zled towers, might have succumbed in its sleep, if 
 
 • Balzac wrote "rosee pleine d'oxyde." I do not know what he meant 
 by this; for though dew certainly rusts, it cannot rust turf. — Trans- 
 lator's ifbte. 
 
aa4 THE caoUANS. 
 
 Hulot had not been on the watch. A battery, con- 
 cealed on a height lying in the hollow of the ram- 
 parts, replied to the first fire of the Chouans by 
 taking them in fiank on the road leading to the 
 castle, which was raked and swept clean by grape- 
 shot. Then a company made a sortie from the 
 Porte Saint Sulpice, took advantage of the Cho- 
 uans' surprise, formed on the roadway, and began 
 a murderous fire on them. The Chouans did not 
 even attempt resistance when they saw the ram- 
 parts of the castle covered with soldiers, as if the 
 scene-painter's art had suddenly drawn long blue 
 lines round them, while the fire of the fortress pro- 
 tected that of the Republican sharpshooters. How- 
 ever, another party of Chouans, having made them- 
 selves masters of the little valley of the Nancon, 
 had climbed the rocky paths and reached the 
 promenade, to which they mounted, the goatskins 
 which covered it giving it the appearance of thatch 
 browned by time. At the same moment heavy 
 firing was heard in that part of the town which 
 looks toward the valley of the Couesnon. It was 
 clear that Fougeres was completely surrounded and 
 attacked on all sides. A conflagration which showed 
 itself on the east face of the rock gave evidence 
 that the Chouans were burning the suburbs, but 
 the showers of sparks which came from the 
 shingled or broom-thatched roofs soon ceased, and 
 columns of black smoke showed that the fire was 
 going out. Once more gray and wMte clouds hid 
 the scene from Mile, de Verneuil, but the wind soon 
 blew away this powder fog. The Republican com- 
 mander had already changed the direction of his 
 battery, so as successively to rake the Nancon 
 Valley, the Queen's Staircase, and the rocks as 
 soon as he had seen from the top of the promenade 
 the complete success of his earlier orders. Two 
 guns placed by the guard-house of the Porte Saint 
 Leonard mowed down the swarms of Chouans 
 which had carried that position, while the Fougeres 
 National Guard, which had hastily mustered in the 
 church square, put the finishing touch to the rout 
 of the enemy. The fight did not last half an hour. 
 
THE CHOUANS. 225 
 
 and did not cost the Blues a hundred men. The 
 Chouans, beaten crushingly, were already retiring 
 in every direction under the orders of the Gars, 
 whose bold stroke failed, though he knew it not, as 
 a direct consequence of the affair at the Vivetiere, 
 which had brought Hulot so secretly back to Fou- 
 geres. The guns had only come up that very night, 
 for the mere news that ammunition was on its way 
 would have been enough to make Montauran aban- 
 don an enterprise which was certain of defeat as 
 soon as blown upon. Indeed, Hulot was as ardently 
 desirous of giving the Gars a smart lesson, as the 
 Gars could be of succeeding in his dash, so as to 
 influence the decisions of the First Consul. At the 
 first cannon-shot the marquis saw that it would be 
 madness to go on, out of vanity, with a surprise 
 which was already a failure. So, to avoid useless 
 loss of his Chouans, he promptly sent half a dozen 
 messengers with instructions to effect a retreat at 
 once on all sides. The commandant, catching sight 
 of his foe surrounded by numerous advisers, 
 Madame du Gua among the number, tried to send 
 them a volley on the rocks of Saint Sulpice. But 
 the position had been too skillfully chosen for the 
 young chief not to be out of danger. So Hulot sud- 
 denly changed his tactics, and became the attacker 
 instead of the attacked. At the first movement 
 which disclosed the marquis' intentions, the com- 
 pany posted under the castle walls set to work to 
 cut off the retreat, by seizing the upper passes into 
 the Nancon valley. 
 
 Despite her hatred. Mile, de Verneuil could not 
 help taking the side of the men whom her lover 
 commanded, and she turned quickly toward the 
 other end to see if it was free. But there she saw 
 the Blues, who had no doubt gained the day on the 
 other side of the town, returning from the Couesnon 
 Valley by the Gibarry Glen, so as to seize the Nid- 
 aux-Crocs and the part of the rocks of Saint Sul- 
 pice, where lay the flower exit of the Nancon 
 Valley. Thus the Chouans, shut up in the narrow 
 meadow at the bottom of the gorge, seemed as if 
 tbey must perish to the last man, so exact had been 
 
226 TEE CE0XTAN8. 
 
 the foresight of the old Republican leadei-, and so 
 skillfully had his measures been taken. But at 
 these two spots the cannon which had served Hulot 
 so well lost their efficacy, a desperate hand-to-hand 
 struggle took place, and, Fougeres once saved, the 
 affair assumed the character of an engagement to 
 which the Chouans were well used. Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil at once understood the presence of the masses 
 of men she had seen about the country, the meet- 
 ings of the chiefs at D'Orgemont's house, and all 
 the events of the night ; though she could not con- 
 ceive how she had managed to escape so many 
 dangers. The enterprise, prompted by despair, in- 
 terested her in so lively a manner that she remained 
 raotionless, gazing at the animated pictures before 
 her eyes. Soon the fight below the Saint Sulpice 
 crags acquired a new interest for her. Seeing that 
 the Blues had nearly mastered the Chouans, the 
 marquis and his friends flew to their aid in the 
 Nancon Valley. The foot of the rocks was covered 
 by a multitude of knots of furious men, where the 
 game of life and death was played on ground and 
 with arms much more favorable to the Goatskins. 
 Little by little the moving arena spread itself 
 farther out, and the Chouans, scattering, gained 
 the rocks by the help of the bushes which grew 
 here and there. Mile, de Verneuil was startled to 
 see, almost too late, her enemies once more upon 
 the heights, where they fought furiously to hold 
 the dangerous paths which scaled them. As all the 
 outlets of the high ground were held by one party 
 or the other, she was afraid of finding herself sur- 
 rounded, left the great tree behind which she had 
 kept herself, and took to flight, hoping to profit by 
 the old miser's directions. When she had hurried 
 a long way on the slope of the heights of Saint 
 Sulpice toward the great Couesnon Valley, she 
 perceived a cow-shed some way off, and guessed 
 that it belonged to the house of Galope-Chopine, 
 who was likely to have left his wife alone during 
 the fight. Encouraged by this guess. Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil hoped to be well received in the house, and to 
 be able to pass some hours there, till it might be 
 
TUB CHOtTANS. 221 
 
 possible for her to return without risk to Fougeres. 
 To judge from appearances, Hulot was going to 
 win. The Chouans fled so rapidly that she heara 
 gunshots all round her, and the fear of being hit by 
 some bullet made her quickly gain the cottage 
 whose chimney served her as a landmark. The 
 path she had followed ended at a kind of shed, the 
 roof of which, thatched with broom, was supported 
 by four large tree-trunks with the bark still on. A 
 cobbed * wall formed the end of the shed, in which 
 were a cider press, a threshing floor for buck- 
 wheat, and some plowing gear. She stopped and 
 leaned against one of the posts, without making up 
 her mind to cross the muddy swamp serving as 
 court-yard to the house, which, like a true Parisian, 
 she had taken for a cow-stall. 
 
 The cabin, protected from the north wind by an 
 eminence which rose above the roof and against 
 which it rested, was not without touches of poetry, 
 for ash-suckers, briers, and the flowers of the rocks 
 wreathed their garlands round it. A rustic stair 
 wrought between the shed and the house allowed the 
 inhabitants to go and breathe a purer air on the 
 rock-top. At the left of the cottage the hill sloped 
 sharply down, and laid open to view a series of 
 fields, the nearest of which, no doubt, belonged to 
 the farm. These fields gave the effect of a pleasant 
 woodland, divided by banks of earth which were 
 planted with trees, and the nearest of which helped 
 to surround the court-yard. The lane which led to 
 the fields was closed by a huge tree-trunk, half rot- 
 ten, a kind of Breton gateway, the name of which 
 may serve later as text for a final digression on 
 local color. Between the stair wrought in the schist 
 and the lane, with the swamp in front and the 
 hanging rock behind, some granite blocks, roughly 
 hewn, and piled the one on the other, formed the 
 four corner-stones of the house and held up the 
 coarse bricks, the beams, and the pebbles of which 
 the walls were built. Half the roof was thatched 
 
 • Torchis, or "cob," as it is called on the opposite coas*; of Devon- 
 gnire, IS clay miieil witb straw.— 'TrowWor's Note, 
 
22S THE CHOUANS. 
 
 vrith broom instead of straw, and the other half 
 was shingled with slate-shaped pieces of wood, giv- 
 ing promise of an interior divided in two parts, and, 
 in fact, one, with a clumsy hurdle as a door, served 
 as stall, while the owners of the house inhabited 
 the other. Though the cabin owed to the neighbor- 
 hood of the town some conveniences which were 
 completely wanting a league or two farther off, it 
 showed well enough the unstable kind of life to 
 which war and feudal customs had so sternly sub- 
 jected the manners of the serfs, so that to this day 
 many peasants in these parts give the term " abode" 
 only to the chateau which their landlord inhabits. 
 After examining the place with astonishment which 
 may easily be imagined, Mile, de Verneuil noticed 
 here and there in the court-yard mud some pieces 
 of granite so arranged as to serve as stepping- 
 stones toward the house — a mode of access not de- 
 void of danger. But as she heard the roll of the 
 musketry drawing audibly nearer, she skipped 
 from stone to stone, as if crossing a brook, to :beg 
 for shelter. The house was shut in by one of those 
 doors which are in two separate pieces, the lower 
 of solid and massive wood, while the upper is filled 
 by a shutter serving as window. Many shops in 
 the smaller French towns exhibit this kind of door, 
 but much more ornamented, and provided in the 
 lower part with an alarm-bell. The present speci- 
 men opened with a wooden latch worthy of the 
 Golden Age, and the upper part was never shut 
 except at night, for this was the only opening by 
 which the light of day could enter the room. There 
 was, indeed, a roughly made casement, but its glass 
 seemed to be composed of bottle ends, and the 
 leaden latticing which held them occupied so much 
 of the space that it seemed rather intended to keep 
 light out than to let it in. When Mile, de Verneuil 
 made 'the door swing on its creaking hinges, whiffs 
 of an appalling ammoniacal odor issued to meet her 
 from the cottage, and she saw that the cattle had 
 kicked through the interior partition. Thus the 
 inside of the farm — for farm it was — did not match 
 ill wiih the outside. Mli^ •^.e Verneuil was asking 
 
TEE CH0UAN8. 229 
 
 herself whether it was possible that human beings 
 could live in this deliberate state of filth, when a 
 small, ragged boy, apparently about eight or nine 
 years old, suddenly showed his fresh white and red 
 face, plump cheeks, bright eyes, teeth like ivory, 
 and fair hair falling in tresses on his half-naked 
 shoulders. His limbs were full of vigor, and his air 
 had that agreeable wonder and savage innocence 
 which makes children's eyes look larger than 
 nature. The boy was perfectlj^ beautiful. 
 
 "Where is your mother?" said Marie, in a gentle 
 voice, and stooping to kiss his eyes. 
 
 When he had had his kiss, the child slipped away 
 from her like an eel, and disappeared behind a 
 dunghill which lay between the path and the house 
 on the rise of the hill. Indeed, Galope-Chopine, 
 like many Breton farmers, was accustomed, by a 
 system of cultivation which is characteristic of 
 them, to put his manure in elevated situations, so 
 that when it comes to be used the rain has deprived 
 it of all its virtues. Left to her own devices in the 
 dwelling for a moment or two, Marie was not long 
 in taking stock of its contents. The room in which 
 she waited for Barbette was the only one in the 
 house; the most prominent and stately object in it 
 was a huge chimney-piece, the mantel of which 
 was formed of a slab of blue graoite. The etymol- 
 ogy of the word * justified itself by a rag of green 
 serge edged with a pale green ribbon, and cut out 
 in rounds, hanging down the slab, in the midst of 
 which stood a Virgin in colored plaster. On the 
 pedestal of the statue Mile, de Verneuil read two 
 verses of a sacred poem very popular in the country: 
 
 " I am God's mother, full of grace, t 
 And the protectress of this place." 
 
 Behind the Virgin, a hideous picture, blotched 
 with red and blue by way of coloring, presented 
 Saint Labre. A bed, also of green serge, of the 
 shape called tomb-shaped, a rough cradle, a wheel, 
 some clumsy chairs, and a carved dresser, furnished 
 
 • Manteau, "cloBk."— Translator's Note. 
 
 t Words inserted, "rhymi gratia." — Translator's Note. 
 
230 THE CH0VAN8. 
 
 with some utensils, completed, with a few excep- 
 tions, the movable property of Galope-Chopine. In 
 front of the casement there was a long chestnut- 
 wood table, with two benches of the same wood, to 
 which such light as came through the ^lass gave 
 the tint of old mahogany. An enormous cider cask, 
 under whose spile Mile, de Verneuil noticed some 
 yellowish mud, the moisture of which was slowly 
 rotting the floor, though it was composed of frag- 
 ments of granite set in red clay, showed that the 
 master of the house well deserved his Chouan nick- 
 name (Galope-Chopine, "tosspot".) Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil lifted her eyes as if to relieve them cf this 
 spectacle, and then it seemed to her that she saw 
 all the bats in the world— so thick were the spiders' 
 webs which hung from the ceiling. Two huge 
 pickets full of cider stood on the long table. These 
 vessels are a kind of jug of brown earth, the curi- 
 ous pattern of which is found in more than one 
 district of France, and which a Parisian can im- 
 agine by fancying the jars in which epicures serve 
 up Brittany butter, with the belly somewhat swol- 
 len, varnished here and there in patches and shaded 
 over with dark yellow like certain shells. The jugs 
 end in a sort of mouth not unlike that of a frog 
 taking in air above water. Marie's attention had 
 fixed on these pitchers, but the noise of the fighting, 
 which sounded more and more distinct, urged her 
 to seek a place more suitable for hiding without 
 waiting for Barbette, when the woman suddenly 
 appeared. 
 
 "Good-day, Becaniere!" said she to her, suppres- 
 sing an involuntary smile, as she saw a face which 
 was not unlike the heads that architects place as 
 ornaments over the keystones of window arches. 
 
 "Aha! you come from D'Orgemont," answered 
 Barbette, with no great air of alacrity. 
 
 " Where are you going to put me? for the Chouans 
 are coming!" 
 
 "There!" said Barbette, equally astounded at the 
 beauty and the strange dress of a creature whom 
 she dared not take for one of her own sex. "There I 
 in the priest's hole," 
 
THE CHOUANS. 
 
 231 
 
 She led her to the head of her own bed, and made 
 her go into the alcove. But they were both startled 
 
 by hearing a stranger plashing through the swamp. 
 Barbette had scarcely time to draw a bed-curtain 
 
23a TBE CEOIANS. 
 
 and wrap Marie up in it, when she found herself 
 face to face with a fugitive Chouan. 
 
 "Old woman! where can one hide here? I am 
 the Comte de Bauvan." 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil shuddered as she recognized 
 the voice of the guest whose words — few as they 
 were, and secret as they had been kept from her — 
 had brought about the disaster at the Vivetiere. 
 
 " Alas ! monseigneur, you see there is nothing of 
 the kind here. The best I can do is to go out and 
 keep watch. If the Blues come I will warn you. If 
 I staid here, and they found me with you, they 
 would burn my house." 
 
 And Barbette left the room, for she was not clever 
 enough to adjust the claims of two mutual enemies 
 who were, thanks to her husband's double part, 
 equally entitled to the use of the hiding-place. 
 
 "I have two shots still to fire," said the count, 
 despairingly, " but they have got in front of me 
 already. Never mind ! I shall be much out of luck 
 if, as they come back this way, they take a fancy 
 to look under the bed 1" 
 
 He put his gun gently down by the bedpost, 
 where Marie was standing wrapped in the green 
 serge, and he stooped to make sure that he could 
 find room under the bed. He must infallibly have 
 seen the feet of the concealed girl, but in this 
 supreme moment she caught up his gun, leaped 
 briskly into the open hut, and threatened the count, 
 who burst out laughing as he recognized her ; for 
 in order to hide herself Marie had discarded her 
 great Chouan hat, and her hair fell in thick tufts 
 from underneath a lace net. 
 
 "Don't laugh, count! you are my prisoner! If 
 you make a single movement you shall know what 
 an offended woman is capable of. " 
 
 While the count and Marie were staring at each 
 other with very different feelings, confused voices 
 shouted from the rocks, " Save the Gars ! Scatter 
 yourselves! Save the Gars! Scatter yourselves!" 
 
 Barbette's voice rang over the tumult outside, 
 and was heard in the cottage with very different 
 
THE CH0UAN8. 
 
 233 
 
 sensations by the two foes ; for she spoke less to 
 her son than to them. 
 
 "Don't you see the Blues?" cried Barbette, 
 sharply. "Are you coming here, wicked little brat! 
 or shall I come to you? Do you want to be shot? 
 Get away quickly!" 
 
 During these details, which took little time, a 
 Blue jumped into the swamp. "Beau-Pied!" cried 
 Mile, de Verneuil to him. 
 
 Beau-Pied ran in at her voice, and took rather 
 better aim at the count than his deliveress had 
 
 "Aristocrat!" said the sly soldier, "don't stir, or I 
 will demolish you like the Bastile m two jiffies ! 
 
 "Monsieur Beau-Pied," continued Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil, in a coaxing tone, "you will answer to me 
 for this prisoner. Do what you hke with him ; but 
 
234 TEE OMOVANS. 
 
 you must get him safe and sound to Fougeres for 
 me." 
 
 "Enough, madam!" 
 
 "Is the road to Fougeres clear now?" 
 
 " It is safe enough, unless the Chouans come alive 
 again. " 
 
 Mile, de Vemeuil armed herself gayly with the 
 light fowling-piece, smiled sarcastically as she said 
 to her prisoner, " Good-by, Monsieur le Comte ; we 
 meet again," and fled to the path, after putting on 
 her great hat once more. 
 
 "I see," said the count, bitterly, "a little too late, 
 that one ought never to make jests on the honor of 
 women who have none left." 
 
 "Aristocrat!" cried Beau-Pied, harshly, "if you 
 don't want me to send you to that ce-devant par- 
 adise of yours, say nothing against that fair lady!" 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil returned to Fougeres by the 
 paths which connect the crags of Saint Sulpice 
 and the Nid-aux-Crocs. When she reached this 
 latter eminence and was hastening along the wind- 
 ing path which had been laid in the rough granite, 
 she admired the beautiful little valley of the Nan- 
 con, just before so noisy, now perfectly quiet. From 
 where she was the valley looked like a green lane. 
 She entered the town by the gate of Saint Leonard, 
 at which the little path ended. The townsmen — still 
 alarmed by the fight, which, considering the gun- 
 shots heard afar off, seemed likely to last through- 
 out the day — were awaiting the return of the 
 National Guard in order to learn the extent of their 
 losses. When the men of Fougeres saw the girl in 
 her strange costume, her hair disheveled, a gun in 
 her hand, her shawl and gown whitened by contact 
 with walls, soiled with mud and drenched with 
 dew, their curiosity was all the more vividly excited 
 in that the power, the beauty, and the eccentricity 
 of- the fair Parisian already formed their staple 
 subject of conversation. 
 
 Francine, a prey to terrible anxiety, had sat up 
 for her mistress the whole night, and when she saw 
 her she was about to gpeak, but was silenced by a 
 friendly gesture. 
 
THE CSOVANS. 235 
 
 "I am not dead, child," said Marie. "Ah I when I 
 left Paris I pined for exciting adventures — I have 
 had them," added she, after a pause. But when 
 Francine was about to go and order breakfast, 
 remarking to her mistress that she must be in great 
 need of it. Mile, de Verneuil cried, "Oh, no! A 
 bath ! a bath first ! The toilet before all." 
 ^ And Francine was not a little surprised to hear her 
 mistress ask for the most elegant and fashionable 
 dresses which had been packed up. When she had 
 finished her breakfast, Marie sat about dressing 
 with all the elaborate care which a woman is wont 
 to bestow on this all-important business when she 
 has to show herself in the midst of a ball-room to 
 the eyes of a beloved object. The maid could not 
 understand her mistress' mocking gayety. It was 
 not the joy of loving, for no woman can mistake 
 that expression ; it was concentrated spite, which 
 boded ill. Marie arranged the curtains of the win- 
 dow, whence the eye fell on a magnificent panor- 
 ama ; then she drew the sofa near the fire-place, 
 set it in a light favorable to her face, bade Francine 
 get flowers so as to give the room a festal appear- 
 ance, and when they were brought, superintended 
 their disposal in the most effective manner. Then, 
 after throwing a last glance of satisfaction on her 
 apartment, she told Francine to send to the com- 
 mandant and ask for her prisoner. She stretched 
 herself voluptuously on the couch, half for the sake 
 of resting, half in order that she might assume an 
 attitude of frail elegance, which in certain women 
 has an irresistible fascination. Her air of languid 
 softness, the provoking arrangement of her feet, 
 the tips of which just peeped from the skirt of her 
 gown, the abandon of her body, the bend of her 
 neck, even the angle formed by her taper fingers, 
 which hung from a cushion like the petals of a tuft 
 of jasmine, made up, with her glances, a harmony 
 of allurement. She burned some perfumes to gi ve 
 the air that soft influence which is so powerful on 
 the human frame, and which often smooths the 
 way to conquests which women wish to gain with- 
 out apparently inviting them. A few moments 
 
236 TES CMOtTAKS: , 
 
 later the old soldier's heavy step echoed in the 
 ante-chamber. 
 
 "Well ! commandant, where is my captive?" 
 
 "I have just ordered out a picket of twelve men 
 to shoot him as one taken arms in hand." 
 
 "What 1 you have settled the fate of my prisoner?" 
 she said. " Listen, commandant ! I do not think, 
 if I may trust your face, that the death of a man in 
 cold blood is a thing particularly delightful to you. 
 Well, then, give me back my Chouan, and grant 
 him a reprieve, for which I will be responsible. I 
 assure you that this aristocrat has become indis- 
 pensable to me, and that he will help in executing 
 our projects. Besides,, to shoot a man like this, 
 who is playing at 'Chouannerie,' would be as silly 
 a thing as to send a volley at a balloon, which 
 needs only a pin-prick to shrivel it up. For God's 
 sake, leave cruelty to aristocrats ; Republics should 
 be generous. Would you not, if it had lain with 
 you, have pardoned the victims of Quiberon and 
 many others? There, let your twelve men go and 
 make the rounds, and come and dine with me and 
 my prisoner. There is only another hour of day- 
 light, and you see," added she, with a smile, "if 
 you are not quick my toilet will miss its effect." 
 
 "But, mademoiselle — ^" said the commandant, 
 in surprise. 
 
 "Well, what? I know what you mean. Come, 
 the count shall not escape you. Sooner or later the 
 plump butterfly will burn his wings in your pla^toon 
 fire." 
 
 The commandant shrugged his shoulders slightly, 
 like a man who is forced to obey, willy nilly, the 
 wishes of a pretty woman, 'and came back in half 
 an hour, followed by the Comte de Bauvan. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil pretended to be caught un- 
 awares by her guests, and showed some confusion 
 at being seen by the count in so careless an atti- 
 tude. But as she saw in the nobleman's eyes that 
 her first attack had succeeded, she rose and devoted 
 herself to her company with the perfection of grace 
 and politeness. Nothing forced or studied in her 
 posture, her smile, her movements, or her voice, 
 
TEE CHOUANS. 
 
 237 
 
 betrayed a deliberate design. Everything was in 
 harmony, and no exaggeration suggested that she 
 was affecting the manners of a society in which she 
 had not lived. When the Eoyalist and the Eepub- 
 lican had taken their seats she bent a look of sever- 
 ity on the count. He knew woman well enough to 
 be aware that the insult of which he had been guilty 
 was likely to be rewarded with sentence of death. 
 But though he suspected as much, he preserved the 
 air, neither gay nor sad, of a man who at any rate 
 does not expect any such tragic ending. Soon it 
 seemed to him absurd to fear death in the presence 
 
 of a beautiful woman, and finally Marie's air of 
 severity began to put notions in his head. 
 
 "Who knows," thought he to himself, "if a count's 
 coronet, still to be had, may not please her better 
 than a marquis' that is lost? Montauran is a dry 
 
 stick enough, while I " and he looked at himself 
 
 with satisfaction. " Now, the least that I can gain 
 is to save my head." 
 
 But his diplomatic reflections did not do him 
 much good. The liking which he had made up hia 
 
238 THE GHOUANS. 
 
 mind to feign for Mile, de Verneuil became a vio- 
 lent fancy, which the dangerous girl took pleasure 
 in stimulating. 
 
 "Count," she said, "you are my prisoner, and I 
 have the right to disj)ose of you. Your execution 
 ■will not take place without my consent, and, as it 
 happens, I am too full of curiosity to let you be shot 
 now." 
 
 "But suppose I were to be obstinately discreet?" 
 answered he, merrily. 
 
 " With an honest woman perhaps you might ; but 
 with a 'wench!' Come, come! count, that would 
 be impossible." 
 
 These words, full of bitter irony, were hissed out, 
 as Sully says, speaking of the Duchess of Beaufort, 
 from so sharp a beak that the nobleman in his 
 surprise merely gazed at his ferocious adversary. 
 
 "Come," she went on, mockingly, "not to contra- 
 dict you, I will be, like these creatures, 'a kind 
 girl.' To begin with, here is your gun," and she 
 handed him his weapon with a gesture of gentle 
 sarcasm. 
 
 " On the faith of a gentleman, mademoiselle, you 
 are acting " 
 
 "Ahl" she said, breaking in, "I have had enough 
 of the faith of gentlemen. That was the assurance 
 on which I entered the Vivetiere. Your chief swore 
 to me that I and mine should be safe there." 
 
 "Infamous!" cried Hulot, with frowning brows. 
 
 "It was M. le Comte's fault," she said, pointing 
 to him. " The Gars certainly meant quite sincerely 
 to keep his word ; but this gentleman threw on me 
 some slander or other which confirmed all the tales 
 that 'Charette's Filly' had been kind enough to 
 imagine." 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the count, disordered, "if 
 my head were under the ax I could swear that I 
 said but the truth " 
 
 "In saying what?" 
 
 " That you had been the- 
 
 "Out with the word!— the mistress- 
 
 " Of the Marquis (now Duke) of Lenoncourt, who 
 is one of my friends," said the count. 
 
TEE CIIOUANS. 
 
 239 
 
 "Now I might let you go to execution," said 
 Marie, unmoved in appearance by the dehberate 
 accusation of the count, who sat stupefied at the 
 real or feigned indifference which she showed 
 toward the charge. But she went on, with a laugh, 
 "Dismiss forever from your mind the sinister image 
 of those pellets of lead, for you have no more 
 offended me than this friend of yours whose — what 
 is it? — fie on me ! — you would have me to have been. 
 Listen, count, have you not visited my father, the 
 Duke de Verneuil? Eh?" 
 
 Thinking, no doubt, that the confidence which 
 
 she was about to make was of too great importance 
 for Hulot to be admitted to it. Mile, de Verneuil 
 beckoned the count to her, and said some words in 
 his ear. M. de Bauvan let slip a half -uttered ex- 
 clamation of surprise, and looked with a puzzled 
 air at Marie, who suddenly completed the memory 
 to which she had appealed by leaning against the 
 chimney-piece in a child's attitude of innocent sim- 
 plicity. The count dropped on one knee. 
 
 "Mademoiselle!" he cried, "I implore you to 
 grant me pardon, however unworthy I may be 
 of it." 
 
2iO TUE CSOUAm. 
 
 "I have nothing to forgive," she said. "You are 
 as far from the truth now in your repentance as 
 you were in your insolent supposition at the Vive- 
 tiere. But these secrets are above your under- 
 standing. Know only, count," added she, gravely, 
 "that the Duke de Verneuil's daughter has too 
 much loftiness of soul not to take a lively interest 
 in you." 
 
 "Even after an insult?" said the count, with a 
 sort of regret. 
 
 "Are not some persons too highly placed to be 
 within the reach of insult? Count, I am one of 
 them." 
 
 And as she spoke these words the girl assumed an 
 air of noble pride, which overa.wed her prisoner 
 and made the whole comedy much less clear to 
 Hulot. The commandant put his hand to his mus- 
 tache as though to twist it up, and looked with a 
 somewhat disturbed air at Mile, de Verneuil, who 
 gave him to understand by a sign that she was 
 making no change in her plan. 
 
 "Now," she said, after an interval, let us talk. 
 Fran cine, give us lights, child." 
 
 And she brought the conversation very cleverly 
 round to that time which a few short years had 
 made the ancien regime. She carried the count 
 back to this period so well by the vivacity of her 
 remarks and her sketches, she supplied him with 
 so many occasions of showing his wit by the com- 
 plaisant ingenuity with which she indulged him in 
 repartees, that he ended by thinking to himself that 
 he had never been more agreeable, and, his youth 
 restored by the notion, he tried to communicate to 
 this alluring person the good opinion which he had 
 of himself. The malicious girl took delight in try- 
 ing upon him all the devices of her coquetry, and 
 was able to play the game all the more skillfully 
 that for her it was a game, and nothing more. And 
 so at one moment she let him believe that he had 
 made a quick advance in her favor; at another, 
 as though astonished at the liveliness of her feel- 
 ings, she showed a coldness which charmed the 
 count, and helped sensibly to increase his im- 
 
TEE CH0UAK8. 241 
 
 promptu passion. She behaved exactly like an 
 angler who from time to time pulls up "his line to 
 see if a fish has bitten. The poor count allowed 
 himself to be caught by the innocent manner in 
 which his deliveress had accepted a compliment or 
 two, neatly turned enough. The emigration, the 
 Republic, Brittany, the Chouans, were things a 
 thousand miles away from his thoughts. Hulot sat 
 bolt upright, motionless and solemn as the god Ter- 
 minus. His want of breeding incapacitated him 
 entirely for this style of conversation. He had, in- 
 deed, a shrewd suspicion that the two speakers 
 must be very droll people, but his intelligence could 
 soar no higher than the attempt to understand 
 them so far as to be sure that they were not plot- 
 ting against the Republic under cover of ambigu- 
 ous language. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the count, "Montauran is 
 well-born, well-bred, and a pretty fellow enough ; 
 but he is absolutely ignorant of gallantry. He is 
 too young to have seen Versailles. His education 
 has been a failure, and instead of playing mischiev- 
 ous tricks, he is a man to deal dagger-blows. He 
 can love fiercely, but he will never acquire the per- 
 fect flower of manners by which Lauzun, Adhemar, 
 Coigny, and so many others were distinguished. 
 He does not possess the pleasing talent of saying 
 to women those pretty nothings which after all suit 
 them better than explosions of passion, whereof 
 they are soon tired. Yes ! though he be a man who 
 has been fortunate enough with the sex, he has 
 neither the ease nor the grace of the character." 
 
 "I did noL fail to perceive it," answered Marie. 
 
 "Aha !" said the count to himself, "that tone and 
 look meant that we shall soon be on the very best 
 terms together ; and, faith ! in order to be hers, I 
 will believe anything she wishes me to believe!" 
 
 Dinner being announced, he offered his hand to 
 her. Mile, de verneuil did the honars of the meal 
 with a politeness and tact which could only have 
 been acquired by a court education and in the pol- 
 ished life of the court 
 
 " You had better go," said she to Hulot, as tney 
 
242 TEE CH0UAS8. 
 
 rose from the table; "you would frighten him; 
 while if we are alone I shall soon find out what I 
 want to know. He has come to the pitch where a 
 man tells me everything he thinks, and sees every- 
 thing through my eyes. " 
 
 "And afterward?" asked the commandant, as if 
 demanding the extradition of his prisoner. 
 
 "Oh ! he must be free," said she, "free as air!" 
 
 "Yet he was caught with arms in his hands." 
 
 "'No," said she, with one of the jesting sophistries 
 which women love to oppose to peremptory reason, 
 "I had disarmed him before. Count," she said to 
 the nobleman as she re-entered the room, " I have 
 just begged your freedom ; but nothing for noth- 
 ing!" she added, with a smile and a sidelong motion 
 of her head, as if putting questions to him. 
 
 " Ask me for anything, even my name and my 
 honor!" he cried, in his intoxication. "I lay all at 
 your feet!" and he darted forward to grasp her 
 hand, endeavoring to represent his desire as grati- 
 tude. But Mile, de Verneuil was not a girl to mis- 
 take the two, and therefore, smiling all the while, 
 so as to give some hope to this new lover, but step- 
 ping back a pace or two, she said, " Will you give 
 me cause to repent my trust?" 
 
 "A girl's thoughts run faster than a woman's," 
 he replied, laughing. 
 
 "A girl has more to lose than a woman." 
 
 "True; those who carry treasures should be 
 mistrustful." 
 
 "Let us drop this talk," said she, "and speak 
 seriously. You are going to give a ball at Saint 
 James. I have been told that you have established 
 there your stores, your arsenals, and the seat of 
 your government. When is the ball?" 
 
 "To-morrow night." 
 
 "You will not be surprised, sir, that a slandered 
 woman should wish, with a woman's obstinacy, to 
 obtain a signal reparation for the insults which she 
 has undergone in the presence of those who 
 witnessed them. Therefore I will go to your ball, 
 I ask you to grant me your protection from the 
 mome«t I appear there to the mement I leave. I 
 
THE CHOUANH. 243 
 
 will not have your word," said she, noticing that 
 he was placing his hand on his heart. " I hate 
 oaths ; they are too like precautions. Simply tell 
 me that you will undertake to hold my person 
 scathless from all criminal or shameful attempt. 
 Promise to redress the wrong you have done me by 
 announcing that I am really the Duke de Verneuil's 
 daughter, and by holding your tongue about all 
 the ills I owed to a lack of paternal protection. 
 We shall then be quits. What? Can a couple of 
 hours' protection given to a lady at a ball be too 
 heavy a ransom? Come ! you are worth no more !" 
 
 But she took all the bitterness out of her words 
 with a smile. 
 
 "What do you ask, then, for my gun's ransom?" 
 said the count, with a laugh. 
 
 " Oh ! more than for yourself." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Secrecy. Believe me, count, only women can 
 detect women. I know that if you say a word I 
 may be murdered on the road. Yesterday certain 
 bullets gave me warning of the danger I have to 
 run on the highway. That lady is as clever at the 
 chase as she is deft at the toilet. No waiting-maid 
 ever undressed me so quickly. For Heaven's sake!" 
 she said, "take care that I have nothing of that 
 kind to fear at the ball." 
 
 "You will be under my protection there!" said 
 the count, proudly. "But," he asked, with some 
 sadness, "are you going to Saint James for 
 Montauran's sake?" 
 
 " You want to know more than I know myself!" 
 she said with a laugh, adding, after a pause, "Now 
 go ! I will myself escort you out of the town ; for 
 you all wage war like mere savages here." 
 
 "Then, you care a little for me?" cried the count. 
 "Ah, mademoiselle, allow me to hope that you 
 will not be insensible to my friendship, for I 
 suppose I must be content with that, must I not?" 
 he added, with an air of coxcombry. 
 
 "Go away, you conjurer!" said she, with the 
 cheerful expression of a woman who confesses 
 
244 TEE CHOUANS. ...^ 
 
 something that compromises neither her dignity no* 
 her secrets. 
 
 Then she put on a jacket and accompanied the 
 count to the Nid-aux-Crocs. When she had come 
 to the end of the path, she said to him : 
 
 "Sir, observe the most absolute secrecy, even 
 with the marquis," and she placed her finger on 
 her lips. 
 
 The count, emboldened by her air of kindness, 
 took her hand (which she let him take as though it 
 were the greatest favor) and kissed it tenderly. 
 
 "Oh! mademoiselle," cried he, seeing him -elf out 
 of all danger, "count on me in life and death. 
 Though the gratitude I owe you is almost equal to 
 that which I owe my mother, it will be very diflBcult 
 for me to feel toward you only respect." 
 
 He darted up the path, and when she had seen 
 him gain the crags of Saint Sulpice, Marie nodded 
 her head with a satisfied air, and whispered to 
 herself, " The fat fellow has given me more than his 
 life for his life. I could make him my creature at 
 very small expense. Creature or creator, that is 
 all the difference between one man and another!" 
 
 She did not finish her sentence, but cast a 
 despairing glance to heaven, and slowly made her 
 way back to the Porte Saint Leonard, where Hulot 
 and Corentin were waiting for her. 
 
 "Two days more!" she cried, "and " but she 
 
 stopped, seeing that he and Hulot were not alone 
 — " and he shall fall under your guns," she whispered 
 to the commandant. 
 
 He stepped back a pace, and gazed, with an air 
 of satire not easy to describe, on the girl, whose 
 face and bearing showed not a touch of remorse. 
 There is in women this admirable quality, that they 
 never think out their most blameworthy actions. 
 Feeling carries them along; they are natural even 
 in their very dissembling, and in them alone crime 
 can be found without accompanying baseness, for 
 in most cases "they know not what they do." 
 
 " I am going to Saint James, to the ball given 
 by the Chouans, and " 
 
 "But," said Corentin, interrupting her/'itisflve 
 
THE CHOUANH. 
 
 215 
 
 leagues off. Would you like me to go with you?" 
 
 "You are very busy," said she to him, " with a 
 
 ^^-.r subject of 
 
 / \ "'\ ■>. which I 
 
 \ ~*V^<-^'*> never 
 
 yourself " 
 The con- 
 tempt 
 which 
 Marie 
 showed 
 for C o- 
 r e n t i n 
 plea sed 
 H u 1 ot 
 par ticu- 
 larly, and 
 he made 
 his grim- 
 ace as she 
 V anished 
 toward 
 Saint 
 L eonard's. 
 C o rentin 
 :> folio wed 
 ', her with 
 " his eyes, 
 s h owing 
 in his 
 c o u n te- 
 nance a silent consciousness 
 of the fated superiority which 
 ^^ as he thought, he could exer.- 
 '"" cise over this charming crea- 
 ture, by governing the pas- 
 sions on which he counted to make her 
 one day his. When Mile, de Verneuil 
 got home she began eagerly to meditate 
 on her ball-dresses. Francine, accustomed to obey 
 without ever comprehending her mistress' objects. 
 
246 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 rummaged the band-boxes, and proposed a Greel ,* 
 costume — everything at that time obeyed the Gree^: 
 influence. The dress which Marie settled upon 
 would travel in a box easy to carrjr. 
 
 "Francine, my child, I am going to make a 
 country excursion. Make up your mind whether 
 you will stay here or come with me.- 
 
 "Stay here!" cried Francine; "and who is to 
 drees you?" 
 
 " Where did you put the glove which I gave you 
 back this morning?" 
 
 "Here it is." 
 
 " Sew a green ribbon in it ; and, above all, take 
 money with you." 
 
 But when she saw that Francine had in her hands 
 newly coined pieces, she cried : 
 
 " You have only to do that if you want to get us 
 murdered! Send Jeremy to wake Corentin; but 
 no — the wretch would follow us. Send to the 
 commandant instead, to ask him, from me, for 
 crowns of six francs." 
 
 Marie thought of everything with that woman's 
 wit which takes in the smallest details. While 
 Francine was finishing the preparations for her 
 unintelligible departure, she set herself to attem^ 
 the imitation of the owl's hoot, and succeeded in 
 counterfeiting Marche-a-Terre's signal so as to 
 deceive anybody. As ntiidnight struck she sallied 
 from the Porte Saint Leonard, gained the little path 
 on the Nid-aux-Crocs, and, followed by Francine, 
 ventured across the valley of Gibarry, walking 
 with a steady step, for she was inspired by that 
 strong will which imparts to the gait and to the 
 body an air of power. How to leave a ball-room 
 without caching a cold is for women an important 
 matter ; biaMet them feel passion in their hearts, 
 and their pSay becomes as it were of bronze. It 
 might haver taken even a daring man a long time 
 to resolve on the undertaking, yet it had scarcelv 
 showed its first aspect to Mile, de Verne uil when its 
 dangers became attractions for her. 
 
 "You are going without commending yourself to 
 
THE GH0UAN8. 247 
 
 God," said Francine, who had turned back to gaze 
 at Saint Leonard's steeple. 
 
 The pious Breton girl halted, clasped her hands, 
 and said an Ave to Saint Anne of Auray, begging 
 her to bless the journey; while her mistress stood 
 lost in thought, looking by turns at the simple 
 attitude of her maid, who was praying fervently, 
 and at the effects of the misty moonlight, which, 
 gliding through the carved work of the church, 
 gave to the granite the lightness of filigree. The 
 two travelers lost no time in reaching Galope- 
 Chopine's hut ; but light as was the sound of their 
 steps, it woke one of the lai'ge dogs to whose fidelity 
 the Bretons commit the guardianship of the plain 
 wooden latch which shuts their doors. The dog 
 ran up to the two strangers, and his bark became so 
 threatening that they were obliged to cry for help 
 and retrace their steps some way. But nothing 
 stirred. Mile, de Verneuil whistled the owl's hoot ; 
 at once the rusty door-hinges creaked sharply in 
 answer, and Galope-Chopine, who had hastily risen, 
 showed his somber face. 
 
 " I have need," said Marie, presenting Montauran's 
 glove to the surveillant of Fougeres, "to travel 
 quickly to Saint James. The Count de Bauvan told 
 me that you would act as my guide and protector 
 thither. Therefore, my dear Galope-Chopine, get 
 us two donkeys to ride, and be ready to bear us 
 company. Time is precious, for if we do not reach 
 Saint James before to-morrow evening, we shall 
 see neither the Gars nor the ball." 
 
 Galope-Chopine took the glove with a puzzled air, 
 turned it this way and that, and kindled a candle, 
 made of resin, as thick as the little finger and of 
 the color of gingerbread. These wares, imported 
 into Brittany from the north of Europe, show, like 
 everything that meets the eye ia this strange 
 country, ingorance of even the commonest 
 commercial principles. After inspecting the green 
 ribbon and staring at Mile, de Verneuil, after 
 scratching his ear, after drinking a pitcher of cider 
 himself and offering a glass of it to the fair lady, 
 Galope-Chopine left her before the table, on the 
 
248 THE CHOVANS. 
 
 bench of polished chestnut-wood, and went to seek 
 two donkeys. The deep blue light which the 
 outlandish candle cast was not stronc enough to 
 master the fantastic play of the moonbeams that 
 varied -"vith dots of light the dark colorings of the 
 floor and furniture of the smoky cabin. The little 
 boy had raised his startled head, and just above 
 his fair hair two cows showed, through the holes 
 in the stable-wall, their pink muzzles and their 
 great, flashing eyes. The big dog, whose counte- 
 nance was not the least intelligent of the family 
 group, appeared to be examining the two strangers 
 with a curiosity equal to that of the child. A 
 painter might have spent a long time in admiring 
 the eifects of this night-piece; but Marie, not 
 anxious to enter into talk with Barbette, who was 
 sitting up in bed like a specter, and began to open 
 her eyes very wide as she recognized her visitor, 
 went out to escape at once the pestiferous air of the 
 hovel, and the questions which " La Becaniere" saw 
 likely to put to her. She climbed with agility the 
 staircase up the rock which sheltered Galope- 
 Chopine's hut, and admired the vast assembly of 
 details in a landscape where the point of view 
 changed with every step forward or backward, 
 upward or downward. At the moment the 
 moonlight enveloped the valley of the Couesnon as 
 withjluminous fog, and surely enough a woman who 
 carried slighted love in her heart must have 
 relished the melancholy which this soft light 
 produces in the soul by the fantastic shapes which 
 it impresses on solid bodies, and the tints which it 
 throws upon the waters. Then the silence was 
 broken by the bray of the asses. Marie quickly 
 descended to the Chouan's hut, and they set off at 
 once. Galope-Chopine, who was armed with a 
 double-barreled fowling-piece, wore a goatskin, 
 which gave him the appearance of Robinson 
 Crusoe. His wrinkled and pimpled countenance 
 was scarcely visible under the broad hat which the 
 peasants still keep as a vestige of old times, feeling 
 proud at having gained, in spite of their serfdom, 
 the sometime decoration of lordly heads. This 
 
TEE CHOUAKS. 
 
 249 
 
 ttocturnal procession, guarded by a guide whose 
 dress, attitude, and general appearance had some- 
 thing patriarchal, resembled the scene of the flight 
 into Egypt, which we owe to the somber pencil of 
 Rembrandt. Galope-Chopine avoided the highway 
 with care, and guided the travelers through the 
 vast labyrinth of the Breton cross-roads. 
 
 Then Mile, de Verneuil began to understand the 
 Chouan fashion of warfare. As she traversed 
 these roads she could better appreciate the real 
 condition of districts which, seen from above, had 
 appeared to her so charming, but which must be 
 
 'i-if.>'ii' 
 
 penetrated in order to grasp their danger and their 
 inextricable difficulty. Around each field the 
 peasants have raised, time out of mind, an earthen 
 wall, six feet high, of the form of a truncated 
 pyramid, on the top whereof chestnut trees, oaks, 
 and beeches grow. This wall, planted after such a 
 fashion, is called a "hedge"— the Norman style of 
 hedge— and the long branches of the trees which 
 croWn it, flung, as they almost always are. over the 
 pathway, make a huge arbor overhead. The 
 roadways, gloomily walled in by these clay banks 
 
250 TES CtiOUANS. 
 
 or walls, have a strong resemblance to the fosse of 
 a fortress, and when the granite, which in this 
 country almost always crops up flush with the 
 surface of the ground, does not compose a kind 
 of uneven pavement, they become so impassable 
 that the smallest cart cannot travel over them 
 without the help of a pair of oxen or horses, small 
 but generally stout. These roads are so constantly 
 muddy that custom has established for foot 
 passengers a path inside the field and along the 
 hedge — a path called a rote, beginning and ending 
 with each holding of land. In order to get from one 
 field to another it is thus necessary to climb the 
 hedge by means of several steps, which the rain 
 often makes slippery enough. 
 
 But these were by no means the only obstacles 
 which travelers had to overcome in these tortuous 
 lanes. Each piece of land, besides being fortified 
 in the manner described, has a regular entrance 
 about ten feet wide, and crossed by what is called in 
 the west an echalier. This is the trunk or a stout 
 branch of a tree, one end of which, drilled through, 
 fits, as it were, into a handle composed of another 
 piece of shapeless wood serving as a pivot. The 
 extreme butt-end of the echalier extends a little 
 beyond the pivot, so as to be able to carry a heavy 
 burden in the shape of a counter- weight, and to 
 allow even a child to work this strange kind of 
 country gate. The other end of it rests in a hole 
 made on the inside of the hedge. Sometimes the 
 peasants economize the counter-weight stone by 
 letting the heavy end of the trunk or branch hang 
 over. The style of the barrier is altered according 
 to the fancy of each owner. It often consists of 
 a single branch, the two ends of which are 
 socketed into the hedge by earth ; often it looks 
 like a square gate built up of several thin branches 
 fixed at intervals like the rungs of a ladder set 
 crosswise. This gate turns like the echalier itself, 
 and its other end plays on a small wheel of solid 
 wood. These hedges and gates give the ground the 
 appearance of a huge chess-board, each field of 
 which makes an inclosure completely isolated from 
 
THE CHOUANS. 251 
 
 the rest, walled in like a fortress, and like it 
 possessing ramparts. The gate, easy to defend, 
 gives the assailant the least easy of all conc[uests ; 
 for the Breton peasant thinks that he fertilizes his 
 fallovvs by allowing them to grow huge broom 
 brushes — a shrub which finds such congenial 
 treatment in this district that it soon grows to the 
 height of a man. This notion— worthy of people 
 who put their manure on the highest patch of their 
 farm-yards — keeps upon the soil, in one field out of 
 every four, forests of broom, in the midst of which 
 all manner of ambuscades can be arranged. And, 
 to conclude, there is hardly a field where there are 
 not some old cider-apple trees dropping their 
 branches low over it and killing the crops which 
 they cover. Thus, if the reader will remember how 
 small the fields are where every hedge supports 
 far ranging trees, whose greedy roots monopolize 
 a fourth of the ground, he will have an idea of the 
 agricultural arrangement and general appearance 
 of the country which Mile, de Verneuil was now 
 traversing. 
 
 It is difficult to say whether anxiety to avoid 
 disputes about title, or the custom, dear to laziness, 
 of shutting in cattle without having to herd them, 
 has most to do with the construction of these 
 formidable inclosures, whose enduring obstacles 
 make the country impenetrable, and forbid all war 
 with large bodies of men. When the line of the 
 ground has been examined step by step, it is clear 
 what must be the fated ill-success of a war between 
 regular and irregular troops ; for five hundred men 
 might laugh at the army of a kingdom. In this 
 was the whole secret of the Chouan war. And 
 Mile, de Verneuil at once understood the need 
 which the Republic had of stifling disorder by 
 means of police and diplomacy rather than by the 
 useless aid of military force. What could be done, 
 indeed, against men clever enough to scorn the 
 holding of towns, and make sure of holding the 
 country, with its indestructible fortifications? How 
 do aught but negotiate, when the whole strength 
 of these blinded peasants lay in a skillful and 
 
252 THE CSOVANS. 
 
 enterprising chief? She admired the genius of the 
 minister who had guessed in his study the secret of 
 peace ; she thought she could see the considerations 
 working on men powerful enough to hold a whole 
 empire under their glance, and whose deeds, 
 criminal to the vulgar eye, are only the workings 
 of a vast thought. These awe-inspiring souls are 
 divided, one knows not how, between the power of 
 fate and destiny, and they possess a foresight the 
 first evidence of which exalts them. The crowd 
 looks for them among itself, then lifts its eyes 
 and sees them soaring above it. This consideration 
 appeared to justify, and even to ennoble, the 
 thoughts of vengeance which Mile, de Verneuil had 
 formed; and in consequence her reflections and 
 her hopes gave her energy enough to bear the 
 unwonted fatigues of her journey. At the end of 
 each property Galope-Chopine was obliged to make 
 the two travelers dismount and to help them to 
 climb the difficult stiles ; while, when these came 
 to an end, they had to get into the saddle again and 
 venture into lanes, which already gave tokens of 
 the approach of winter. The joint action of the 
 great trees, of the hollow ways, and of the field 
 inclosure, kept up in the lower grounds a dampness 
 which often wrapped the travelers as in a cloak of 
 ice. After toilsome exertion they reached by 
 sunrise the woods of Marignay, and the journey in 
 the wide forest path then became less difficult. The 
 vault of branches and the thickness of the tree- 
 trunks sheltered the voyagers from the inclemency 
 of the sky, and the manifold difficulties which they 
 had at first to surmount disappeared. 
 
 They had scarcely journeyed a league across the 
 wood when they heard afar off a confused murmur 
 of voices and the sound of a bell, whose silvery 
 tinkle was free from the monotonous tone given by 
 cattle as they walk. As he went along, Galope- 
 Chopine listened to this music with much attention, 
 and soon a gust of wind brought to his ear a 
 snatch of psalmody which seemed to produce a 
 
 great effect on him. He at once drove the weary 
 east mto a path diverging from that which would 
 
TBE cnoUANS. 253 
 
 lead the travelers to Saint James ; and he turned a 
 deaf ear to the representations of Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil, whose fears increased with the gloomy 
 character of the landscape. 
 
 To right and left huge granite rocks, piled the one 
 on the other, presented singular outlines, while be- 
 tween them enormous roots crawled like great 
 snakes, in search of distant nourishment for imme- 
 morial beeches. The two sides of the road resembled 
 those subterranean grottoes which are famous for 
 their stalactites. Vast festoons of ivy,* among which 
 the dark verdure of holly and of heath mingled 
 with the greenish or white patches of moss, vailed 
 the crags and the entrance of some deep caves. 
 When the three travelers had gone some steps in a 
 narrow path a most surprising spectacle presented 
 itself to Mile, de Verneuii's eyes, and explained to 
 her Galope-Chopine's obstinacy. 
 
 A semi-circular basin, wholly composed of gran- 
 ite, formed an amphitheater, on whose irregular 
 tiers tall black pines and yellowing chestnuts rose 
 one above the other like a great circus, into which 
 the wintry sun seemed rather to instill a pale color- 
 ing than to pour its light, and where autumn had 
 already thrown the tawny carpet of its withered 
 leaves on all sides. In the middle of this hall, 
 which seemed to have had the deluge for its 
 architect, there rose three enormous druidic stones, 
 composing a vast altar, upon which was fastened 
 an old church banner. Some hundred men knelt, 
 bareheaded and fervently praying, in the inclosure, 
 while a priest, assisted by two other ecclesiastics, 
 was saying mass. The shabbiness of the sacred 
 vestments, the thin voice of the priest, which 
 scarcely murmured an echo through space, the 
 devout congregation unanimous in sentiment, and 
 prostrate before an altar devoid of pomp, the cross 
 bare of ornament, the stern rusticity of the temple, 
 the hour, the place — all gave to the scene the 
 character of simplicity which distinguished the 
 
 * The text has pierre, whioh is nonsense. Lierre is certissima emtiv 
 datio. — Translator's Note. 
 
254 THE CH0UAN8. 
 
 early ages of Christianity. Mile, de Verneuil was 
 and remained struck with admiration. This mass, 
 said in the heart of the woods ; this worship, driven 
 by persecution back to its own sources ; this poetry 
 of ancient times boldly contrasted with natural 
 surroundings of fantastic strangeness; these 
 Chouans at once armed and unarmed, cruel and 
 devout, child-like and manly — the whole scene, in 
 short, was unlike anything that she had before 
 seen or imagined. She remembered well enough 
 that in her childhood she had admired the pomp of 
 the Eoman Church, which appeals so cunningly 
 to the senses; but she had never yet seen God 
 alone, His cross on the altar, His altar on the bare 
 ground, the autumn trees supporting the dome of 
 heaven in place of the fretted moldings which 
 crown the Gothic arches of cathedrals, the sun 
 stealing with difficulty its ruddy rays and duller 
 reflections upon the altar, the priest, and the 
 congregation, instead of the thousand hues flung 
 by stained glass. Here men represented a fact, 
 and not a system; here was prayer, and not 
 formality. Rut human passions, whose momentary 
 suppression gave the picture all its harmony, soon 
 reappeared in this scene of mystery, and infused 
 in it a powerful animation. 
 
 The gospel was drawing to a close as Mile, de 
 Verneuil came up. With no small alarm she 
 recognized in the celebrant the Abbe Gudin, and 
 hid herself quickly from his sight, availing herself 
 of a huge fragment of granite for a hiding-place, 
 into which she briskly drew Francine. But she 
 tried in vain to tear Galope-Chopine from the place 
 which he had chosen in order to share in the 
 advantages of the ceremony. She entertained, 
 however, hopes of being able to escape the danger 
 which threatened her, when she noticed that the 
 nature of the ground gave her the opportunity of 
 withdrawing before the rest of the congregation. 
 By the help of a wide crack in the rock she could 
 see Abbe Gudin mounting a mass of granite which 
 served him as a pulpit. He began his sermon in 
 these terms • 
 
TEE CHOUANS. 255 
 
 " In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and 
 of the Holy Ghost!" 
 
 At which words the whole congregation piously- 
 made the sign of the cross. 
 
 "M.J dear brethren," the abbe went on, in a loud 
 voice, " let us first pray for the dead — Jean Coche- 
 grue, Nicolas Laferte, Joseph Brouet, Francois 
 Parquoi, Sulpice Coupian — all of this parish, who 
 died of the wounds they received at the fight on the 
 Pilgrim and at the siege of Fougeres." 
 
 Then was recited the "De Profundis," according 
 to custom, by the congregation and the priest 
 antiphonally, and with a fervor which gave good 
 augury of the success of the preaching. When this 
 psalm for the dead was finished, Abbe Gudin went 
 on in a voice of ever-increasing strength, for the 
 old Jesuit did not forget that energy of delivery was 
 the most powerful argmnent to persuade his 
 uncultivated hearers. 
 
 "Christians!" he said, "these champions of God 
 have set you an example of your duty. Are you 
 not ashamed of what they may be saying of you in 
 Paradise? But for those blessed ones, who must 
 have been received there with open arms by all the 
 saints, our Lord might believe that your parish is 
 inhabited by followers of Mahoundl* Do you 
 know, my gars, what they say of you in Brittany 
 and at court? You do not know it, do you? Then 
 I will tell you ; they say: 'What! the Blues have 
 thrown down the altars ; they have killed the rec- 
 tors ; they have murdered the king and the queen ; 
 they would fain take all the parishioners of Brit- 
 tany to make Blues of them like themselves, and 
 send them to fight far from their parishes, in distant 
 lands, where men run the risk of dying without con- 
 fessions, and so going to hell for all eternity. And 
 do the gars of Marignay, whose church they have 
 burned, stay with their arms dangling by their 
 sides? Oh! oh! This Eepublic of the damned has 
 sold the goods of God and the seigneurs by auction ; 
 it has shared the price among its Blues, and now. 
 
 ' Mahumetisches. — Translator's Note. 
 
256 THE CH0UAN8. 
 
 in order to feast on money as it has feasted ob 
 blood, it has just resolved to take three livres on 
 each crown cf si^x francs, just as it levies three 
 men out of every six. And have not the gars of 
 Marignay caught up their guns to drive the Blues 
 out of Brittany? Aha! The door of Paradise shall 
 be shut on them, and they shall never again be able 
 to gain salvation.' That is what they are saying 
 of you. So, Christian brethren, it is your salvation 
 which is at stake ; you will save your souls by fight- 
 ing for the faith and for the king. Saint Anne of 
 Auray herself appeared to me yesterday at half past 
 two. She said to me, just as I tell it to you, 'You 
 are a priest of Marignay?' Yes, madam, at your 
 service. 'Well, then, I am Saint Anne of Auray, 
 aunt of God after the fashion of Brittany. I am 
 still at Auray, but I am here, too, because I have 
 come to bid you tell the gars of Marignay that they 
 have no salvation to hope for if they do not take 
 up arms. Therefore you shall refuse them absolu- 
 tion of their sins if they will not serve God. You 
 shall bless their guns, and those gars who are sin- 
 less shall not miss the Blues, because their guns are 
 holy.' And she disappeared, leaving a smell of in 
 cense under the Goosefoot Oak. I made a mark at 
 the spot, and the rector of Saint James has put up 
 a fair wooden Virgin there. What is more, the 
 mother of Pierre Leroy, called Marche-a-Terre, 
 came to pray there in the evening, and was cured 
 of her pains because of her son's good works. 
 There she is, in the midst of you, and you can see 
 her with your own eyes walking alone. This mira- 
 cle has been done, like the resurrection of the 
 blessed Marie Lambrequin, to show you that God 
 will never desert the cause of Bretons when they 
 fight for His servants and for the king. There 
 fore, dear brethren, if you would save your souls, 
 and show" yourselves champions of your lord the 
 king, you must obey the orders of him whom the 
 king has sent, and whom we call the Gars. Then 
 shall you no more be like the iollowers of Mahound, 
 and men will find you with all the gars of all Brit- 
 tany, under the banner of God. You can take back 
 
THE CMOtTANS. 2S? 
 
 out of the Blues' pockets all the money they have 
 stolen, for if, while you fight, your fields be not 
 sown, the Lord and t&e king make over to you the 
 spoils of your enemies. Shall it be said, Christian 
 brethren, that the gars of Marignay are behind the 
 gars of Morbihan, of Saint Georges, of Vitre, of 
 Antrain, who are all serving God and the king? 
 Will you leave them all the booty? Will you stay 
 like heretics, with folded arms, while so many Bre- 
 tons secure their salvation and serve their king? 
 'Ye shall give up all for me,' the Gospel says. Have 
 not we already given up the tithes? Do you, then, 
 give up all in order to make this holy war ! You 
 shall be like the Maccabees ; all your sins shall be 
 forgiven you ; you shall find your rectors and their 
 curates in your midst, and you shall triumph ! Pay 
 attention to this. Christian brethren," concluded 
 he; "to-day, to-day only we have the power of 
 blessing your guns. Those who do not avail them- 
 selves of this grace will not find the Holy One of 
 Auray so merciful another time, and she will not 
 listen to them as she did in the last war!" 
 
 This sermon, supported by the thunder of obstrep- 
 erous lungs, and by a variety of gesticulations 
 which made the speaker perspire, had in appear- 
 ance little effect. The peasants, standing motion- 
 less, with eyes riveted on the orator, looked like 
 statues. But Mile, de Verneuil soon perceived that 
 this general attitude was the result of the spell 
 which the abbe had cast over the crowd. He had, 
 Uke all great actors, swayed his whole auditory as 
 one man by ■ appealing to their interests and their 
 passions. Had he not given them absolution for 
 their excesses beforehand, and cast loose the ties 
 which still kept these wild men to the observance 
 of social and religious laws? True, he had prosti- 
 tuted his priesthood to political purposes, but in 
 these times of revolution each man made what he 
 had a weapon in the cause of his party, and the 
 peace-giving cross of Jesus was beaten into a sword 
 as well as the food-giving plowshare. As she saw 
 no being before her who could enter into her feel- 
 ings, she turned to Fraucine, and was not a little 
 
9S8 
 
 TSE CffOtTANH. 
 
 surprised to see her sharing the enthusiasm and 
 telling her beads devoutly on the rosary of Galope- 
 Chopine, who had, no doubt, lent it to her during 
 the sermon, 
 
 "Francine," she said, in a low tone, "are you, too, 
 afraid of being a Mahumetische 9" 
 
 *0h, mademoiselle!" replied the Breton girl, 
 *iook at Pierre's mother walking there!" 
 
 And Francine's attitude showed such profound 
 conviction that Marie understood at once the secret 
 of this preaching, the influence of the clergy in 
 the country districts, and the wonderful results of 
 Buch scenes as now began. The peasants nearest to 
 
THIS cmtrAm. m 
 
 the altar advanced one by one, and knelt down, pre- 
 senting their pieces to the preacher, who laid them 
 on the altar, Galope-Chopine being one of the first 
 to offer his old duck gun. The three priests then 
 chanted the hymn " Veni Creator," while the cele- 
 brant enveloped the murderous implements in a 
 cloud of bluish incense smoke, weaving what 
 seemed interlaced patterns with it. As soon as the 
 wind had dissipated this smoke the guns were 
 given back in succession, and each man received his 
 own, kneeling, from the hands of the priests, who 
 recited a Latin prayer as they returned the pieces. 
 When the armed men had returned to their places 
 the deep enthusiasm of the congregation, speech- 
 less till then, broke out in a manner at once terri- 
 ble and touching. 
 
 Domine, salvum fac regem ! 
 
 Such was the prayer which the preacher thun- 
 dered with echoing voice, and which was sung 
 twice over with vehement shouts which were at 
 once wild and warlike. The two notes of the word 
 regem, which the peasants translated without diffi- 
 culty, were poured out with such energy that Mile, 
 de Verneuil could not help thinking with emotion 
 of the exiled Bourbons. Their memory evoked that 
 of her own past life, and she recalled the festivities 
 of the court, now scattered far and wide, but in 
 which she herself had been a star. The form of the 
 marquis intruded itself into this reverie, and with 
 the rapid change of thought natural to women, she 
 forgot the spectacle before her, and returned to her 
 projects of vengeance; projects where life was at 
 stake, and which might be wrecked by a glance. 
 While meditating how to make herself beautiful in 
 this the most critical moment of her existence, she 
 remembered that she had nothing to wear in her 
 hair at the ball, and was enticed by the notion of 
 wearing a holly branch, the crinkled leaves and 
 scarlet berries of which caught her attention at the 
 moment. 
 
 "Aha!" said Galope-Chopine, nodding his head 
 contentedly, " my gun may miss if I fire at birds 
 aow, but at Blues, never!" 
 
260 TME CHOUANd. 
 
 Marie looked more curiously at her guide's face, 
 and found it typical of all those she had just seen. 
 The old Chouan seemed to be more destitute of 
 ideas than an average child. His cheeks and brow 
 wrinkled with simple joy as he looked at his gun, 
 but the expression of this joy was tinged with a 
 fanaticism which for a moment gave his savage 
 countenance a touch of the faults of civilization. 
 
 Soon they reached a village, or rather a collection 
 of four or five dwellings resembling that of Galope- 
 Chopine, and the newly recruited Ohouans arrived 
 there while Mile, de Verneuil was finishing a meal 
 composed solely of bread, butter, milk, and cheese. 
 This irregular band was led by the rector, who held 
 in his hand a rude cross in guise of a standard, and 
 was followed by a gars, proud of his post as parish 
 ensign. Mile, de Verneuil found it necessary to 
 join this detachment, which was, like herself, mak- 
 ing for Saint James, and which protected her, as a 
 matter of course, from all danger from the moment 
 when Galope-Chopine, with lucky indiscretion, told 
 the leader that the pretty farce whom he was guid- 
 ing was a dear friend of the Gars. 
 
 About sunset the travelers arrived at Saint James, 
 a little town owing its name to the English who 
 built it in the fourteenth century, when they were 
 masters of Brittany. Before entering it Mile, de 
 Verneuil witnessed a singular military spectacle, to 
 which she paid little attention, fearing to be recog- 
 nized by some of her enemies, and hastening her 
 steps owing to this fear. Five or six thousand peas- 
 ants were encamped in a field. Their costumes, 
 which pretty closely resembled those of the requisi- 
 tiona.ries at the Pilgrim, had nothing in the least 
 warlike about them ; and their tumultuous assembly 
 was like that a great fair. It was even needful to 
 look somewhat narrowly in order to discover that 
 these Bretons were armed, for their goatskins, dif- 
 ferently arranged as they were, almost hid there 
 guns, and their most visible weapon was the scythe 
 with which some supplied the place of the guns 
 which were to be served out to them. Some ate 
 and drank ; some fought or loudly wrangled, but; 
 
THE CHOUANS. 261 
 
 most of them lay asleep on the ground. There was 
 no semblance of order or of discipline. An officer 
 in red uniform caught Mile, de Verneuil's eye, and 
 she supposed that he must be in the English service. 
 Farther off two other officers seemed to be trying to 
 ins^truct some Chouans, more intelligent than the 
 rest, in the management of two cannon which ap- 
 peared to constitute the whole park of artillery of 
 the Royalist army that was to be. The arrival of 
 the gars of Marignay, who were recognized by their 
 banner, was greeted with yells of welcome; and 
 under cover of the excitement which the troop and 
 the I'ectors aroused in the camp, Mile, de Verneuil 
 was able to cross it and enter the town without 
 danger. She betook herself to an inn of modest 
 appearance, and not far from the house where the 
 ball was to be held ; but the town was so crowded 
 that, with the greatest possible trouble, she could 
 only obtain a small and inconvenient room. When 
 she was established there, and when Galope- 
 Chopine had handed to Francine the bandbox con- 
 taining her mistress' clothes, he remained standing 
 in an indescribable attitude of expectancy and ir- 
 resolution. At another time Mile, de Verneuil might 
 have amused herself with the spectacle of a Breton 
 peasant out of his own parish. But she broke the 
 spell by taking from her purse four crowns of six 
 francs each, which she presented to him. 
 
 "Take them," she said, "and if you will do me a 
 favor, go back at once to Fougeres without passing 
 through the camp, and without tasting cider." 
 
 The Chouan, astounded at such generosity, shifted 
 his eyes by turns from the crowns he had received 
 to Mile, de Verneuil; but she waved her hand and 
 he departed. 
 
 "How can you send him away, mademoiselle?" 
 asked Francine. " Did you not see how the town 
 was surrounded? How are we to getaway? And 
 who will protect us here?" 
 
 "Have you not got a protector?" said Mile, de 
 Verneuil, with a low, mocking whistle, after the 
 manner of Marche-a-Terre, whose ways she tried to 
 imitate. 
 
262 THE CEOUANS. 
 
 Francine blushed, and smiled rather sadly at her 
 mistress' merriment. 
 
 "But where is your protector?" she said. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil drew her dagger with a brusque 
 movement, and showed it to the terrified Breton 
 girl, who dropped on a chair with clasped hands. 
 
 "What have you come to look for here, Marie?" 
 she cried, in a beseeching voice, but one which did 
 not call for an answer. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil, who was busying herself in 
 twisting about the holly twigs she had gathered, 
 said only, " I am not sure whether this holly will 
 look really well in my hair. A face must be as 
 bright as mine is to endure so dark a head-dress. 
 What do you think, Francine ?" 
 
 Not a few other remarks of the same kind indi- 
 cated that the strange girl was perfectly uncon- 
 cerned, as she made her toilet, and any one over- 
 hearing her would have had some difficulty in 
 understanding the gravity of the crisis in which she 
 was risking her life. A dress of India muslin, 
 rather short, and clinging like damp linen, showed 
 the delicate outlines of her shape. Then she put on 
 a red overskirt, whose folds, numerous and length- 
 ening as they fell to one side, bad the graceful 
 sweep of a Greek tunic. This passion-provoking 
 garment of pagan priestesses lessened the indeli- 
 cacy of the costume which the fashion of the day 
 permitted to women in dressing, and, to reduce it 
 still further, Marie threw a gauze vail over her 
 white shoulders, which the tunic left bare all too 
 low. She twisted the long plaits of her hair so as 
 to form at the back of her head the truncated and 
 flattened cone which, by artificially lengthening the 
 head, gives such grace to the appearance of certain 
 antique statues, while a few curls, left loose above 
 the forehead, fell on each side of her face in long, 
 glistening ringlets. In such a garb and head-dress 
 she exactly resembled the most famous master- 
 pieces of the Greek chisel. When she had by a 
 smile signified her approbation of this coiffure, 
 whose least detail set oflf the beauties of her face, 
 she placed on it the holly wreath which she had 
 
THE CHOUANS. 2C3 
 
 arranged, and the numerous scarlet berries of 
 which happily reproduced in her hair the shade of 
 her tunic. As she twisted some of the leaves so as 
 to make fantastic contrast between their two sides, 
 Mile, de Verneuil contemplated the whole of her 
 toilet in the glass to judge its effect. 
 
 "I am hideous to-night," she said, as if she were 
 in a circle of flatterers. " I look like a statue of 
 Liberty." 
 
 Then she carefully stuck the dagger in the center 
 of her corset, so that the rubies of its hilt might 
 protrude, and by their ruddy reflections attract 
 eyes to the beauties which her rival had so un- 
 worthily violated. Francine could not make up her 
 mind to quit her mistress, and when she saw her 
 ready to start, she devised pretexts for accompany- 
 ing her out of all the obstacles which ladies have to 
 overcome when they go to a merry-making in a 
 little town of Lower Brittany. Must she not be 
 there to relieve Mile, de Verneuil of her cloak, of 
 the overshoes which the mud and dirt of the streets 
 made it necessary, though the precaution of spread- 
 ing gravel over them had been taken, for her to 
 wear, and of the gauze vail in which she hid her 
 head from the gaze of the Chouans whom curiosity 
 brought round the house where the festival took 
 place? The crowd was so great that the two girls 
 walked between rows of Chouans. Fran cine made 
 no further attempt to keep her mistress back ; but 
 having put the last touches to a toilet whose merit 
 consisted in its extreme freshness, she remained in 
 the court-yard that she might not leave her to the 
 chances of her fate without being able to fly to her 
 help, for the poor girl foresaw nothing but mis- 
 fortune. 
 
 A sufficiently curious scene was taking place in 
 Montauran's apartment while Marie made her way 
 to the ball. The young marquis was finishing his 
 toilet, and putting on the broad red ribbon which 
 was to indicate him as the most prominent person- 
 age in the assembly, when the Abbe Gudine entered 
 with a troubled air. 
 
 "My lord marquis," said he, "pray come quickly, 
 
264 THE CBOUANS. 
 
 You alone can calm the storm which has arisen, J 
 hardly know on what occasion, among our chiefs. 
 They are talking of quitting the king's service. I 
 believe that devil of a Rifoel to be the cause of the 
 whole disturbance, for brawls of this kind are al- 
 ways brought about by some folly. They tell me 
 that Madame du Gua upbraided him with coming 
 to the ball very ill dressed." 
 
 "The woman must be mad!" cried the marquis, 
 " to wish " 
 
 "The Chevalier du Vissard," went on the abbe, 
 cutting his leader short, "replied that if you had 
 given him the money which was promised him in 
 the king's name " 
 
 " Enough, abbe, enough ! I understand the whole 
 thing now. The scene was arranged beforehand, 
 was it not? and you are the ambassador " 
 
 "I?" continued the abbe, interrupting again; "I, 
 my lord marquis? I am going to give you the 
 heartiest support', and I trust you will do me the 
 justice to believe that the re-establishment of our 
 altars in France, the restoration of the king to the 
 throne of his fathers, are far more powerful stimu- 
 lants of my humble efforts than that bishopric of 
 Rennes which you- " 
 
 The abbe dared not finish, for a bitter smile had 
 come upon the marquis' face. But the young leader 
 immediately choked down the sad thoughts which 
 came to him, his brow assumed a stern look, and he 
 followed the Abbe Gudin into a room echoing with 
 noisy clamor. 
 
 " I acknowledge no man's authority here!" cried 
 Rifoel, casting fiery glances at all those around 
 him, and laying his hand on his sword-hilt. 
 
 " Do you acknowledge the authority of common 
 sense ?" asked the marquis, coolly. And the young 
 Chevalier du Vissard, better known by his family 
 name of Rifoel, was silent before the commander- 
 in-chief of theCatholic armies. 
 
 " What is the matter, gentlemen?" said the young 
 leader, scrutinizing the faces of the company. 
 
 "The matter is, my lord marquis," answered a 
 famous smuggler— with the awkwardness of a man 
 
THE CHOUANS. 265 
 
 of the people who is at first hampered by the re- 
 straints of prejudice in the presence of a grand 
 seigneur, but who knows no limits when he has 
 once crossed the barrier which separates them and 
 sees before him only an equal— " the matter is that 
 you have just come at the nick of time. I am not 
 good at gilded words, so I will speak plumply and 
 plainly. Throughout the last war I commanded 
 five hundred men. Since we took up arms once 
 more I have been able to put at the king's service a 
 thousand heads as hard as my own. For seven 
 long years I have been risking my life tor the good 
 cause. I am not throwing it in your teeth, but the 
 laborer is worthy of his hire. Therefore, to begin 
 with, I would be called M. de Cottereau, and I would 
 have the rank of colonel accorded to me, otherwise 
 I shall tender my submission to the First Consul. 
 You see, my lord marquis, I and my men have a 
 devil of a dunning creditor whom we must satisfy. 
 He is here!" he added, striking his stomach. 
 
 "Has the band come?" asked the marquis of 
 Madame du Gua, in a mocking tone. 
 
 But the smuggler had broached, however brutally, 
 too important a subject, and these bold spirits, as 
 calculating as they were ambitious, had been al- 
 ready too long in doubt as to what they might 
 hope from the king, for mere disdain on the your g 
 chief's part to close the incident. The young and 
 fiery Chevalier du Vissard started briskly before 
 Montauran, and seized his hand to prevent his 
 moving. 
 
 "Take care, my lord marquis," said he; "you 
 treat too lightly men who have some right to the 
 gratitude of him whom you represent here. We 
 know that his majesty has given you full powers to 
 put on record our services which are to be rewarded 
 in this world— or the next, for the scaffold stands 
 ready for us every day. I know, for my part, that 
 the rank of marechal de camp* " 
 
 "You mean colonel?" 
 
 * As nearly as possible brigadier-general, except that this Ifitter is, as 
 A rale, local and teva^omiy.— Translator's ifote, 
 
266 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "No, marquis; Charette made me colonel. The 
 rank I have mentioned is my incontestable right, 
 and therefore I do not speak for myself at this 
 moment, but for all my bold brethren in arms 
 whose service have need of recognition. For the 
 present your signature and your promise will con- 
 tent them, and," he added, dropping his voice, " I 
 confess that they are easily contented. But," he 
 went on, raising it again, when the sun rises on the 
 Palace of Versailles, bringing happier days for the 
 monarchy, will those faithful men who have helped 
 the king to conquer France in France — will they be 
 easily able to obtain favors for their families, pen- 
 sions for their widows, the restoration of the estates 
 wfiich have been so wrongfully confiscated ? I 
 doubt it. Therefore, my lord marquis, attested 
 proof of service will not be useless then. I will 
 never mistrust the king, but I very heartily distrust 
 his cormorants of ministers and courtiers, who will 
 din into his ears considerations about the public 
 welfare, the honor of France, the interests of the 
 crown, and a hundred other rubbishy phrases. Men 
 will make mock, then, of a brave Vendean or Chou- 
 an because he is old, and because the blade he has 
 drawn for the good cause beats against legs wiz- 
 ened by suffering. Can you say we are wrong?" 
 
 "You speak admirably well, M. du Vissard," an- 
 swered the marquis, "but a little prematurely." 
 
 "Hark you, marquis," whispered the Count do 
 Bauvan, " Kif oel has, by my faith ! said very pretty 
 things. For your part, you are sure of always hav- 
 ing the king's ear; but as for us, we shall only visit 
 our master at long intervals, and I confess to you 
 that if you were to refuse your word as a gentle- 
 man to obtain for me in due time and place the post 
 of Grand Master of the Waters and Forests of 
 France, devil take me if I would risk my neck ! It 
 is no small thing to gain Normandy for the king, 
 and so I think I may fairly hope to have the Order.* 
 But," he added, with a blush, "there is time to 
 think of all that. God keep me from imitating 
 
 * J/Ordre by itself usually means the Saint Esprit— Translator's Note, 
 
THE CmUANS. 267 
 
 these rascals, and -worrying you. You will speak 
 of me to the king, and all will go right." 
 
 Then each chief managed to inform the marquis, 
 in more or less ingenious fashion, of the extrava- 
 gant price which he expected for his services. One 
 modestly asked for the Governorship of Brittany, 
 another for a barony, a third for promotion, a 
 fourth for the command of a place, and all wanted 
 pensions. 
 
 "Why, baron!" said the marquis to M. du 
 Guenic, "do you want nothing?" 
 
 " Faith ! marquis, these gentlemen have left me 
 nothing but the crown of France, but perhaps I 
 could put up with that!" 
 
 "Why, gentlemen!" said the Abbe Gudin, in his 
 thundering voice, "remembber that if you are so 
 eager you will spoil all in the day of victory. Will 
 not the king be forced to make concessions to the 
 Revolutionaries themselves?" 
 
 "To the Jacobins?" cried the smuggler. "If his 
 majesty will leave them to me I will undertake to 
 employ my thousand men in hanging them, and we 
 shall soon get them off our hands !" 
 
 "Monsieur de Cottereau," said the marquis, "I 
 perceive that some invited guests are eutering the 
 room. We ought all to vie in zeal and pains so as 
 to induce them to join our holy enterprise ; and you 
 must understand that it is not the time to attend to 
 your demands, however just they may be." And as 
 he spoke he made his way toward the door as if to 
 welcome some nobles from the neighboring country 
 of whom he had caught sight. But the bold smug- 
 gler barred his way, though with a submissive and 
 respectful air. 
 
 " No ! no ! my lord marquis, excuse me, but the 
 Jacobins taught us too well in 1793 that the man 
 who r^-aps the harvest is not the man who eats the 
 cake. Sign this strip of paper, and to-morrow I 
 will bring you fifteen hundred gars. If not I shall 
 treat with the First Consul." 
 
 Throwing a haughty glance round him, the mar- 
 quis saw that the old guerilla's boldness and reso- 
 lute air were not displeasing to any of the specta- 
 
268 THE OB0UAN8. 
 
 tors of the dispute. One man only, who sat in a 
 corner, seemed to take no part in the scene, and 
 was busily filling a white clay pipe with tobacco. 
 The contemptuous air with which he regarded the 
 spokesman, his unassuming attitude, and the com- 
 passion for himself which the marquis read in his 
 eyes, made Montauran scrutinize this generous- 
 minded servant, in whom he recognized Major 
 BrigaUt. The chief walked quickly up to him. 
 
 "And you," he said, "what is your demand?" 
 
 " Oh ! my lord marquis, if the king comes back I 
 shall be satisfied." 
 
 "But for yourself?" 
 
 "For myself? Your lordship is joking." 
 
 The marquis squeezed the Breton's horny hand, 
 and said to Madame du Ciua, near whom he was 
 standing," Madam, I may -fail in my enterprise be- 
 fore having time to send the king an exact report 
 as to the state of the Catholic army in Brittany. If 
 you live to see the restoration, forget neither this 
 honest fellow nor the Baron du Guenic. There is 
 more devotion in these two men than in all these 
 people here." 
 
 And he pointed to the chiefs who were waiting, 
 not without impatience, for the young marquis to 
 comply with their demands. They all held in their 
 hands open papers, in which, it would seem, their 
 services had been certified by the Royalist leaders 
 in former wars, and a general murmur began to 
 rise from them. In their midst the Abbe Gudin, 
 the Baron du Guenic, and the Comte de Bauvan were 
 consulting how to aid the marquis is checking such 
 exaggerated pretensions, for they could not but 
 think the chief's position a very awkward one. 
 
 Suddenly the marquis ran his blue eyes, with a 
 ironic flash in them, over the company, and said, in 
 a clear voice, " Gentlemen, I do not know whether 
 the powers which the king has graciously intrusted 
 to me are wide enough to enable me to satisfy your 
 demands. He may not have anticipated so much 
 zeal and devotion ; you shall judge for vourselves 
 of my duty, and perhaps I shall be able to do it." 
 
 He disappeared, and came back promptly, hold- 
 
THE CHOUAXS. 269 
 
 ing in his hand an open letter bearing the royal 
 seal and sign manual. 
 
 "Here," he said, "are the letters patent in virtue 
 of which your obedience is due me. They author- 
 ize me to govern the provinces of Brittany, Nor- 
 mandy, Maine, and Anjou in the king's name, and 
 to take cognizance of the services of officers who 
 distinguish themselves in his majesty's armies. 
 
 A movement of content passed through the as- 
 sembly, and the Chouans came nearer to the mar- 
 quis, respectfully encircling him, with their eyes 
 bent on the king's signature. But the young chief, 
 who was standing before the chimney-piece, sud- 
 denly threw the letter into the fire, where, in a 
 moment, it was consumed. 
 
 "I will no more command," cried the young man, 
 " any but those who see in the king a king, and not 
 a prey to be devoured. Gentlemen, you are at lib- 
 erty to leave me." 
 
 Madame du Gua, Abbe Gudin, Major Brigaut, the 
 Chevalier du Vissard, the Baron du Guenic, the 
 Comte de Bauvan, gave an enthusiastic cry of Vive 
 le Boi, and if at first the other chiefs hesitated for 
 a moment to echo it, they were soon carried away 
 by the marquis' noble conduct, begged him to for- 
 get what had happened, and assured him that, let- 
 ters patent or none, he should always be their chief. 
 
 "Let us go and dance!" cried the Comte de Bau- 
 van, "come what may! After all, friends," added 
 he, merrily, "it is better to pray to God himself 
 than to His saints. Let us fight first, and see what 
 happens afterward." 
 
 "That is very true," whispered Major Brigaut to 
 the faithful Baron du Guenic. " Saving your rev- 
 erence, my lord baron, I never heard the day's 
 wage asked for in the morning." 
 
 The company scattered themselves about the 
 rooms, where several persons were already as- 
 sembled. But the marquis vainly endeavored to 
 shake off the gloomy expression which had changed 
 his looks. The chiefs could not fail to perceive the 
 unfavorable impression which the scene had pro- 
 duced on a rcan whose loyalty was still associated 
 
270 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 with the fair illusions of youth; and they were 
 ashamed. 
 
 Still, a riotous joy broke out in the meeting, com- 
 posed, as it was, of the most distinguished persons 
 in the Royalist party, who, in the depths of a re- 
 volted province, had never been able to appreciate 
 the events of the Revolution justly, and naturally 
 took the most doubtful hopes for realities. The bold 
 operations which Mont Tauran had undertaken, his 
 name, his fortune, his ability, made all men pluck up 
 their courage, and brought about that most danger- 
 ous of all intoxications, intoxication politic, which 
 can never be cooled but by torrents of blood, almost 
 always shed in vain. To all the company the Revo- 
 lution was but a passing trouble in the kingdom of 
 France, where, as it seemed to them, no real change 
 had taken place. The country was still the prop- 
 erty of the House of Bourbon, and the Royalists 
 were so completely dominant there that four years 
 before Hoche had secured not so much a peace as 
 an armistice. Therefore the nobles made small 
 account of the Revolutionists ; in their eyes Bona- 
 parte was a Marceau somewhat luckier than his 
 predecessors. So the ladies were ready to dance 
 very merrily. Only a few of the chiefs, who had 
 actually fought with the Blues, comprehended the 
 gravity of the actual crisis, and as they knew that 
 if they spoke of the First Consul and his power to 
 their benighted comrades, they would not be under- 
 stood, they talked among themselves, looking at 
 the ladies with a carelessness which these latter 
 avenged by private criticisms. Madame du Gua, 
 who seemed to be doing the honors of the ball, tried 
 to amuse the impatience of the lady dancers by ad- 
 dressing to each of them conventional compliments. 
 The screech of the instruments, which were being 
 tuned, was already audible when she perceived the 
 marquis, his face still bearing some traces of sad- 
 ness ; and she went rapidly up to him. 
 
 " I hope you are not disordered by the very ordi- 
 nary inconvenience which these clowns here have 
 caused you?" she said to him. 
 
 But she received no answer, for the marquis, ab- 
 
TEE CHOUANS. 271 
 
 sorbed in reverie, thought he heard certain of the 
 considerations which Marie had prophetically laid 
 before him amid these very chiefs at the Vivetiere, 
 to induce him to throw up the struggle of kmg 
 against people. But the young man had too lofty a 
 soul, too much pride, perhaps too much sincerity of 
 belief, to abandon the work he had begun, and he 
 made up his mind at this moment to follow it out 
 boldly, in spite of obstacles. He lifted his head 
 proudly, and only then understood what Madame 
 du Gua was saying to him. 
 
 "Your thoughts are at Fougeres, I suppose!" she 
 said, with a bitterness which showed her sense of 
 the uselessness of the efforts she had made to dis- 
 tract the marquis. " Ah ! my lord, I would give my 
 life to put her into your hands, and see you happy 
 with her." 
 
 "Then, why did you take so good a shot at her?" 
 
 " Because I should like to see her either dead or 
 in your arms. Yes ! I could have loved the Mar- 
 quis of Montauran while I thought him a hero. 
 Now, I have for him nothing but friendship mingled 
 with sorrow, when I see hm cut off from glory by 
 the wandering heart of an opera girl!" 
 
 "As far as love goes," said the marquis, in a sar- 
 castic tone, "you judge me ill. If I loved the girl, 
 madam, I should feel less desire for her — and if it 
 were not for you, perhaps, I should not think of her 
 at all." 
 
 " There she is ! " said Madame du Gua, suddenly. 
 
 The poor lady was terribly hurt by the haste 
 which the marquis turned his head; but as the 
 bright light of the candles enabled her to see the 
 smallest changes in the features of the man so 
 madly loved, she thought she could see some hope 
 of return, when he once more presented his face to 
 her, smiling at her woman's stratagem. 
 
 " What are you laughing at ?" said the Comte de 
 Bauvan. 
 
 "At the bursting of a bubble," answered Madame 
 du Gua, joyfully. "Our marquis, if we are to 
 believe him, cannot understand to-day how he felt 
 
872 THE CHOUAKS. 
 
 his heart beat a moment for the baggage * who 
 called herself Mile, de Verneuil — you remember?" 
 
 "Baggage, m.adam?" repeated the count, in a re- 
 proachful tone. "It is the duty of the author of a 
 wrong to redress it, and I give you my word of 
 honor that she is really the Duke de Vernueil's 
 daughter. " 
 
 "Count,' said the marquis, in a voice of dee^p emo- 
 tion, "which of your 'words' are we to believe — 
 that given at the Vivetiere, or that given at Saint 
 James?" 
 
 A loud voice announced Mile, de Verneuil. The 
 count darted to the door, offered his hand to the 
 beautiful stranger with tokens of the deepest re- 
 spect, and, ushering her through the inquisitive 
 crowd to the marquis and Madame du Gua, an- 
 swered the astonished chief, "Believe only the 
 word I give you to-day !" 
 
 Madame du Gua grew pale at the sight of this 
 girl, who always presented herself at the wrong 
 moment, and who, for a time, drew herself to her 
 full height, casting haughty glances over the com- 
 pany, among whom she sought the guests of the 
 Vivetiere. She waited for the salutation which her 
 rival was forced to give her, and without even look- 
 ing at the marquis, allowed herself to be conducted 
 to a place of honor by the count, who seated her 
 near Madame du Gua herself. Mile, de Verneuil 
 had replied to this lady's greeting by a slight con- 
 descending nod, but, with womanly instinct, 
 Madame du Gau showed no vexation, and promptly 
 assumed a smiling and friendly air. Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil's singular dress and her great beauty drew 
 for a moment a murmur of admiration from the 
 company ; and when the marquis and Madame du 
 Gua turned their eyes to the guests of the Vivetiere 
 they found in them an air of respect which seemed 
 to be sincere, each man appearing to be looking for 
 a way to recover the good graces of the fair Parisian 
 whom he had mistaken. And so the adversaries 
 were fairly met. 
 
 * Here is the old difficulty otfille. No word used in modem Enslish 
 meets it. — IVanslator's Hote. ^ 
 
TEE CHOUAm. 273 
 
 "But this is enchantment, mademoiselle," said 
 Madame du Gua. " Nobody in the world but you 
 could surprise people in this way. What ! you have 
 come here all by yourself?" 
 
 "All by myself," echoed Mile, de Verneuil. "And 
 so, madam, this evening you will have nobody but 
 myself to kill." 
 
 "Do not be too severe," replied Madame du Gua. 
 " I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you again. 
 I was really aghast at the thought of my miscon- 
 duct toward you, and I was looking for an oppor- 
 tunity which might allow me to set it right." 
 
 " As for your misconduct, madam, I pardon you 
 without difficulty that toward myself. But I take 
 to heart the death of the Blues whom you mur- 
 dered. Perhaps, too, I might complain of the 
 weighty character of your dispatches ; but there, I 
 forgive everything in consideration of the service 
 you have done me !" 
 
 Madame du Gua lost countenance as her fair 
 rival squeezed her hand and smiled on her with in- 
 solent grace. The marquis had remained motion- 
 less, but now he clutched the count's arm. 
 
 "You deceived me disgracefully," said he, "and 
 you have even tarnished my honor. I am not a 
 stage dupe, and I must have your life, or you mine." 
 
 "Marquis," answered the count, haughtily, "1 am 
 ready to give you every satisfaction that you can 
 desire." 
 
 And they moved toward the next room. Even 
 those guests who had least inkling of the meaning 
 of the scene began to understand the interest of it, 
 so that when the fiddlers struck up the dance not 
 a soul stirred. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," asked Madame du Gua, clench- 
 ing her lips in a kind of fury, " what service have I 
 had the honor of doing you to deserve this grati- 
 tude?" 
 
 " Did you not enlighten me on the true character 
 of the Marquis of Montauran, madam? How calmly 
 the odious man let me perish ! I give him up to you 
 with the greatest pleasure." 
 
274 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "Then what have you come to seek here?" said 
 Madame du Gua, sharply. 
 
 "The esteem and the reputation of which you 
 robhed me at the Vivetiere, madam. As for any- 
 thing else, do not disturb yourself. Even if the 
 marquis came back to me, you know that a re- 
 newal of love is never love." 
 
 Madame du Gua thereupon took Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil's hand with the ostentatious endearment of 
 gesture which women, especially in men's com- 
 pany, like to display toward one another. 
 
 " Well, dear child, I am delighted to find you so 
 reasonable. If the service I did you seemed rough 
 at first," said she, pressing the hand she held, 
 though she felt a keen desire to tear it as her fingers 
 told her its delicate softness, "it shall be at least a , 
 thorough one. Listen to me," she went on, with a 
 treacherous smile ; " I know the character of the 
 Gars. He would have deceived you. He does not 
 wish to marry, and cannot marry anybody." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle ; he only accepted this dan- 
 gerous mission in order to earn the hand of Mile. 
 d'Dxelles, an alliance in which his majesty has 
 promised him full support." 
 
 "What, really?" 
 
 And Mile, de Verneuil added no word to this sar- 
 castic exclamation. The young and handsome 
 Chevalier du Vissard, eager to obtain pardon for 
 the pleasantry which had set the example of insult 
 at the Vivetiere, advanced toward her with a re- 
 spectful invitation to dance; and, extending her 
 hand to him, she rapidly took her place in the 
 quadrille where Madame du Gua also danced. The 
 dress of these ladies, all of whose toilets recalled 
 the fashions of the exiled court, and who wore 
 powdered or frizzled hair, seemed absurd in com- 
 parison with the costume, at once rich, elegant, and 
 severe, which the actual fashion allowed Mile, de 
 Verneuil to wear, and which, though condemned 
 aloud, was secretly envied by the other women. As 
 for the men, they were never weary of admiring 
 the beauty of hair left to itself, and the details of a 
 
THE CH0UAN8. 
 
 275 
 
 dress whose chief grace consisted in the shape that 
 it displayed. 
 
 At this moment the marquis and the count re- 
 entered the ball-room and came up behind Mile, de 
 Verneuil, who did not turn her head. Even if a 
 mirror, which hung opposite, had not apprised her 
 of the marquis' presence, she could have guessed it 
 
 from the countenance of 
 Madame du Gua, who 
 hid but ill, under an out- 
 ward air of indifference, 
 the impatience with 
 which she expected the 
 contest certain to break 
 out sooner or later be- 
 tween the two lovers. 
 Although Montauran 
 was talking to the count 
 and two other persons, 
 he could never- 
 theless hear 
 the remarks of 
 the dancers of 
 both sexes, 
 who, accord- 
 ing to the 
 change of the 
 figures, were 
 brought from 
 time to 
 into the 
 ,of 
 
 de 
 
 time 
 place 
 Mile. 
 Ver- 
 neuil and 
 her neigh- 
 bors. 
 
 "Oh, yes; certainly, madam," said one; "she 
 came by herself." 
 "She must be very brave," said his partner. 
 "Why, if I were dressed like that I should think I 
 had nothing on," said another lady. 
 
 "Well, the costume is hardly proper," replied the 
 gentleman; "but she is so pretty, and it suits her!" 
 
276 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "Eeally, I am quite ashamed, for her sake, to 
 see how perfectly sne dances. Don't you think she 
 has exactly the air of an opera girl?" answered the 
 lady, with a touch of jealousy. 
 
 " Do you think she has come here as an ambassa- 
 dress from the First Consul?" asked a third. 
 
 "What a joke !" replied the sjentleman. 
 
 "Her innocence will hardly be her dowry," said 
 the lady, with a laugh. 
 
 The Gars turned round sharply to see what 
 woman it was who allowed herself such a gibe, and 
 Madame du Gua looked him in the face, as who 
 would say plainly, " Tou see what they think of 
 her!" 
 
 "Madam," said the count, with another laugh, to 
 Marie's enemy, "it is only ladies who have as yet 
 deprived her of innocence." 
 
 The marquis inwardly pardoned Bauvan for all 
 his misdeeds, but when he ventured to cast a 
 glance at his mistress, whose beauties, like those of 
 all women, were enhanced by the candle-light, she 
 turned her back to him as she returned to her place, 
 and began to talk to her partner, so that the mar- 
 quis could overhear her voice in its most caressing 
 tones. 
 
 " The rirst Consul sends us very dangerous am- 
 bassadors," said the chevalier. 
 
 "Sir," she replied, "that observation was made 
 before, at the Vivetiere." 
 
 " But you have as good a memory as the king!" 
 rejoined the gentleman, vexed at his blunder. 
 
 " One must needs remember injuries in order to 
 pardon them," said she, briskly, and relieving his 
 embarrassment with a smile. 
 
 "Are we all included in this amnesty?" asked the 
 marquis. 
 
 But she darted out to dance with the excitement 
 of a child, leaving him unanswered and abashed. 
 He gazed upon her with a melancholy coldness, 
 which she perceived. And then she bent her head 
 in one of the coquettish attitudes in which her ex- 
 quisitely proportioned neck allowed her to indulge, 
 forgetting no possible movement which could show 
 
THE CUOUANS. 277 
 
 the rare perfection of her form. Enticing as Hope, 
 she was as fugitive as Memory ; and to see her thus 
 was to desire the possession of her at any cost. She 
 knew this well, and her consciousness of beauty 
 shed an inexpressible charm over her face. Mon- 
 tauran felt a whirlwind of love, of rage, of mad- 
 ness, rising in his heart; he pressed the count's 
 hand strongly, and withdrew. 
 
 "What! has he gone?" asked Mile, de Verneuil, 
 as she came back to her place. 
 
 The count darted to the neighboring room, and 
 made a knowing gesture to his jprotegee as he 
 brought the Gars back to her. 
 
 "He is mine !" she thought, as she perused in the 
 mirror the countenance of Montauran, whose face 
 was slightly agitated, but bright with hope. 
 
 She received the young chief at first with sflum 
 silence, but she did not leave him again without a 
 smile. His look of distinction was so great that 
 she felt proud of being able to tyrannize over him, 
 and determinod to make him pay dearly for a kind 
 word or two, that he might know their value — 
 thereby obeying an instinct which all women fol- 
 low in one degree or another. The dance finished, 
 all the gentlemen of the Vivetiere party surrounded 
 Marie, each begging pardon for his error with com- 
 pliments more or less well turned. But he whom 
 she wished to see at her feet kept aloof from the 
 group of her subjects. 
 
 "He thinks I still love him," she thought, "and 
 he will not be lost in the common herd." 
 
 She refused the next dance, and then, as though 
 the festival had been given in her honor, she went 
 from quadrille to quadrille leaning on the arm of 
 the Comte de Bauvan, with whom she chose to be 
 in a way familiar. The adventure of the Vivetiere 
 was by this time known in its minutest details to 
 the whole company, thanks to the pains taken by 
 Madame du Gua, who hoped, by thus publicly con- 
 necting Mile, de Verneuil and the marquis, to throw 
 another stumbling-block in the way of their re- 
 union. Hence the sundered lovers were the object 
 of general attention. Montauran dared not enter 
 
578 THE cmUANS. 
 
 into conversation with his mistress ; for the con- 
 sciousness of his misdoings and the violence of his 
 rekindled desires made her almost terrible to him ; 
 while, on her side, the girl kept watching his face 
 of pretended calm, while she seemed to be looking 
 at the dancing. 
 
 "It is terribly hot here !" she said to her cavalier. 
 " I see M. de Montauran's forehead is quite moist. 
 Take me somewhere else where I can breathe — I 
 feel stifled." 
 
 And, with a nod, she indicated to the count a 
 neighboring apartment, which was occupied only 
 by some card-players. The marquis followed his 
 mistress, whose words he had guessed by the mere 
 motion of her lips. He ventured to hope that she 
 was only withdrawing from the crowd in order to 
 give him an interview, and this supposed favor 
 added a violence as yet unknown to his passion ; 
 for every attempt which he had made to conquer 
 his love during the last few days had but increased 
 it. Mile, de Verneuil took pleasure in tormenting 
 the young chief ; and her glance, soft as velvet when 
 it lit upon the count, became dark and harsh when 
 it chanced to meet the marquis' eyes. Montauran 
 seemed to make a painful effort, and said in a 
 choked voice : 
 
 " Will you not then forgive me?" 
 
 "Love," she answered, coldly, "pardons nothing, 
 or pardons all. But," she went on, seeing him give 
 a start of joy, "it must be love " 
 
 She had once more taken the count's arm, and 
 passed rapidly into a kind of boudoir, serving as 
 antechamber to the card-room. The marquis fol- 
 lowed her. 
 
 "You shall hear me !" he cried. 
 
 "Sir," answered she, "you will make people 
 believe that I came here for your sake, and not out 
 of self-respect. If you do not cease this hateful 
 persecution I must withdraw.". 
 
 "Well, then," said he, remembering one of the 
 maddest actions of the last Duke of Lorraine, "give 
 me leave to speak to you for the time only during 
 which lean hold this live coal in my hand." He 
 
THE CEOUANS. 279 
 
 stooped to the hearth, picked up a brand, and 
 grasped it hard. Mile, de Verneuil's face flushed ; 
 she suddenly dropped the arm of the count, who 
 quietly retired, leaving the lovers alone, and stared 
 in wonder at Montauran. So mad an act had 
 touched her heart, for in love there is nothing more 
 effective than a piece of senseless courage. 
 
 "All that you prove by this," said she, as she tried 
 to make him throw the brand away, " is that you 
 might give me up to the most cruel tortures. You 
 are always in extreme. On the faith of a fool's 
 word and a woman's slander, you suspected her 
 who had just saved your life of being capable of 
 selling you." 
 
 "Yes," said he, with a smile, "I was cruel to 
 you. Forget it forever; I shall never forget it. 
 But listen; I was abominably deceived; but so 
 many circumstances during that fatal day were 
 against you." 
 
 "And were these circumstances enough to ex- 
 tinguish your love?" 
 
 As he hesitated to answer she rose with a gesture 
 of scorn. 
 
 "Oh! Marie, from this time I will believe none 
 but you!" 
 
 " Throw away that fire, I tell you ! You are mad ! 
 Open your hand — I will have it !" 
 
 He chose to oppose some resistance to his mis- 
 tress' gentle violence, in order to prolong the keen 
 pleasure which he felt in being closely pressed by 
 her tiny, caressing fingers. But she at last suc- 
 ceeded in opening the hand, which she would gladly 
 have kissed. A flow of blood had quenched the 
 glowing wood. 
 
 "Now, what good did that do you?" she said, and 
 making a bandage of her handkerchief, she applied 
 it to the wound, which was not deep, and which the 
 marquis quicky covered with his glove. Madame 
 du Gua had come on tiptoe into the card-room, and 
 cast furtive glances at the lovers, whose eyes she 
 adroitly escaped by leaning back at their least 
 Aiovement. But she could not very easily under- 
 
280 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 stand their conversation from what she saw of theit 
 action. 
 
 " If all they told you of me were true confess that 
 I should be well avenged at this moment," said 
 Marie, with a malicious air which turned the mar- 
 quis pale. 
 
 " But what were the feelings, then, that brought 
 you here?" 
 
 " My dear boy, you are a very great coxcomb. Do 
 you really think that you can despise a woman like 
 me with impunity? I came both for your sake and 
 for my own," she went on after a pause, putting her 
 hand to the cluster of rubies which lay in the center 
 of her breast, and showing him the blade of her 
 dagger. 
 
 "What does all this mean?" thought Madame du 
 Gua. 
 
 "But," continued Marie, "you still love me — at 
 any rate, you still feel a desire for me, and the folly 
 you have just committed," said she, taking his 
 hand, " has given me proof of it. I have recovered 
 the position I wished to hold, and I can go away 
 satisfied. He who loves is always sure of pardon. 
 For my part, I am loved; I have regained the 
 esteem of the man who is all the world to me ; I can 
 die!" 
 
 "Then, you love me still?" said Montauran. 
 
 "Did I say so?" she answered, mockingly, and fol- 
 lowing with joy the progress of the horrible torture 
 which, at her first coming, she had begun to apply 
 to him. " Had I not to make sacrifices in order to 
 get here? [ saved M. de Bauvan's life, and he, 
 more grateful than you, has offered me his name 
 and fortune in exchange for my protection. It did 
 not occur to you to do that !" 
 
 The marquis, aghast at these last words, checked 
 the most violent excess of wrath which he had yet 
 suffered at feeling himself duped by the count, but 
 did not answer. 
 
 "Ah! you are considering!" she said, with a bit- 
 ter smile. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," answered the young man, "your 
 doubts justify mine." 
 
THE CHOUAm. 281 
 
 "Sir! let us quit this room!" cried Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil, as she saw the skirt of Madame du Gua's 
 gown. And she rose, but her wish to drive her 
 rival desperate made her linger. 
 
 " Do you wish to plunge me into hell?" asked the 
 marquis, taking her hand and pressing it hard. 
 
 "Is it not five days since you plunged me there? 
 * At this very moment are you not leaving me in the 
 cruelest uncertainty whether your love is sincere 
 or not?" 
 
 " But how can I tell if you are not pushing your 
 vengeance to the point by making yourself mistress 
 of my life, for the purpose of tarnishing it, instead 
 of planning my death?" 
 
 " Ah ! you do not love me ! You think of yourself, 
 not of me!" said she, furiously, and weeping, for 
 the coquette knew well the power of her eyes when 
 they were drowned in tears. 
 
 " Well, then," said he, no longer master of him- 
 self, "take my life, but dry your tears!" 
 
 " Oh ! my love ! " cried she, in a stifled voice, 
 " these are the words, the tones, the looks, that I 
 waited for before setting your happiness above my 
 own. But, sir," she went on, "I must ask you for a 
 last proof of your affection, which you say is so 
 great. I will stay here no longer than is necessary 
 to make it thoroughly known that you are mine. I 
 would not even drink a glass of water in a house 
 where lives a woman who has twice tried to kill me, 
 who is perhaps now plotting some treason against 
 us, and who at this very moment is listening to our 
 talk," said she, guiding the marquis' eyes with her 
 finger to the floating folds of Madame du Gua's 
 dress. Then she dried her tears, and bent toward 
 the ear of the young chief, who shivered as he felt 
 himself caressed by her sweet, moist breath. 
 
 "Get ready for our departure," said she. "You 
 shall take me back to Fougeres, and there, and 
 there only, you shall know whether I love you or 
 not. For the second time I trust myself to you ; 
 will you trust yourself a second time to me ?" 
 
 " Ah, Marie ! you have brought me to such a pass 
 that I know no more what I am doing. Your 
 
282 THM CHOUANS. 
 
 words, your looks, yourself, have intoxicated me, 
 and I am ready to do anything you wish." 
 
 " Well, then, make me for a moment quite happy. 
 Let me enjoy the only triumph I have longed for. I 
 want to breathe freely once, to live the life I have 
 dreamed, and to fill myself full of my dreams, be- 
 fore they vanish. Let us go back ; come and dance 
 with me." 
 
 They returned together to the ball-room, and al- 
 though Mile, de Verneuil had received as complete 
 and hearty a satisfaction of her vanity as ever 
 woman could, the mysterious sweetness of her eyes, 
 the delicate smile on her lips, the brisk movement 
 of a lively dance, kept the secret of her thoughts as 
 the sea keeps those of a murderer who drops into it 
 a heavy corpse. Nevertheless, the company uttered 
 an admiring murmur when she threw herself into 
 the arms of her lover for the waltz, and the two, 
 voluptuously clasping each other, with languishing 
 eyes and drooping heads, whirled round, clasping 
 each other with a kind of frenzy that showed what 
 infinite pleasure they expected from a still closer 
 union. 
 
 "Count." said Madame du Gua to M. de Bauvan, 
 " go and find out if Pille-Miche is in camp ; bring 
 him to me, and be certain that you shall obtain 
 from me in return for this slight service anything 
 you wish, even my hand. My vengeance," con- 
 tinued she to herself, as she saw him go off, "will 
 cost me dear; but this time I will not miss it." 
 
 A few moments later Mile, de Verneuil and the 
 marquis were seated in a berline horsed with four 
 stout steeds. Francine, surprised at finding, the 
 two supposed enemies with clasped hands and on 
 the best of terms, sat speechless, and did not dare 
 to ask herself whether this was treachery or love 
 on her mistress' part. Thanks to the silence and to 
 the darkness of night, Montauran could not per- 
 ceive Mile, de Verneuil's agitation as she drew near 
 Fougeres. At length the feeble glimmer of dawn 
 gave a far-off sight of the steeple of Saint Leonard's, 
 and at the same moment Marie said to herself 
 "Death is near I" ' 
 
THE CH0UAN8. 283 
 
 At the first rising ground the same thought oc- 
 curred to each of the lovers. They alighted from 
 the carriage and climbed the hill on foot, as though 
 in remembrance of their first meeting. When Marie 
 had taken the marquis' arm and walked a short 
 distance she thanked the young man with a smile 
 for having respected her silence. Then, as they 
 reached the crown of the hill whence Fougeres was 
 visible, she threw aside her reverie altogether. 
 
 "You must come no farther," she said. "My 
 power would not again avail to save you from the 
 Blues to-day." 
 
 Montauran looked at her with some surprise ; she 
 gave a sad smile, pointed to a bowlder as if bidding 
 him sit down, and herself remained standing in a 
 melancholy posture. The emotions which tore her 
 soul no longer permitted her to practice the artifices 
 of which she had been so prodigal, and for the 
 moment she could have knelt on burning coals 
 without feeling them more than the marquis had 
 felt the lighted wood which he had grasped to attest 
 the violence of his passion. She gazed at her lover 
 with a look full of the profoundest grief before she 
 said to him the appalling words : 
 
 "All your suspicions of me are true !" 
 
 The marquis gave a sudden movement, but she 
 said, clasping her hands : 
 
 " For pity's sake, hear me without interruption. 
 I am really and truly," she went on, in a faltering 
 tone, "the daughter of the Duke de Vernueil, but 
 his natural daughter only. My mother, who was 
 of the house of Casteran, and who took the vail to 
 escape the sufferings which her family were pre- 
 paring for her, atoned for her fault by fifteen years 
 of weeping, and died at Seez. Only on her death- 
 bed did the dear abbess address to the man who 
 had abandoned her an entreaty in my favor; for 
 she knew that I had neither friends, prospects, nor 
 fortune. This man, never forgotten under the roof 
 of Francine's mother, to whose care I had been 
 committed, had himself forgotten his child. Never- 
 theless, the duke received me with pleasure, and 
 acknowledged me because I was be9,utifulj per- 
 
88i THE CH0UAN8. 
 
 haps, also, because I reminded him of his youth. 
 He was one of those grande seigneurs who, in the 
 former reign, prided themselves on showing how a 
 man may procure pardon for a crime by commit- 
 ting it gratefully. I will say no more— he was my 
 father ! But permit me to show you the evil effect 
 which my sojourn at Paris could not help producing 
 on my mind. The society which the Duke de Ver- 
 neuil kept, and that to which he introduced me, 
 doted on the mocking philosophy which then 
 charmed all France, because it was the rule to 
 make witty profession of it. The brilliant talk 
 which pleased my ear was recommended by its in- 
 genious observations, or by a neatly turned con- 
 tempt of religion and of truth generally. As they 
 mocked certain feelings and thoughts, men drew 
 them all the better that they did not share them, 
 and they were as agreeable by dint of their skill in 
 epigram, as by the sprightliness with which they 
 could put a whole story in a phrase. But they too 
 often made the mistake of excessive esprit, and 
 wearied women by making love a business rather 
 than an affair of the heart. I made but a weak re- 
 sistance to this torrent. I iiad a soul (pardon my 
 vanity!) sufficiently full of passion to feel that 
 esprit had withered all hearts ; but the life which 
 I then led had the result of bringing about a per- 
 petual conflict between my natural sentiments and 
 the vicious habits I had contracted. Some persons 
 of parts had delighted to foster in me that freedom 
 of thought, that contempt of public opinion, which 
 deprives woman of the modesty of soul that gives 
 her half her charm. Alas! adversity could not 
 eradicate the faults which prosperity had caused. 
 My father," she continued, after heaving a sigh, 
 "the Duke de Verneuil, died after formally ac- 
 knowledging me, and making in my favor a will 
 which considerably diminished the fortune of my 
 brother, his legitimate son. One morning I found 
 myself without a shelter and without a guardian. 
 My brother contested the will which made me a 
 rich woman. Three years spent in a wealthy house- 
 hold had developed my vanity, and my father, by 
 
THE CHOUANS. 285 
 
 gratifying my every wish, had created in me a 
 craving for luxury and habits of indulgence, the 
 tyranny of which my young and simple mind did 
 not comprehend. A friend of my father, the 
 Marshal-Duke de Lenoncourt, who was seventy 
 years old, offered to be my guardian ; I accepted, 
 and few days after the beginning of the hateful 
 lawsuit, I found myself once more in a splendid 
 establishment, where I enjoyed all the advantages 
 which my brother's cruelty had refused me over 
 my father's coffin. Every evening the marshal 
 spent some hours with me, and the old man spoke 
 all the time nothing but words of gentle consola- 
 tion. His whole air and the various touching proofs 
 of paternal tenderness which he gave me seemed to 
 guarantee that his heart held no other sentiments 
 than my own, and I was glad to think myself his 
 daughter. I accepted the jewels he offered me, 
 and hid from him none of the fancies which I found 
 him so glad to satisfy. One evening I learned that 
 the whole town thought me the poor old man's mis- 
 tress. It was demonstrated to me that it was out 
 of my power to regain the reputation for innocence 
 of which society causelessly robbed me. The man 
 who had practiced on my inexperience could not be 
 my lover, and would not be my husband. In the 
 very same week in which I made the hideous dis- 
 covery — on the very eve of the day fixed for my 
 marriage with him (for I had insisted on bearing 
 his name, the only reparation he could make me) — 
 he fled to Coblentz. I was insultingly driven from 
 the little house in which the marshal had placed 
 me, and which did not belong to him. So far I 
 have told you the truth, as if I were in the presence 
 of God himslf ; but from this point ask not, I pray 
 you, from a wretched girl, an exact account of the 
 miseries buried in her memory. One day, sir, I 
 found myself united to Danton A few days later 
 the huge oak round which I had cast my arms was 
 uprooted by the storm. When I saw myself once 
 more immersed in poverty I made up my mind to 
 die. I know not whether I was unconsciously 
 counseled by love of life, by the hope of wearing 
 
286 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 out my ill-luck and finding at the bottom of this 
 interminable abyss the happiness which fled my 
 grasp, or whether I was won over by the arguments 
 of a young man of Vendome, who for two years 
 past has fastened himself on me like a serpent on a 
 tree, in the belief, no doubt, that some extremity 
 of misfortune may induce me to yield to him. In 
 fine I cannot tell why I accepted the odious mission 
 of making myself beloved by a stranger whom I 
 was to betray for the price of three hundred thou 
 sand francs. I saw you, sir, and I recognized you 
 at once by one of those presentiments which never 
 deceive us ; yet I amused myself by doubting, for 
 the more I loved you the more the conviction of my 
 love was terrible to me. Thus, in saving you from 
 the hands of Commandant Hulot, I threw up my 
 part, and resolved to deceive the executioners, and 
 not their victim. I was wrong to play thus with 
 men's lives, with policy, and with my own self, 
 after the fashion of a careless girl who sees nothing 
 in the world but sentiment. I thought I was loved, 
 and in the hope of a new beginning of life I let 
 myself drift. But all things, myself perhaps in- 
 cluded, betrayed my past excesses ; for you must 
 have had your suspicions of a woman so full of 
 passion as I am. Alas ! can any one refuse pardon 
 to my love, and my dissembling? Yes, sir! it 
 seemed to me that I was awaking from a long and 
 painful sleep, and that at my waking I found my 
 self once more sixteen. Was I not in Alencon, 
 which was connected with the chaste and pure 
 memories of my youth? I was simple enough, I 
 was mad enough, to believe that love would give 
 me baptism of innocence. For a moment I thought 
 myself still a maid because I had never yet loved. 
 But yesterday evening your passion seemed to me a 
 real passion, and a voice asked me, 'Why deceive 
 him?' Know, then, lord marquis," she continued in 
 a deep tone, which seemed proudly to challenge 
 reprobation, "know it well that I am but a creature 
 without honor, unworthy of you. From this mo- 
 ment I take up my part of wanton once more, weary 
 of playing that of a woman to whom you had re- 
 
TEE CHOUANS. 287 
 
 stored all the chastities of the heart. Virtue is too 
 heavy a load for me, and I should despise you if 
 you were weak enough to wed me. A Count de 
 Bauvan might commit a folly of that kind, but you, 
 sir, be worthy of your own future, and leave me 
 without a regret. The courtesan in me, look you, 
 would be too exacting ; she would love you in an- 
 other fashion from that of the simple, innocent girl 
 who felt in her heart for one instant the exquisite 
 hope of some day being your companion, of making 
 you ever happy, of doing you honor, of becoming a 
 noble and worthy wife to you ; and who, from this 
 sentiment, has drawn the courage to revive her evil 
 nature of vice and infamy, in order to set an eternal 
 barrier between you and herself. To you I sacri- 
 fice honor and fortune ; my pride in this sacrifice 
 will support me in my misery, and fate may do 
 with me as it will. I will never give you up to 
 them. I shall return to Paris, where your name 
 shall be to me as another self, and the splendid dis- 
 tinction which you will give it will console me for 
 all my woes. As for you, you are a man ; you will 
 not forget me. Farewell!" 
 
 She darted away in the direction of the valleys of 
 Saint Sulpice, and disappeared before the marquis 
 could rise to stop her. But she doubled back on her 
 steps, availed herself of a hollow rock as a hiding- 
 place, raised her head, scrutinized Montauran with 
 a curiosity which was mingled with doubt, and 
 saw him walking he knew not whither, like a man 
 overwhelmed. 
 
 "Is he, then, but a weakling?" she said, when he 
 was lost to sight, and she felt that they were parted. 
 " Will he understand me ?" 
 
 She shuddered ; then she bent her steps suddenly 
 and rapidly toward Fougeres, as if she feared that 
 the marquis would folow to the town, where death 
 awaited him. 
 
 " Well, Fran cine, what did he say to you?" she 
 asked her faithful Breton maid when they met 
 again. 
 
 "Alas! Marie, I pity him! You great ladies 
 make your tongues daggers to stab men with." 
 
m TEE CH0UAN8. 
 
 " What did he look like, then, when he met you?" 
 
 "Do you think he even saw me? Oh, Marie, he 
 loves you!" 
 
 "Ah, yes," answered she, "he loves me, or he 
 loves me not — two words which mean heaven or 
 hell to me. Between the extremes I see no middle 
 space on which I can set my foot." 
 
 Having thus worked out her terrible fate, Marie 
 could give herself up entirely to sorrow, and the 
 countenance which she had kept up hitherto by a 
 mixture of diverse sentiments experienced so rapid 
 a change that, after a day in which she hovered 
 unceasingly between presages of happiness and 
 forebodings of despair, she lost the fresh and radi- 
 ant beauty whose first cause lies either in the ab- 
 sence of all passion or in the intoxication of hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Curious to know the result of her wild enterprise, 
 Hulot and Corentin had called upon Marie shortly 
 after her arrival. She received them with a smil- 
 ing air. 
 
 " Well," said she to the commandant, whose 
 anxious face expressed considerable inquisitiveness, 
 "the fox has come back within range oi your guns, 
 and you will soon gain a glorious victory !" 
 
 "What has happened, then?" asked Corentin, 
 carelessly, but casting on Mile, de Verneuil one of 
 the sidelong glances by which diplomatists of this 
 stamp spy out others' thoughts. 
 
 "Why," she answered, "the Gars is more in love 
 with me than ever, and I made him come with us 
 up to the very gates of Fougeres. " 
 
 " It would appear that your power ceased there," 
 retorted Corentin, "and that the ci-devant's fear is 
 stronger than the love with which you inspired 
 him." 
 
 Mile, de Vecnueil threw a scornful look at Coren- 
 tin. 
 
 "You judge him by yourself," answered she. 
 
 "Well," said he, without showing any emotion, 
 "why did you not bring him straight to us?" 
 
 "If he really loves me, commandant," said she to 
 Hulot, with a Haalicious look, " would you never for- 
 
THE cnouAm. ssa 
 
 give me if I saved him by taking him away from 
 France?" 
 
 The old soldier stepped briskly up to her, and 
 seized her hand to kiss it, with a kind of enthusi- 
 asm. But then he looked steadily at her and said, 
 his face darkening : 
 
 " You forget my two friends and my sixty -three 
 men" 
 
 " Ah !_ commandant," she said, with all the naivete 
 of passion, " that was not his fault. He was duped 
 by a wicked woman, Charette's mistress, who I 
 believe would drink the blood of the Blues." 
 
 "Come, Marie," said Corentin, "do not play tricks 
 with the commandant; he does not understand your 
 pleasantries yet." 
 
 "Be silent," she answered, "and know that the 
 day when you become a little too repulsive to me 
 will be your last." 
 
 "I see, mademoiselle," said Hulot, without bitter- 
 nesSj^ "that I must make ready for battle." 
 
 "You are not in case to give it, my dear colonel. 
 At Saint James I saw that they had more than six 
 thousand men, with regular troops, artillery, and 
 English officers. But what would become of all 
 these folks without him? I hold with Fouche, that 
 his head is everything." 
 
 " Well, shall we have his head ?" asked Corentin, 
 out of patience. 
 
 "I don't know," said she, carelessly. 
 
 "English!" cried Hulot, angrily; "that was the 
 only thing wanting to make him out and out a 
 brigand. Ah, I'll English you, I will!" But he 
 added to Corentin, when they were a little distance 
 from the house, " It would appear, citizen diploma- 
 tist, that you let yourself be routed at regular inter- 
 vals hj that girl. " 
 
 "It is very natural, citizen commandant," an- 
 swered Corentin, thoughtfully, "that you should 
 not have known what to make of all she said to us. 
 You military gentlemen do not perceive that there 
 are more ways of making war than one. To make 
 cunning use of the passions of men and women, as 
 though they were springs worked upon for the 
 
230 THE caoVANS. 
 
 benefit of the state, to adjust all the wheels in the 
 mighty machine which we call a government, to 
 take delight in shutting up in it the most refractory- 
 sentiments like catch-springs, to be watched over 
 for amusement — is not this to be an actual creator, 
 and to put one's self, like God, at the center of the 
 universe?" 
 
 " You will be good enough to let me prefer my 
 trade to yours," replied the soldier, dryly. "You 
 may do what you like with your machinery, but I 
 acknowledge no other superior than the Minister of 
 War. I have my orders ; I shall begin my opera- 
 tions with fellows who will not sulk or shirk, and I 
 shall meet in front the foe whom you want to steal 
 on from behind." 
 
 "Oh, you can get into marching order if you 
 like," answered Corentin. "From what the girl lets 
 me guess, enigmatic as she seems to you, you will 
 have some skirmishing, and I shall procure you 
 before long the pleasure of a chat with the brigand 
 chief." 
 
 "How so?" said Hulot, stepping back to get a bet- 
 ter view of this strange personage. 
 
 "Mile, de Verneuil loves the Gars," said Corentin, 
 in a stifled voice, "and perhaps he loves her. A 
 marquis with the red ribbon, young, able, perhaps 
 even (for who knows?) still rich — there are suffici- 
 ent temptations for you. She would be a fool not 
 to fight for her own hand, and try to marry him 
 rather than give him up. She is trying to throw 
 dust in our eyes, but I read in her own some irreso- 
 lution. In all probability the two lovers will have 
 an assignation; perhaps it is already arranged. 
 Well, then, to-morrow I shall have my man fast ! 
 Hitherto he has only been the Eepublic's enemy; a 
 few minutes since he became mine. Now, every 
 man who has taken a fancy to get between me and 
 that girl has died on the scaffold." 
 
 When he had finished Corentin fell back into a 
 study, which prevented him from seeing the intense 
 disgust depicted on the countenance of the gener- 
 ous soldier, as he fathomed the depth of the intrigue 
 and the working of the engines employed by 
 
TEE CtiOUAtrS. 291 
 
 Fouche. And so Hulot made up his mind to thwart 
 Corentin in every point not absolutely hurtful to 
 the success and the objects of the government, and 
 to give the Republic's foe the chance of dying with 
 honor and sword in hand before becoming the prey 
 of the executioner, whose jackal this agent of the 
 superior police avowed himself to be. 
 
 "If the First Consul would listen to me," said he 
 to himself, turning his back on Corentin, " he would 
 let these foxes and the aristocrats, who are worthy 
 of each other, fight it out between them, and em- 
 ploy soldiers on very different business. " 
 
 Corentin on his side looked coolly at the soldier, 
 whose face had now betrayed his thoughts, and his 
 eyes recovered the sardonic expression which 
 snowed the superior intelligence of this subaltern 
 Machiavel. 
 
 " Give three yards of blue cloth to brutes of this 
 kid," thought he, " stick a piece of iron by their 
 sides, and they will fancy that in politics there is 
 only one proper way of killing a man." He paced 
 up and down slowly for a few moments then he 
 said to himself, suddenly, "Yes! the hour is come. 
 The woman shall be mine ! For five years the circle 
 I have drawn round her has narrowed, little by 
 little. I have her now, and with her help I will 
 climb as high in the government as Fouche. Yes ! 
 let her lose the one man she has loved, and grief 
 will give her to me body and soul. It only remains 
 to watch night and day in order to discover her 
 secret." 
 
 A minute later an observer might have descried 
 Oorentin's pale face across the window-panes of a 
 house whence he could inspect every living thing 
 that entered the cul-de-sac formed by the row of 
 houses running parallel to Saint Leonard's Church. 
 With the patience of a cat watching a mouse, 
 Corentin was still, on the morning of the next day, 
 giving heed to the least noise, and severely scruti- 
 nizing every passer-by. The day then beginning 
 was a market-day. Although in these unfortunate 
 times the peasants were with difficulty induced to 
 risk themselves in the tewn, Corentin saw a man 
 
M TEECEOVANS. 
 
 of a gloomy countenance, dressed in a goatskin, 
 and carrying on his arm a small round flat basket, 
 who was making his way toward Mile, de Verneuil's 
 house, after casting round him glances indifferent 
 enough. Cor en tin went down stairs, intending to 
 wait for the peasant when he came out, but sud- 
 denly it occurred to him that if he could make a 
 sudden appearance at Mile, de Verneuil's he might 
 perhaps surprise at a single glance the secrets hidden 
 in the messenger's basket. Besides, common fame 
 had taught him that it was almost impossible to get 
 the better of the impenetrable answers of Bretons 
 and Normans. 
 
 "Galope-Chopine!" cried Mile, de Verneuil, when 
 Francine ushered in the Chouan. " Can it be that 
 I am loved?" she added, in a whisper to herself. 
 
 An instinct of hope shed the brightest hues over 
 her complexion, and diffused joy throughout her 
 heart. Galope-Chopine looked from the mistress of 
 the house to Francine, his glances at the latter 
 being full of mistrust, but a gesture from Mile, de 
 Verneuil reassured him. 
 
 "Madam," said he, "toward the stroke of two he 
 will be at my house, and will wait for you there." 
 
 Her emotions allowed Mile, de Verneuil to make 
 no other reply than an inclination of the head, but 
 a Samoyede could have understood the full mean- 
 ing of this. At the very same moment the steps of 
 Corentin echoed in the saloon. Galope-Chopine did 
 not disturb himself in the least when Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil's start and her looks at once showed him a 
 danger-signal ; and as soon as the spy exhibited his 
 cunning face the Chouan raised his voice ear- 
 piercingly : 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said he to Francine, "there is Breton 
 butter and Breton butter. You want Gibarry but- 
 ter, and you will only give eleven sous the pound 
 You ought not to have sent for me. That is good 
 butter, that is!" said he, opening his basket and 
 showmg two little pats of butter of Barbette's mak- 
 ing. "You must pay a fair price, good lady. Come, 
 let us say another sou!" 
 
 His hollow voice showed not the least anxiety, 
 
TUE CH0UAN8. 293 
 
 and his green eyes, shaded by thick, grizzly eye- 
 brows, bore without flinching Corentin's piercing 
 gaze. 
 
 "Come, good fellow, hold your tongue. You did 
 not come here to sell butter, for you are dealing 
 with a lady who never cheapened anything in her 
 life. Your business, old boy, is one which will 
 make you a head shorter some day !" And Corentin, 
 with a friendly clap on the shoulder, added, " You 
 can't go on long serving both Chouans and Blues." 
 
 Galope-Chopine had need of all his presence of 
 mind to gulp down his wrath without denying this 
 charg-e, which, owing to his avarice, was a true 
 one. He contented himself with replying : 
 
 " The gentleman is pleased to be merry " 
 
 Corentin had turned his back on the Chouan, but 
 in the act of saluting Mile, de Verneuil, whose heart 
 was in her mouth, he was easily able to keep an 
 eye on him in the mirror. Galope-Chopine, who 
 thought himself out of the spy's sight, questioned 
 Francine with a look, and Francine pointed to the 
 door, saying, " Come with me, good man ; we shall 
 come to terms, no doubt. " 
 
 Nothing had escaped Corentin, neither the tight- 
 ened lips which Mile, de Verneuil's smile hid but 
 ill nor her blush, nor her altered expression, nor 
 the Chouan's anxiety, nor Francine's gesture. He 
 had seen it all, and, convinced that Galope-Chopine 
 was an emissary of the marquis, he stopped him as 
 he was going out. by catching hold of the long hair 
 of his goatskin, brought him in front of himself, 
 and looked straight at him, saying: 
 
 "Where do you live, good friend? I want some 
 butter." 
 
 "Good gentleman," answered the Chouan, "all 
 Fougeres knows where I live. I am, as you say " 
 
 "Corentin!" cried Mile, de Verneuil, interrupting 
 Galope-Chonine's answer, "you are very forward to 
 pav me visits at this hour, and to catch me like 
 this, scarcely dressed. Let the peasant alone. He 
 does not understand your tricks any more than I 
 understand their object. Go, good fellow." 
 
 Galope-Chopine hesitated for a moment before 
 
294 TEE CEOXfAm. 
 
 going. His irresolution, whether it were real of 
 feigned, as of a poor wretch who did not know 
 which of the two to obey, had already begun to im- 
 pose on Corentin, when the Chouan, at a command- 
 ing signal from the young lady, departed with 
 heavy steps. Mile, de Verneuil and Correntin gazed 
 at each other in silence ; and this time Marie's clear 
 eyes could not endure the blaze of dry light which 
 poured from the man's looks. The air of resolve 
 with which the spy had entered the room, an ex- 
 pression on his face which was strange to Marie, 
 the dull sound of his squeaky voice, his attitude — 
 all alarmed her ; she understood that a secret-strug- 
 gle was beginning between them, and that he was 
 straining all the power of his sinister influence 
 against her. But if at the moment she caught a 
 full and distinct view of the abyss toward which 
 she was hastening, she drew from her love strength 
 to shake off the icy chill of her presentiments. 
 
 "Corentin!" she said, merrily enough, "I hope 
 you will be good enough to allow me to finish my 
 toilet." 
 
 "Marie," said he— "yes, give me leave to call you 
 so — you do not know me yet. Listen ! a less sharp- 
 sighted man than myself would have already dis- 
 covered your affection for the Marquis of Montau- 
 ran. I have again and again offered you my heart 
 and my hand. You did not think me worthy of 
 you, and perhaps you are right. But if you think 
 your station too lofty, your beauty or your mind too 
 great for me. I can find means to draw you down to 
 my level. My ambition and my precepts have not 
 inspired you with much esteem for me, and here, to 
 speak frankly, you are wrong. Men, as a rule, are 
 not worth even my estimate of them, which is next 
 to nothing. I shall attain of a certainty to a high 
 position the honors of which will please you. Who 
 can love you better, who can make you more com- 
 pletely mistress of hknself than the man who has 
 already loved you for five years? Although -1 run 
 the risk of seeing you conceive an unfavorable idea 
 of me, for you do not believe it possible to renounce 
 the person one adores through mere excess of love, 
 
TBE CHOUAJfa. 295 
 
 I will give you the measure of the disinterestedness 
 of my affection for you. Do not shake your pretty 
 head in that way. If the marquis loves you marry 
 him, but make yourself quite sure first of his sin- 
 cerity. I should be in despair if I knew you had 
 been deceived, for I prefer your happiness to my 
 own. My resolution may surprise you ; but pray 
 attribute it to nothing but the common sense of a 
 man who is not fool enough to wish to possess a 
 woman against her will. And so it is myself, and 
 not you, whom I hold guilty of the uselessness of 
 my efforts. I hope to gain you by force of submis- 
 sion and devotion, for, as you know, I have long 
 sought to make you happy after my own fashion, 
 but you have never chosen to reward me in any 
 way." 
 
 " I have endured your company," she said, 
 haughtUy. 
 
 "Add that you are sorry for having done so." 
 
 " After the disgraceful plot in which you have en- 
 tangled me, must I still thank you?" 
 
 " When I suggested to you an enterprise which 
 was not blameless in the eyes of timid souls," an- 
 swered he, boldly, " I had nothing but your good 
 fortune in view. For my own part, whether I ^ in 
 or fail, I shall find means of making either result 
 useful to the success of my designs. If you married 
 Montauran I should be charmed to do yeoman's 
 service to the Bourbon cause at Paris, where I be- 
 long to the Clichy Club. Any incident which put 
 me in communication with the princes would de- 
 cide me to abandon the interests of a Eepublic 
 which is rapidly hastening to its decline and fall. 
 General Bonaparte is too clever not to feel that he 
 cannot be in Germany, in Italy, and here, where 
 the Revolution is succumbing all at once. It is 
 pretty clear that he brought about the 18th Bru- 
 maire only to stand on better terms with the Bour- 
 bons in treating with them concerning France, for 
 he is a fellow with his wits about him, and with 
 foresight ^nough. But men of policy must antici- 
 pate him on his own road. A scruple about betray- 
 ing France is but one more of those which we meu 
 
298 THE Clio TTANS. ' " 
 
 of parts leave to fools. I will not hide from you 
 that I have all necessary powers for treating with 
 the Chouan chiefs, as well as for arranging their 
 ruin. My patron, Fouche, is deep enough, and has 
 always played a double game. During the Terror 
 he was at once for Eobespierre and for Danton " 
 
 " Whom you basely deserted," said she. 
 
 "Nonsense!" answered Corentin. "He is dead; 
 think not of him. Come! speak to me frankly, 
 since I have set you the example. This demi- 
 brigadier is sharper than he looks, and if you wish 
 to outwit his vigilance I might be of some service 
 to you. Eemember that he has filled the valleys 
 with counter-Chouans, and would quickly get wind 
 of your rendezvous. If you stay here under his 
 eyes you are at the mercy of his police. Only see 
 how qucikly he found out that this Chouan was in 
 your house! Must not his sagacity as a soldier 
 show him that your least movements will be a tell- 
 tale to him of those of the marquis, if the marquis 
 loves you?" 
 
 Mil©, de Verneuil had never heard a voice so 
 genti^y affectionate. Corentin seemed to speak in 
 entire good faith and full trust. The poor girl's 
 heart was so susceptible to generous impressions 
 that she was on the point of yielding her secret to 
 the serpent who was winding his coils round her. 
 But she bethought her that there was no proof of 
 the sincerity of this artful language, and so she had 
 no scruple in duping him who was acting the spy 
 on her. 
 
 "Well, Corentin," said she, "you have guesesd 
 aright. Yes, I love the marquis, but he loves not 
 me; at least, I fear it, for the rendezvous which he 
 has given me seems to hide some trap." 
 
 "But," said Corentin, "you told us yesterday that 
 he had accompanied you to ffougeres. Had he 
 wished to use violence toward you you would not be 
 here." 
 
 "Corentin, your heart is seared. You can calcu- 
 late scientifically on the course of human life in 
 general, and yet not on those of a single passion, 
 erhaps this is the reason of the constant repulsion 
 
THE OHOTIANS. 297 
 
 1 feel for you. But since you are so perspicacious, 
 try to guess why a man from whom I parted 
 roughly the day before yesterday is impatiently ex- 
 pecting me to-day on the Mayenne road, in a house 
 at Florigny, toward evening." 
 
 At this confession, which seemed to have escaped 
 her in a moment of excitement natural enough to 
 a creature so frank and so passionate, Corentin 
 flushed, for he was still young. He cast sidewise 
 on her one of those piercing glances which quest 
 for the soul. Mile, de Verneuil's naivete was so 
 well feigned that she deceived the spy, and he an- 
 swered with artificial good-nature : 
 
 " Would you like me to accompany you at a dis- 
 tance? I would take some disguised soldiers with 
 me, and we should be at your orders." 
 
 "Agreed," she said, "but promise me on your 
 honor — ah, no ! I do not believe in that ; on your 
 salvation — but you do not believe in God ; on your 
 soul — but perhaps you have none. What guarantee 
 of fidelity can you give me? Still, I will trust you, 
 and I put in your hands what is more than my life 
 — either my vengeance or my love 1" 
 
 The faint smile which appeared on Corentin's 
 pale countenance acquainted Mlie. de Verneuil with 
 the danger she had just avoided. The agent, his 
 nostrils contracting instead of dilating, took his 
 victim's hand, kissed it with marks of the deepest 
 respect, and left her with a bow which was not de- 
 void of elegance. Three hours after this interview 
 Mile, de Verneuil, who feared Corentin's return, 
 slipped furtively out of the gate of Saint Leonard, 
 and gained the little path of the Nid-aux-Crocs, lead- 
 ing to the Nancon Valley. She thought herself 
 safe as she passed unnoticed through the labyrinth 
 of tracks leading to Galope-Chopine's cabin, whither 
 she advanced gayly, led by the hope of at last find- 
 ing happiness, and by the' desire of extricating her 
 lover from his threatened fate. Meanwhile Coren- 
 tin was engaged in hunting for the commandant. 
 It was with difficulty that he recognized Hulot 
 when he found him in a small open space, where he 
 was busy with some military preparations. The 
 
298 THE CBOUANS. 
 
 brave veteran had indeed made a sacrifice, tb* 
 taerit of which can hardly be put sufficiently high. 
 His pigtail and his mustaches were shaved, and his 
 hair, arranged like a priest's, had a dash of pow- 
 der. Shod with great hobnailed shoes, his old blue 
 uniform and his sword exchanged for a goat-skin, 
 a belt garnished with pistols, and a heavy rifle, he 
 was inspecting two hundred men of Fougeres, 
 wbose dress might have deceived the eyes of the 
 most experienced Chouan. The warlike spirit of » 
 the little town and the Breton character were both 
 exhibited in this scene, which was not the first of 
 its kind. Here and there mothers and sisters were 
 bringing to their sons and brothers brandy-flasks 
 or pistols which had been forgotten. More than 
 one old man was examining the number and good- 
 ness of the cartridges carried by these National 
 Guards, who were disguised as counter-Chouans, 
 and whose cheerfulness seemed rather to indicate 
 a hunting-party than a dangerous expedition. For 
 them the skirmishes of the Chouan war, where the 
 Bretons of the towns fought with the Bretons of the 
 country, seemed to have taken the place of the 
 tourneys of chivalry. This patriotic enthusiasm 
 perhaps owed its origin to the acquisition of some 
 of the confiscated property ; but much of its ardor 
 was also due to the better appreciation of the bene- 
 fits of the Revolution which existed in the towns, to 
 party fidelity, and to a certain love of war, charac- 
 teristic of the race. Hulot was struck with admir- 
 ation as he went through the ranks asking informa- 
 tion from Gudin, on whom he had bestowed all the 
 friendly feeling which had formerly been allotted to 
 Merle and Gerard. A considerable number of the 
 townsmen were spectators of the preparations for 
 the expedition, and were able to compare the bear- 
 ing of their noisy comrades with chat of a battalion 
 of Hulot's demi-brigade. The Blues, motionless, in 
 faultless line, and silent, waited for the orders of 
 the commandant, whom the eyes of each soldier 
 followed as he,went from group to group. When 
 he came up to the old officer, Corentin could not 
 help smiling at the change in Hulot's appearance. 
 
TEE emu AM. 299 
 
 He looked like a portrait which has lost its resem- 
 blance to the original. 
 
 " What is up?" asked Corentin of him. 
 
 "Come and fire a shot with us, and you will 
 know," answered the commandant. 
 
 "Oh! lam not a Fougeres man," replied Coren- 
 tin. 
 
 "We can all see that, citizen," said Gudin, and 
 some mocking laughter came from the neighboring 
 groups. 
 
 "Do you think," retorted Corentin, "that there is 
 no way of saving France but with bayonets ?" and 
 he turned his back on the laughers, and addressed 
 himself to a woman in order to learn the purpose 
 and destination of this expedition. 
 
 "Alas! good sir, the Chouans are already at 
 Florigny. 'Tis said that there are more than three 
 thousand of them, and that they are coming to take 
 Fougeres." 
 
 " Florigny !" cried Corentin, growing pale ; "then, 
 that cannot be the meeting-place ! Do you mean," 
 he went on, "Florigny on the Mayenne road?" 
 
 "There are not two Florignys," answered the 
 woman, pointing to the road which ended at the 
 top of the Pilgrim. 
 
 "Are you going after the Marquis of Montauran?" 
 asked Corentin of the commandant. 
 
 "Eather," answered Hulot, roughly. 
 
 " He is not at Florigny," replied Corentin. " Send 
 your battalion and the National Guards thither, but 
 keep some of your counter-Chouans with yourself, 
 and wait for me." 
 
 " He is too sly to be mad," cried the commandant, 
 as he saw Corentin stride hastily off. " Tis cer^ 
 tainly the king of spies." 
 
 At the same time he gave his battalion the order 
 to march, and the Republican soldiers went silently. 
 and without beat of drum, through the narrow sub- 
 urb which leads to the Mayenne road, marking 
 against the houses and the trees a long line of blue 
 and red. The disguised National Guards followed 
 them, but Hulot remained in the little square, with 
 Gudin and a score of picked young townsmen, 
 
SOO TSE CBOUANS. 
 
 waiting for Corentin, whose air of mystery had ex- 
 cited his curiosity. Francine herself told the wary 
 spy of the departure of Mile, de Verneuil ; all his 
 suspicions at once became certainties, and he went 
 forth to gain new light on this deservedly question- 
 able absence. Learnicig from the guard at the 
 Porte Saint Leonard that the fair stranger had 
 passed by the Nid-aux-Crocs, Corentin ran to the 
 walks, and, as ill-luck would have it, reached them 
 just in time to perceive all Marie's movements. 
 Although she had put on a gown and hood of green 
 in order to be less conspicuous the quick motion of 
 her almost frenzied steps showed clearly enough, 
 through the leafless and hoar-frosted hedges, the 
 direction of her journey. 
 
 "Ah!" cried he, "you ought to be making for 
 Florigny, and you are going down toward the val- 
 ley of Gibarryl I am but a simpleton; she has 
 duped me. But patience ! I can light my lamp by 
 day as well as by night." And then, having pretty 
 nearly guessed the place of the lovers' assignation, 
 he ran to the square at the very moment when 
 Hulot was about to quit it and follow up his troops. 
 
 "Halt, general!" he cried to the commandant, 
 who turned back. 
 
 In a moment Corentin had acquainted the soldier 
 with incidents, the connecting web of which, 
 though hid. had allowed some of its threads to ap- 
 pear ; and Htilot, struck by the agent's shrewdness, 
 clutched his arm briskly. 
 
 "A thousand thunders! Citizen Inquisitive, you 
 are right ! The brigands are making a feint down 
 there ! The two flying columns that I sent to beat 
 the neighborhood between the Antrain and the 
 Vitre roads have liot come back yet, and so we 
 shall find in the country reinforcements which will 
 be useful, for the Gars is not fool enough to risk 
 himself without his cursed screech-owls at hand. 
 Gudin!" said he to the young Fougeres man, "run 
 and tell Captain Lebrun that he can do without me 
 in drubbing the brigands at Florigny, and then 
 come back in no time. You know the by-paths. I 
 shall wait for you to hunt up the ci-devant and 
 
THE CHOUANS. 301 
 
 avenge the murders at the Vivetiere. God's thun^ 
 der! how he runs!" added he, looking at Gudin, 
 who vanished as if by maeic " Would not Gerard 
 have loved the boy?" 
 
 When he came back Gudin found Hulot's little 
 force increased by some soldiers drawn from the 
 various guard-houses of the town. The comman- 
 dant bade the young man pick out a dozen of his 
 fellow-towftsmen who had most experience in the 
 difficult business of counterfeiting the Chouans, 
 and ordered him to make his way by Saint Leon- 
 ard's Gate, so as to take the route to the rear of 
 the heights of Saint Sulpice facing the great valley 
 of the Couesnon, where was the cottage of Galope- 
 Chopine. Then he put himself at the head of the 
 rest of the force, and left by the Porte Saint Sul- 
 
 Eice, meaning to gain the crest of the hills where 
 e, according to his plans, expected to meet Beau- 
 Pied and his men. With these he intended to 
 strengthen a cordon of sentries whose business was 
 to watch the rocks from the Faubourg Saint Sul- 
 spice to the Nid-aux-Crocs. Corentin, confident 
 that he had placed the fate of the Chouan chief in 
 the hands of his most implacable enemies, went 
 rapidly to the promenade in order to get a better 
 view of Hulot's dispositions as a whole. It was not 
 long before he saw Gudin's little party debouching 
 by the Fancon dale, and following the rocks along 
 the side of the great Couesnon Valley ; while Hulot, 
 slipping out * along the castle of Fougeres, climbed 
 the dangerous path which led to the crest of the 
 Saint Sulpice crags. In this manner the two parties 
 were working on parallel lines. The trees and 
 bushes, richly arabesqued by the hoar-frost, threw 
 over the country a white gleam, against which it 
 was easy to see the two detachments moving like 
 gray lines. As soon as he had arrived at the table- 
 land on the top of the rocks Hulot separated from 
 his force all those soldiers who were in uniform ; 
 and Corentin saw them, under the skillful orders of 
 
 • The word used, defmsquard, is the technical sporting term for a wolf 
 leaving its lair.— TVatwtotor's Nott. 
 
302 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 the commandant, drawing up a line of perambula- 
 ting sentinels, parted each from each by a suitable 
 space ; the first was to be in touch with Gudin and 
 the last with Hulot, so that not so much as a bush 
 could escape the bayonets of these three moTing 
 lines who were about to track down the Gars across 
 the hills and fields. 
 
 "He is cunning, the old watch-dog!" cried Cor- 
 entin, as he lost sight of the last flashes of the gun 
 barrels amid the ajoncs. "The Gars' goose is 
 cooked ! If Marie had betrayed this d d mar- 
 quis she and I should have been united by the firm- 
 est of all ties, that of disgrace. But all the same, 
 she shall be mine !" 
 
 The twelve young men of Fougeres, led by Sub- 
 lieutenant Gudin, soon gained the slope where the 
 Saint Sulpice crags sink down in smaller hills to 
 the valley of Gibarry. Gudin, for his part, left the 
 roads, and jumped lightly over the bar of the first 
 broom-field he came to, being followed by six of his 
 fellows ; the others, by his orders, made their way 
 into the fields toward the right, so as to beat the 
 ground on each side of the road. Gudin darted 
 briskly toward an apple-tree which stood in the 
 midst of the broom. At the rustle made by the 
 march of the six counter-Chouans whom he led 
 across this broom forest, trying not to disturb its 
 frosted tufts, seven or eight men, at whose head 
 was Beau-Pied, hid themselves behind some chest- 
 nut trees which crowned the hedge of the field. 
 Despite the white gleam which lighted up the coun- 
 try, and despite their own sharp eyesight, the 
 Fougeres party did not at first perceive the others, 
 who had sheltered themselves behind the trees. 
 
 "Hist! here they are!" said Beau-Pied, the first 
 to raise his head, "the brigands have got in front 
 of us, but as we have got them at the end of our 
 guns, don't let us miss them, or, by J,uve! we 
 sha'n't deserve to be even the Pope's soldiers!" 
 
 However, Gudin's piercing eyes had at last 
 noticed certain gun-barrels leveled at his little 
 party. At the same moment, with a bitter mock- 
 ery, eight deep voices cried, " Qui vive ?" and eight 
 
THE emu AM. 803 
 
 gunshots followed. The balls whistled round the 
 counter-Chouans, of whom one received a wound in 
 ftie arm, and another fell. The five men of Fou- 
 geres who remained unhurt answered with a^vol- 
 ley, shouting, "Friends!" Then they rushed lipon 
 their supposed enemies so as to close with them 
 before they could reload. 
 
 "We did not know we spoke so much truth!" 
 cried the young sub-lieutenant, as he recognized 
 the uniform and the battered hats of his own demi- 
 brigade. " We have done like true Bretons — f ough"; 
 first, and asked c^uestions afterward." 
 
 The eight soldiers stood astounded as they recog- 
 nized Gudin. " Confound it, sir ! Who the devil 
 would not have taken you for brigands with your 
 goatskins?" cried Beau-Pied, mournfully. 
 
 " It is a piece of ill-luck, and nobody is to blame, 
 since you had no notice that our counter-Chouans 
 were going to make a sally. But what have you 
 been doing?" 
 
 " We are hunting a dozen Chouans, sir, who are 
 amusing themselves by breaking our backs. We 
 have been running like poisoned rats, and what 
 with jumping over these bars and hedges (may 
 thunder confound them!) our legs are worn out, 
 and we are taking a rest. I think the brigands 
 must be now somewhere about the hut where you 
 see the smoke rising." 
 
 "Good!" cried Gudin. "Fall back," added he to 
 Beau-Pied and his eight men, "across the fields to 
 the Saint Sulpice rocks, and support the line of 
 sentries that the commandant has posted there. 
 You must not stay with us, because you are in uni- 
 form. Odds cartridges ! We are trying to get hold 
 of the dogs, for the Gars is among them. Your 
 comrades will tell you more than I can. File to the 
 right, and don't pull trigger on six others of our 
 goatskins that you may meet. You will know our 
 counter-Chouans by their neckerchiefs, which are 
 coiled round without a knot." 
 
 Gudin deposited his two wounded men under the 
 apple tree, and continued his way to Galope- 
 Ohopine's house, which Beau-Pied had Just pointed 
 
S04 TRE CHOUANS. 
 
 out to him, and the smoke of which served as a 
 landmark. While the young officer had thus got 
 on the track of the Chouans by a collision common 
 enough in this war, but which might have had 
 more fatal results, the little detachment which 
 Hulot himself commanded had reached on its own 
 line of operations a point parallel to that at which 
 Gudin had arrived on his. The old soldier, at the 
 head of his counter-Chouans, slipped silently among 
 the hedges with all the eagerness of a young 
 man, and jumped the bars with sufficient agil- 
 ity, directing his restless eyes to all the points 
 that commanded them, and pricking up his ears 
 like a hunter at the least noise. In the third field 
 which he entered he perceived a woman, some 
 thirty years old, busy in hoeing the soil, and work- 
 ing hard in a stooping posture ; while a little boy, 
 about seven or eight years old, armed with a bill- 
 hook, was shaking rime off some ajoncs which had 
 sprung up here and there, cutting them down, and 
 piling them in heaps. At the noise which Hulot 
 made in alighting heavily across the bar, the little 
 gars and his mother raised their heads. Hulot nat- 
 urally enough mistook the woman, young as she 
 was, for a crone. Premature wrinkles furrowed 
 her forehead and neck, and she was so oddly 
 clothed in a worn goatskin, that had it not been 
 that her sex was indicated by a dirty yellow linen 
 gown, Hulot would not have known whether she 
 was a man or woman, for her long black tresses 
 were hidden under a red woolen night-cap. The 
 rags in which the small boy was clothed, after a 
 ^fashion, showed his skin through them. 
 
 "Hullo, old woman!" said Hulot, in a lowered 
 voice, to her as he drew near, "where is the Gars?" 
 At the same moment the score of counter-Chouans 
 who followed him crossed the boundary of the field. 
 
 "Oh!" to get to the Gars you must go back the 
 way you came," answered the woman, after cast- 
 ing a distrustful glance on the party. 
 
 " Did I ask you the way to the suburb of the Gars 
 at Fougeres, old bag of bones?" replied Hulot, 
 
THE CHOUANS. 305 
 
 roughly. "Saint Anne of Auray! Have you seen 
 the Gars pass?" 
 
 "I do not know what you mean," said the woman, 
 bending down to continue her work. 
 
 " D d garce that you are ! Do you want the 
 
 Blues, who are after us, to gobble us up?" cried 
 Huiot. 
 
 At these words the woman lifted herself up and 
 cast another suspicious look at the counter-Chouans 
 as she answered, "How can the Blues be after you? 
 I saw seven or eight of them just now going back 
 to Fougeres by the road down there." 
 
 "Would not a man say that she looks like biting 
 us?" said Hulot. "Look there, old Nanny!" 
 
 And the commandant pointed out to her, some 
 fifty paces behind, three or four of his sentinels, 
 whose uniforms and guns were unmistakable. 
 
 "Do you want to have our throats cut, when 
 Marche-a-Terre has sent us to help the Gars, whom 
 the men of Fougeres are trying to catch?" he went 
 on, angrily. 
 
 "Your pardon," answered the woman, "but one is 
 so easily deceived! What parish do you come 
 from ?" asked she. 
 
 "From Saint George!" cried two or three of the 
 men of Fougeres in Low Breton, " and we are dying 
 of hunger!" 
 
 "Well, then, look here," said the woman; "do 
 you see that smoke there? that is my house. If 
 you take the paths on the right and keep up, you 
 will get there. Perhaps you will meet my husband 
 by the way — Galope-Chopine has got to stand sen- 
 tinel to warn the Gars, for you know he is coming 
 to our house to-day," added she, with pride. 
 
 "Thanks, good woman," answered Hulot. "For- 
 ward, men! By God's thunder!" added he, speak- 
 ing to his followers, "we have got him!" 
 
 At these words the detachment, breaking into a 
 run, followed the commandant, who plunged into 
 the path pointed out to him. When she heard the 
 self-styled Chouan's by no means Catholic impreca- 
 tion Galope-Chopine's wife turned pale. She looked 
 at the gaiters and goatskins of the Fougeres youth, 
 
306 
 
 THE GBOUANS. 
 
 sat down on the ground, clasped her child in her 
 arms, and said : 
 
 " The Holy Virgin of Auray and the blessed Saint 
 Labre have mercy upon us ! I do not believe that 
 they are our folk ; their shoes have no nails ! Run 
 by the said lower road to warn your father; his 
 head is at stake !" he said to the little boy, who dis- 
 appeared like a fawn through the broom and the 
 ajoncs. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil, however, had not met on her 
 way any of the parties of Blues or Chouans who 
 were hunting each other in the maze of fields that 
 lay round Galope-Chopine's cottage. When she 
 saw a bluish column rising from the half-shattered 
 chimney of the wretched dwelling, her heart under- 
 went one of those violent palpitations, the quick 
 and sounding throbs of which seem to surge up 
 to the throat. She stopped, leaned her hand against 
 a tree branch, and stared at the smoke which was 
 
TBS CUOUANS. 307 
 
 to be a beacon at once to the friends and enemies of 
 the young chief. Never had she felt such over- 
 powering emotion. 
 
 "Oh!" she said to herself, with a sort of despair, 
 " I love him too much ! It may be I shall lose com- 
 mand of myself to-day !" 
 
 Suddenly she crossed the space which separated 
 her from the cottage, and found herself in the yard, 
 the mud of which had been hardened by the frost. 
 The great dog once more flew at her, barking, but 
 at a single word pronounced by Galope-Chopine, he 
 held his tongue and wagged his tail. As she entered 
 the cabin Mile, de Verneuil threw into it an all- 
 embracing glance. The marquis was not there, and 
 Marie breathed more freely. She observed with 
 pleasure that the Chouan had exerted himself to 
 restore some cleanliness to the dirty single chamber 
 of his lair. Galope-Chopine grasped his duck-gun, 
 bowed silently to his guest, and went out with his 
 dog. She followed him to the door-step, and saw 
 him departing by the path which went to the right 
 of his hut, and the entrance of which was guarded 
 by a large rotten tree, which served as an echalier, 
 though one almost in ruins. Thence she could per- 
 ceive a range of fields, the bars of which showed 
 like a vista of gates, for the trees and hedges, strip- 
 ped bare, allowed full view of the least details of 
 the landscape. When Galope-Chopine's broad hat 
 had suddenly disappeared Mile, de Vernueil turned 
 to the left to look for the church of Fougeres, but 
 the outhouse hid it from her wholly. Then he cast 
 her eyes on the Couesnon Valley, lying before them 
 like a huge sheet of muslin, whose whiteness 
 dulled yet further a sky gray -tinted and loaded with 
 snow. It was one of those days when nature seems 
 speechless, and when the atmosphere sucks up all 
 noises. Thus, though the Blues and their counter- 
 Chouans were marching on the hut in three lines, 
 forming a triangle, which they contracted as they 
 came nearer, the silence was so profound that Mile. 
 de Verneuil felt oppressed by surroundings which 
 added to her mental anguish a kind of physical 
 sadness. There was ill-fortune in the air. At last, 
 
308 TSE CHOUANS. 
 
 at the point where a little curtain of wood termi- 
 nated the vista of echaliers, she saw a young man 
 leaping the barriers like a squirrel, and running 
 witn astonishing speed. 
 
 " 'Tis he !" she said to herself. 
 
 The Gars, dressed plainly like a Chouan, carried 
 his blunderbuss slung behind his goatskin, and, but 
 for the elegance of his movements, would have 
 been unrecognizable. Marie retired hurriedly into 
 the cabin, in obedience to one of those instinctive 
 resolve which are as little explicable as fear. But 
 it was not long before the young chief stood only a 
 step from her, in front of the chimney, where 
 burned a clear and crackling fire. Both found 
 themselves speechless, and dreaded to look at each 
 other, or even to move. One hope united their 
 thoughts, one doubt parted them. It was anguish 
 and rapture at once. 
 
 "Sir!" said Mile, de Verneuil at last, in a broken 
 voice, "anxiety for your safety alone has brought 
 me hither." 
 
 "My safety?" he asked, bitterly. 
 
 " Yes !" she answered. " So long as I stay at Fou- 
 geres your life is in danger, and I love you too well 
 not to depart this evening. Therefore seek me no 
 more." 
 
 "Depart, beloved angel? I will follow you!" 
 
 "Follow me? Can you think of such a thing? 
 And the Blues?" 
 
 " Why, dearest Marie, what have the Blues to do 
 with our love" 
 
 " It seems to me difficult for you to stay in France 
 near me, and more difficult still for you to leave it 
 with me." 
 
 " Is there such a thing as the impossible to a good 
 lover?" 
 
 "Yes! I believe that everything is possible. Had 
 I not courage enough to give you up for your own 
 
 sake?" 
 
 "What! You gave yourself to a horrible creat- 
 ure whom you did not love, and you will not grant 
 happiness to a man who adores you, whose whole 
 
THIS CM0UAX8. 309 
 
 life you fill, who swears to you to be forever only 
 yours? Listen, Marie; do you love me?" 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 "Well, then, be mine!" 
 
 " Have you forgotten that I have resumed the 
 base part of a courtesan, and that it is you who 
 must be mine ? If I have determined to fly it is that 
 I may not let the contempt which I may incur 
 fall on your head. Were it not for this I fear I 
 might " 
 
 "But if I fear nothing?" 
 
 "Who will guarantee me that? I am mistrust- 
 ful; and in my situation, who would not be so? If 
 the love that we inspire be not lasting, at least it 
 should be complete, so as to make us support the 
 world's injustice with joy. What have you done 
 for me? You desire me. Do you think that exalts 
 you very high above those who have seen me be- 
 fore? Have you risked your Chouans for an hour 
 of rapture as carelessly as I dismissed the remem- 
 brance of the massacred Blues when all was lost for 
 me? Suppose I bade you renounce all your prin- 
 ciples, all your hopes, your king who stands in my 
 way, and who very likely will make mock of you 
 when you have laid down your life for him, while 
 I would die for you with a sacred devotion? Sup- 
 pose I would have you send your submission to the 
 First Consul, so that you might be able to follow 
 me to Paris? Suppose I insisted that we should g;o 
 to America to live, far from a world where all is 
 vanity, that I might know whether you really love 
 me for myself as at this moment I love you? In 
 one word, suppose I tried to make you fall to my 
 level instead of raising myself to yours, what would 
 you do?" 
 
 "Hush, Marie! Do not slander yourself. Poor 
 child, I have found you out. Even as my first desire 
 transformed itself into passion, so my passion has 
 transformed itself into love. I know, dearest soul 
 of my soul, that you are noble as your name, great 
 as you are beautiful. And I myself am noble 
 enough and feel myself great enough to force the 
 world to receive you. Is it because I foresee un- 
 
310 THE CIIOUaM. 
 
 heard-of and incessant delights with you? Is it 
 because I seem to recognize in your soul that pre- 
 cious quality which keeps us ever constant to one 
 woman? I know not the cause, but my love is 
 boundless, and I feel that I cannot live without you 
 — that my life, if you were not near me, would be 
 full of mere disgust." 
 
 " What do you mean by 'near me?' " 
 
 "Oh, Marie! will you not understand your Al- 
 phonse?" 
 
 " Ah ! you think you are paying me a great com- 
 pliment in off ering me your hand and name?" she 
 said, with affected scorn, but eying the marquis 
 closely to catch his slightest thoughts. " How do 
 you know whether you would love me in six 
 months' time? And if you did not what would be- 
 come of me? No, no ! a mistress is the only woman 
 who is certain of the affection which a man shows 
 her 5 she has no need to seek such pitiful allies as 
 duty, law, society, the interests of children ; and if 
 her power lasts she finds in it solace and happiness 
 which make the greatest vexations of life endur- 
 able. To be your wife, at the risk of one day being 
 a burden to you? To such a fear I would prefer a 
 love fleeting, but true while it lasted, though death 
 and ruin were to come after it. Yes ! I could well, 
 and even better than another, be a virtuous mother, 
 a devoted wife. But, in order that such sentiments 
 may be kept up in a woman's heart, a man ntiust 
 not marry her in a mere gust of passion. Besides, 
 can I tell myself whether I shall care for you to- 
 morrow? No! I will not bring a curse on you; I 
 will leave Brittany," said she, perceiving an air of 
 irresolution in his looks. "I will return to Paris, 
 and you will not come to seek me there 
 
 " Well, then ! the day after to-morrow, if in the 
 morning you see smoke on the rocks of Saint Sul- 
 pice, that evening I shall be at your house as 
 lover, as husband, whichever you will. I shall have 
 put all to the touch !" 
 
 "Then, Alphonse, you really love me," she cried, 
 with transport, "that you risk your life thus before 
 you give it to me?" 
 
THE CHOUANS. 
 
 311 
 
 He answered not, but looked at her. Her eyes 
 fell, but he read on the passionate countenance of 
 his mistress a madness equal to his own, and he 
 held out his arms to her. A kind of frenzy seized 
 Marie. She was // s"'T^'' 
 
 was 
 on the point of 
 falling in 1 a n - 
 guishment on the 
 marquis' breast, 
 with a mind made 
 up to complete 
 surrender, so as 
 out of this fault 
 
 to forge the greatest of blessings, and to stake her 
 whole future, which, if she came out conqueror 
 from this last test she would make more than ever 
 certain. But her head had scarcely rested on her 
 lover's shoulder, when a slight noise was heard out- 
 side. She tore herself from his arms as if suddenly 
 
312 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 waked from sleep, and darted from the cabin. Only 
 then could she recover a little coolness and think of 
 her position. 
 
 " Perhaps he would have taken me and laughed 
 at me afterward!" thought she. "Could I believe 
 that I would kill him. But not yet!" she' went on 
 as she caught sight of Beau-Pied, to whom she 
 made a sign, which the soldier perfectly well under- 
 stood. 
 
 The poor fellow turned on his heel, pretending to 
 have seen nothing, and Mile, de Verneuil suddenly 
 re-entered the room, begging the young chief to 
 observe the deepest silence by pressing the first 
 finger of her right hand on her lips. 
 
 "They are there!" she said, in a stifled voice of 
 terror. 
 
 " Who?" 
 
 "The Blues!" 
 
 "Ah ! I will not die at least without having " 
 
 "Yes, take it " 
 
 He seized her cold and unresisting form, and 
 gathered from her lips a kiss full both of horror 
 and delight, for it might well be at once the first 
 and the last. Then they went together to the door- 
 step, putting their heads in such a posture as to see 
 all without being seen. The marquis perceived 
 Gudin at the head of a dozen men, holding the foot 
 of the Couesnon Valley. He turned toward the 
 series of echaliers, but the great rotten tree-trunk 
 was guarded by seven soldiers. He climbed the 
 cider-butt, and drove out the shingled roof so as to 
 be able to jump on the knoll ; but he quickly drew 
 his head back from the hole he had made, for Hulot 
 was on the heights, cutting off the road to Fougeres. 
 For a moment he stared at his mistress, who uttered 
 a cry of despair as she heard the tramp of the three 
 detachments all round the house. 
 
 "Go out first," he said; "you will save me." 
 
 As she heard these words, to her sublime, she 
 placed herself, full of happiness, in front of the 
 door, while the marquis cocked his blunderbuss 
 After carefully calculating the distance between 
 the cottage door and the great tree-trunk, the Gars 
 
TRE CE0UAK8. 
 
 313 
 
 flung himself upon the seven Blues, sent a hail of 
 slugs upon them from his piece, and forced his way 
 through their midst. The three parties hurried 
 down to the barrier which the chief had leaped, 
 and saw him running across the field with incred- 
 ible speed. 
 
 "Fire! fire! A thousand devils ! are vou French 
 men? Fire, dogs!" cried Hulot, in a voice oi 
 thunder. 
 As he shouted these words from the top of the 
 knoll his men and Gudin's de- 
 livered a general volley, luckily 
 fiU-aimed. The marquis had 
 
 Gudin 
 after him. 
 
 already reached the barrier at 
 the end of the first field ; but 
 ■just as he passed into the 
 second he was nearly caught 
 who had rushed furiously 
 Hearing this formidable ene- 
 my a few steps behind the Gars redoubled 
 his speed. Nevertheless, Gudin and he reached 
 the bar almost at the same moment, but Mon- 
 tauran hurled his blunderbuss with such ad- 
 dress at Gudin's head that he hit him and 
 stopped his career for a moment. It is impos- 
 sible to depict the anxiety of Marie, or the 
 interest which Hulot and his men showed at this 
 spectacle. All unconsciously mimicked the gestures 
 of the two runners. The GaBS and Gudin had 
 reached, almost together, the curtain, whitened 
 
314 THE CU0VAN8. 
 
 with hoar frost, which the little wood formed, when 
 suddenly the Republican officer started back and 
 sheltered himself behind an apple-tree. A score of 
 Chouans, who had not fired before for fear of kill- 
 ing their chief, now showed themselves, and riddled 
 the tree with bullets. Then all Hulot's little force 
 set off at a run to rescue Gudin, who, finding him- 
 self weaponless, retired from appletree to apple 
 tree, taking for his runs the intervals when the 
 King's Huntsmen were reloading. His danger did 
 not last long, for the counter-Chouans and Blues, 
 Hulot at their head, came up to support the young 
 officer at the spot where the marquis had thrown 
 away_ his blunderbuss. Just then Gudin saw his 
 foe sitting exhausted under one of the trees of the 
 clump, and, leaving his comrades to exchange shots 
 with the Chouans, who were ensconced behind the 
 hedge at the side of the field, he outflanked these, 
 and made for the marquis with the eagerness of a 
 wild beast. When they saw this movement the 
 King's Huntsmen uttered hideous yells to warn 
 their chief, and then, having fired on the counter- 
 Chouans with poachers' luck, they tried to hold 
 their ground against them. But the" Blues valiantly 
 stormed the hedge which formed the enemy's ram- 
 part, and exacted a bloody vengeance. Then the 
 Chouans took to the road bordering the field in the 
 inclosure of which this scene had passed, and seized 
 the heights which Hulot had made the mistake of 
 abandoning. Before the Blues had had time to col- 
 lect their ideas the Chouans had intrenched them- 
 selves in the broken crests of the rocks, under cover 
 of which they could, without exposing themselves, 
 fire on Hulot's men if these latter showed signs of 
 coming to attack them. While the commandant 
 with some soldiers went slowly toward the little 
 wood to look for Gudin, the Fougeres staid behind 
 to strip the dead Chouans and dispatch the living 
 —for in this hideous war neither party made pris- 
 oners. The marquis once in safety, Chouans 
 and Blues alike recognized the strength of their 
 respective positior,s and the uselessness of continu- 
 
THE CHOUANS. 315 
 
 ing the strife. Both therefore thought only of with- 
 drawing. 
 
 "If I lose this young fellow," cried Hulot, scan- 
 ning the wood carefully, " I will never make an- 
 other friend." 
 
 "A.h!" said one of the young men of Fougeres, 
 who was busy stripping the dead, " here is a bird 
 with yellow feathers !" 
 
 And he showed his comrades a purse full of gold 
 pieces, which he had just found in the pocket of a 
 stout man dressed in black. 
 
 "But what have we here?" said another, drawing 
 a breviary from the dead man's overcoat. "Why, 
 'tis holy ware ! He is a priest !" cried he, throwing 
 the volume down. 
 
 " This thief has turned bankrupt on our hands!" 
 said a third, finding only two crowns of six francs 
 in the pockets of a Chouan whom he was stripping. 
 
 "Yes, but he has a capital pair of shoes," an- 
 swered a soldier, making as though to take them. 
 
 "You shall have them if they fall to your share," 
 replied one of the Fougeres, plucking them from 
 the dead man's feet, and throwing them on the pile 
 of goods already heaped together. 
 
 A fourth counter-Chouan acted as receiver of the 
 coin, with a view to sharing it out when all the men 
 of the expedition had come together. When Hulot 
 came back with the young officer, whose last at- 
 tempt to come up with the Gars had been equally 
 dangerous and futile, he found a score of his sol- 
 diers and some thirty counter-Chouans standing 
 round eleven dead enemies, whose bodies had been 
 thrown into a furrow drawn along the foot of the 
 hedge. 
 
 "Soldiers!" cried the commandant, in a stern 
 voice, " I forbid you to share these rags. Fall in, 
 and that in less than no time !" 
 
 "Commandant," said a soldier to Hulot, pointing 
 to his own shoes, at whose tips his five bare toes 
 were visible, "all right about the money; but those 
 shoes, commandant?" added he, indicating with his 
 musket-butt the pair of hobnails, " those shoes would 
 fit me like a glove," 
 
316 TUE CHOUANS. 
 
 "So you want English shoes on your feet?" an- 
 swered Hulot. 
 
 "But," said one of the Fougerese, respectfully 
 enough, "we have always, since the war begun, 
 shared the booty." 
 
 "I do not interfere with you other fellows," said 
 Hulot, interrupting him roughly ; " follow your 
 customs." 
 
 " Here, Gudin, here is a purse which is not badly 
 stocked with louis. You have had hard work; your 
 chief will not mind your taking it," said one of his 
 old comrades to the young officer. 
 
 Hulot looked askance at Gudin, and saw his face 
 grow pale. 
 
 " 'Tis my uncle's purse," cried the young man, 
 and, dead tired as he was, he walked toward the 
 heap of corpses. The first that met his eyes was in 
 fact his uncle's, but he had hardly caught sight of 
 the ruddy face furrowed with bluish streaks, the 
 stiffened arms, and the wound which the gunshot 
 had made, than he uttered a stifled cry, and said, 
 "Let us march, commandant!" 
 
 The troop of Blues set off, Hulot lending his arm 
 to support his young friend. 
 
 " God's thunder ! you will get over that," said the 
 old soldier. 
 
 "But he is dead!" replied Gudin. "Dead! He 
 was my only relation, and though he cursed me, he 
 loved me. Had the king come back the whole 
 country might have clamored for my head, but the 
 old boy would have hidden me under his cassock." 
 
 "The foolish fellow!" said the National Guard 
 who had staid behind to share the spoils. " The old 
 boy was rich ; and things being so, he could not 
 have had time to make a will to cut Gudin off." 
 And when the division was made the counter- 
 Chouans caught up the little force of Blues and fol- 
 lowed it at some interval. 
 
 As night fell terrible' anxiety came upon Galope- 
 Chopin's hut, where hitherto life had passed in the 
 most careless simplicity. Barbette and her little 
 boy, carrying on their backs, the one a heavy load of 
 ajoncs, the other a supply of grass for the cattle, 
 
THE CH0VAN3. 317 
 
 returned at the usual hour of the family evening 
 meal. When they entered the house mother and 
 son looked in vain for Galope-Chopine, and never 
 had the wretched chamber seemed to them so large 
 as now in its emptiness. The fireless hearth, the 
 darkness, the silence, all gave them a foreboding of 
 misfortune. When night came Barbette busied 
 herself in lighting a bright fire and two oribus—th.e 
 name given to candles of resin in the district from 
 the shores of Armorica to the Upper Loire, and still 
 used in the Vendome country districts this side of 
 Amboise. She went through these preparations 
 with the slowness naturally affecting action when 
 it is dominated by some deep feeling. She listened 
 for the smallest noise, but though often deceived by 
 the whistling squalls of wind, she always returned 
 sadly from her journeys to the door of her wretched 
 hut. She cleaned two pitchers, filled them with 
 cider, and set them on the long walnut * table. 
 Again and again she gazed at the boy, who was 
 watching the baking of the buckwheat cakes, but 
 without being able to speak to him. For a moment 
 the little boy's eyes rested on the two nails which 
 served as supports to his father's duck-gun, and 
 Barbette shuddered as they both saw that the place 
 was empty. The silence was broken only by the 
 lowing of the cows or by the steady drip of the cider 
 drops from the cask-spile. The poor woman sighed 
 as she got ready in three platters of brown earthen- 
 ware a sort of soup composed of milk, cakes cut up 
 small, and boiled chestnuts. 
 
 " They fought in the field that belongs to the Ber- 
 audiere," said the little boy. 
 
 "Go and look there," answered his mother. 
 
 The boy ran thither, perceived by the moonlight 
 the heap of dead, found that his father was not 
 among them, and came back whistling cheerfully, 
 for he had picked up some five-franc pieces which 
 had been trodden under foot by the victors, and 
 forgotten in the mud. 
 
 * The table and bench (see below) have been previously described as 
 of chestnut. It is fair to say that nmjer, though specifically = "walnut," 
 is ety Biologically any nut tree. — Translaior's Note. 
 
S18 TEE CHOUANa. 
 
 He found his mother sitting on a stool at the fire- 
 side, and busy spinning hemp. He shook his head 
 to Barbette, who hardly dared believe m any good 
 news, and then, ten o'clock having struck from 
 Saint Leonard's, the child went to bed, after mut- 
 tering a prayer to the Holy Virgin of Auray. At 
 daybreak Barbette, who had not slept, uttered a 
 cry of joy as she heard, echoing afar off, a sound of 
 heavy hobnailed shoes which she knew ; and soon 
 Galope-Chopine showed his sullen face. 
 
 " Thanks to Saint Labre, to whom I have prom- 
 ised a fine candle, the Gars is safe ! Do not forget 
 that we owe the saint three candles now." 
 
 Then Gaolpe-Chopine seized a pitcher and drained 
 the whole of its contents without drawing breath. 
 "When his wife had served up his soup and had re- 
 lieved him of his duck-gun, and when he had sat 
 down on the walnut bench, he said, drawing closer 
 to the fire : 
 
 " How did the Blues and the counter-Chouans get 
 here ? The fighting was at Florigny. What devil 
 can have told them that the Gars was at our house? 
 for nobody but himself, his fair wench, and our- 
 selves knew it." 
 
 The woman grew pale. "The counter-Chouans 
 persuaded me that they were gars of Saint George," 
 said she, trembling, "and it was I who told them 
 where the Gars was. " 
 
 Galone-Chopiue's face blanched in his turn, and 
 he left "his plate on the table-edge. 
 
 "I sent the child to tell you," went on Barbette, 
 in her terror, "but he did not meet you." 
 
 The Chouan rose and struck his wife so fierce a 
 blow that she fell half dead on the bed. "Accursed 
 wench," he said, "you have killed me!" Then, 
 seized with fear, he caught his wife in his arms. 
 "Barbette!" he cried; "Barbette! Holy Virgin! 
 my hand was too heavy!" 
 
 "Do you think," she said, opening her eyes, "that 
 Marche-a-Terre will come to know of it?" 
 
 "The Gars," answered the Chouan, "has given 
 orders to inquire whence the treachery came ." 
 
 "But did he tell Marche-a-Terre?" 
 
TSE CHOUANS. 319 
 
 "Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre were at Flor- 
 igny." 
 
 Barbette breathed more freely. " If they touch a 
 hair of your head," said she, "I will rinse their 
 glasses with vinegar !" 
 
 " Ah ! my appetite is gone ! " cried Galope-Chopine, 
 sadly. His wife pushed another full jug in front 
 of him, but he did not even notice it, and two great 
 tears furrowed Barbette's cheek, moistening the 
 wrinkles of her withered face. 
 
 "Listen, wife. You must pile some fagots to- 
 morrow morning on the Saint Sulpice rocks, to the 
 right of Saint Leonard's, and set fire to them. 'Tis 
 the signal arranged between the Gars and the old 
 rector of Saint George, who is coming to say mass 
 for him. " 
 
 " Is he going to Fougeres, then ?" 
 
 " Yes, to his fair wench. I have got some run- 
 ning about to do to-day by reason of it. I think he 
 is going to marry her and carry her off, for he bade 
 me go and hire horses and relay them on the Saint 
 Malo road." 
 
 Thereupon the weary Galope-Chopine went to bed 
 for some hours, and then he set about his errands. 
 The next morning he came home, after having 
 punctually discharged the commissions with which 
 the marquis had intrusted him. When he learned 
 that Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche had not ap- 
 peared he quieted the fears of his wife, who set out, 
 almost reassured, for the rocks of Saint Sulpice, 
 where the day before she had prepared, on the 
 hummock facing Saint Leonard's, some fagots cov- 
 ered with hoar frost. She led by the hand her little 
 boy, who carried some fire in a broken sabot. 
 Hardly had his wife and child disappeared round 
 the roof of the shed, when Galope-Chopine heard 
 two men leaping over the last of the series of bar- 
 riers, and little by little he saw, through a fog 
 which was pretty thick, angular shapes, looking 
 like uncertain shadows. 
 
 " 'Tis Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre!" he said 
 to himself with a start. The two Chouans, who 
 had now reached the little court-yard, showed their 
 
■320 THE CROUAm. 
 
 dark faces, resembling, under their great, shabby 
 hats, the figures that enarravers put into landscapes. 
 "Good-day, Galope-Ohopine !" said Marche-a-Terre, 
 gravely. 
 
 " Good-day, Master Marche-a-Terre," humbly re- 
 plied Barbette's husband. " Will you come in and 
 drink a pitcher or two? There's cold cake and 
 fresh-made butter." 
 
 "We shall not refuse, cousin," said Pille-Miche, 
 and the two Chouans entered. 
 
 This overture had nothing in it alarming to 
 Galope-Chopine, who bustled about to fill three 
 pitchers at his great cask, while Pille-Miche and 
 Marche-a-Terre, seated at each side of the long 
 table on the glistening benches, cut the bannocks 
 for themselves, and spread them with luscious yel- 
 low butter, which shed little bubbles of milk under 
 the knife. Galope-Chopine set the foam-crowned 
 pitchers full of cider before his guests, and the 
 three Chouans began to eat ; but from time to time 
 the host cast sidelong glances on Marche a-Terre, 
 eager to satisfy his thirst. 
 
 "Give me your snuff-box," said Marche-a-Terre to 
 Pille-Miche, and after sharply shaking several 
 pinches into the hollow of his hand the Breton took 
 his tobacco like a man who wished to wind himself 
 up for some serious business. 
 
 " 'Tis cold," said Pille-Miche, rising to go and 
 shut the upper part of the door. 
 
 The daylight, darkened by the fog, had no further 
 access to the room than by the little window, and 
 lighted but feebly the table and the two benches ; 
 but the fire shed its ruddy glow over them. At the 
 same moment Galope Chopine, who had finished 
 filling his guests' jugs a second time, set these be- 
 fore them. But they refused to drink, threw down 
 their flapping hats, and suddenly assumed a solemn 
 air. Their gestures and the inquiring looks they 
 cast at one ^another made Galope-Chopine shudder, 
 and the red woolen caps which were on their heads 
 seemed to him as though they were blood. 
 
 "Bring us your hatchet," said Marche-a-Terre. 
 
•tat: CEOUAm. 931 
 
 "But, Master Marche-a-Terre, what do you want 
 it for?" 
 
 "Come, cousin," said Pille-Miche, putting up the 
 mull which Marche-a-Terre handed to him, "you 
 know well enough— you are sentenced." And the 
 two Chouans rose together, clutching their rifles. 
 
 "Master Marche-a-Terre, I have not said a word 
 about the Gars^ — -" 
 
 " I tell you to fetch your hatchet," answered the 
 Chouan. 
 
 The wretched Galope-Chopine stumbled against 
 the rough woodwork of his child's bed, and three 
 five-franc pieces fell on the floor. Pille-Miche 
 picked them up. 
 
 "Aha! the Blues have given you new coin," cried 
 Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 " 'Tis as true as that Saint Labre's image is 
 there," replied Galope-Chopine, "that I said noth- 
 ing. Barbette mistook the counter-Chouans for the 
 gars of Saint George's; that is all." 
 
 " Why do you talk about business to your wife?" 
 answered Marche-a-Terre, savagely. 
 
 "Besides, cousin, we are not asking for explana- 
 tions, but for your hatchet. You are sentenced." 
 And at a sign from his comrade Pille-Miche helped 
 him to seize the victim. When he found himself in 
 the two Chouans' grasp Galope-Chopine lost all his 
 fortitude, fell on his knees, and raised despairing 
 hands toward his two executioners. 
 
 " My good friends ! my cousin ! what is to become 
 of my little boy?" 
 
 "I will take care of him," said Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 "Dear comrades," said Galope-Chopine, whose 
 face had become of a ghastly whiteness, " I am not 
 ready to die. Will you let me depart without con- 
 fessing? Yoa have the right to take my life, but 
 not to make me forfeit eternal happiness." 
 
 " 'Tis true!" said Marche-a-Terre, looking at Pille- 
 Miche, and the two Chouans remained for a moment 
 in the greatest perplexity, unable to decide this case 
 of conscience. Galope-Chopine listened for the 
 least rustle that the wind made, as if he still kept 
 up some hope. The sound of the cider dripping 
 
322 TBE CBOXTANB. 
 
 regularly from the cask made him cast a mechani- 
 cal look at the barrel and give a melancholy sigh. 
 Suddenly Pille-Miche took his victim by the arm, 
 drew him into the corner, and said : 
 
 "Confess all your sins to me. I will tell them 
 over to a priest of the true church ; he shall give 
 me absolution, and if there be penance to do I will 
 do it for you." 
 
 Galope-Chopine obtained some respite by his man- 
 ner of acknowledging his transgressions ; but 
 despite the length and details of the crimes, he cama 
 at last to the end of the list. 
 
 "Alas!" said he, in conclusion, "after all, cousin, 
 since I am addressing you as a confessor, I protest 
 to you by the holy name of God that I have nothing 
 to reproach myself with, except having buttered 
 my bread too much here and there, and I call Saint 
 Labre, who is over the chimney, to witness that I 
 said nothing about the Gars. No, my good friends, 
 I am no traitor!" v 
 
 " Go to, cousin ; 'tis well ! Get up ; you can ar- 
 range all that with the good God at one time or 
 another." 
 
 " But let me say one little good-by to Barbe " 
 
 "Come," answered Marche-a-Terre, "if you wish 
 us not to think worse of you than is needful behave 
 like a Breton, and make a clean end!" 
 
 The two Chouans once more seized Galope- 
 Chopine, and stretched him on the bench, where he 
 gave no other sign of resistance than the convulsive 
 movements of mere animal instinct. At the last he 
 uttered some smoothered shrieks, which ceased at 
 the moment that the heavy thud of the ax was 
 heard. The head was severed at a single blow. 
 Marche-a-Terre took it by a tuft of hair, left the 
 room, and, after searching, found a stout nail in 
 the clumsy frame-work of the door, round which he 
 twisted the hair he held, and left the bloody head 
 hanging there, without even closing the eyes.' Then 
 the two Chouans washed their hands without the 
 least hurry in a great pan full of water, took up 
 their hats and their rifles, and clambered over the 
 barrier, whistling the air of the ballad of " The Cap- 
 
THE CHOUANS. 323 
 
 tain."* At the end of the field Pille-Miche shouted, 
 in a husky voice some stanzas chosen by chance 
 from this simple song, the rustic strains of which 
 were carried afar off by the wind : 
 
 " At the first town where they did alight, 
 Her lover dressed her in satin white. 
 
 "At the second town, har lover bold 
 He dressed her in silver and eke in gold. 
 
 " So fair she was that their stuff they lent 
 To do her grace through the regiment." 
 
 "fhe tune grew slowly indistinct as the two Chou- 
 ans retired ; but the silence of the country was so 
 deep that some notes reached the ear of Barbette, 
 who was coming home, her child in her hand. So 
 popular is this song in the west of France that a 
 peasant woman never hears it unmoved, and thus 
 Barbette unconsciously struck up the first verses of 
 the ballad : 
 
 '> Come to the war, come, fairest May; 
 Ctome, for we must no longer stay. 
 
 " Captain brave, take thou no care, 
 N&l for thee is my daughter fair. 
 
 " Neither on land, nor yet on sea, 
 Shall' aught but treason give her to thee. 
 
 " The father strips his girl, and he 
 Takes h^r and flings her into the sea. 
 
 " But wiser, I trow, was the captain stout; 
 He swimi^, and fetches his lady out. 
 
 " Come to tlfte war, etc.'' 
 
 At the same moment at which Barbette found 
 herself catching up the ballad at the point where 
 Pille-Miche had begun it, she reached her own 
 court-yard; her tongue froze to her mouth, she 
 stood motionless, and a loud shriek, suddenly 
 checked, issued from her gaping lips. 
 
 * This famous folk-song has been Englished by Mr. Swinburne in 
 "May Janet," and I think by others. It might have been wiser to bor- 
 row a version from one of these. But silk on homespun is bad heraldry. 
 The following is at any rate pretty close, and in verse suiting its neigh- 
 bor prose. If the third stanza does not seem clear, I can only say that 
 no one can be very sure what On lui tendait les voiles Dans tout le regU 
 ment does mean. — Translator's Note. 
 
324 
 
 TSE CBOITAM. 
 
 "What is the matter, dear mother?" asked the 
 child. 
 
 "Go by yourself," muttered Barbette, drawing 
 her hand from his, and pushing him forward with 
 strange roughness. " You are fatherless and 
 motherless now !" 
 
 The child rubbed his shoulder as he cried, saw 
 the head nailed on the door, and his innocent coun- 
 tenance speechlessly kept the nervous twitch which 
 tears give to the 'features. He opened his eyes 
 
 . ffW!* ■•^'••r . — ~ 
 
 wide and gazed long at his 
 father's head, with a stolid 
 and passionless expression, 
 face, brutalized by ignor- 
 ance, changed to the exhibition of 
 »a kind of savage curiosity. Suddenly 
 •Barbette caught her child's hand once 
 more, squeezed it fiercely, and drew him 
 with rapid steps toward the house. As Pille-Miche 
 and Marche-a-Terre were stretching Galope-Chopine 
 on the bench, one of his shoes had fallen ofiE under 
 his neck in such a fashion that it was filled with his 
 blood ; and this was the first object that the widow 
 saw. 
 
 "Take your sabot off!" said the mother to the son. 
 "Put your foot in there. 'Tis well! And now," 
 said she, in a hollow voice, "remember always this 
 shoe of your father's. Never put shoe on your own 
 foot without thinking of that which was full of 
 
TEE CHOUAim. 325 
 
 blood shed by the Chuins — and kill the Chuins /" 
 
 As she spoke she shook her head with so spas- 
 modic a movement that the tresses of her black 
 hair fell back on her neck, and gave a sinister look 
 to her face. 
 
 "I call Saint Labre to witness," she went on, 
 "that I devote you to the Blues. You shall be a 
 soldier that you may avenge your father. Kill the 
 Chuins ! Kill them, and do as I do ! Ha ! they 
 have taken my husband's head; I will give the 
 head of the Gars to the Blues!" 
 
 She made one spring to the bed head, took a little 
 bag of money from a hiding-place, caught once 
 more the hand of her astonished son, and dragged 
 him off fiercely without giving him time to replace 
 his sabot. They both walked rapidly toward Fou- 
 geres without turning either of their heads to the 
 hut they were leaving. When they arrived at the 
 crest of the crags of Saint Sulpice, Barbette stirred 
 the fagot fire, and the child helped to heap it with 
 green broom-shoots covered with rime, so that the 
 smoke might be thicker. 
 
 "That will last longer than your father's life, 
 than mine, or than the Gars!" said Barbette to her 
 boy, pointing savagely to the fire. 
 
 At the same moment as that at which Galope- 
 Chopine's widow and his son with the bloody foot 
 were watching the eddying of the smoke with a 
 gloomy air of Tengeance and curiosity. Mile, de 
 Verneuil had her eyes fixed on the same rock, en- 
 deavoring, but in vain, to discover the marquis' 
 promised signal. The fog, which had gradually 
 thickened, buried the whole country under a vail 
 whose tints of gray hid even those parts of the land- 
 scape which were nearest to the town. She looked 
 by turns, with an anxiety which did not lack sweet- 
 ness, to the rocks, the castle, the buildings which 
 seemed in the fog like patches of fog blacker still. 
 Close to her window some trees stood out of the 
 blue-gray background like madrepores of which 
 the sea gives a glimpse when it is calm. The sun 
 communicated to the sky the dull tint of tarnished 
 . silver, while its rays tinted with dubious red the 
 
326 THE CS0UAN3. 
 
 naked branclies of the trees, on which some belated 
 leaves still hung. But Marie's soul was too delight- 
 fully agitated for her to see any evil omens in the 
 spectacle ; out of harmony, as it was, with the joy 
 on which she was banqueting in anticipation. 
 
 'During the last two days her ideas had altered 
 strangely. The ferocity, the disorderly bursts of 
 her passion, had slowly undergone the influence of 
 that equable warmth which true love communi- 
 cates to life. The certainty of being loved — a cer- 
 
 " tainty after which she had quested through so many 
 dangers — had produced in her the desire of return- 
 ing to those conventions of society which sanction 
 happiness, and which she had herself only aban- 
 doned in despair. A mere moment of love seemed 
 to her a futility. And then she saw herself sud- 
 denly restored from the social depths, where she 
 had been plunged by misfortune, to the exalted 
 rank in which for a brief space her father had 
 placed her. Her vanity, which had been stifled 
 under the cruel changes of a passion by turns for- 
 tunate and slighted, woke afresh, and showed her 
 all the advantages of a high position. Born, as she 
 had been, to be "her ladyship," would not the effect 
 of marrying Montauran be for her action and life 
 in the sphere which was her own? After having 
 known the chances of a wholly adventurous life, she 
 could, better than another woman, appreciate the 
 greatness of the feelings which lie at the root of 
 the family relation. Nor would marriage, mother- 
 hood, and the cares of both be for her so much a 
 task as a rest. She loved the calm and virtuous 
 life, a glimpse of which opened across this latest 
 storm, with the same feeling which makes a woman 
 virtuous to satiety cast longing looks on an illicit 
 passion. Virtue was for her a new allurement. 
 
 "Perhaps," she said, as she came back from the 
 window without having seen fire on the rocks of 
 Saint Sulpice, "I have trifled with him not a little? 
 But have I not thus come to know how much I was 
 loved ? Francine ! 'tis no more a dream ! This 
 night I shall be Marquise de Montauran ! What have 
 I done to deserve such complete happiness? Oh! I 
 
; TEE CS0UAN8. 327 
 
 love him, and love alone can be the price of love. 
 Yet God, no doubt, deigns to reward me for having" 
 kept my heart warm in spite of so many miseries, 
 and to make me forget my sufferings; for you 
 know, child, I have suffered much!" 
 
 "To-night, Marie? You Marquise de Montauran? 
 For my part, till it is actually true, I shall think I 
 dream. Who told him all your real nature ?" 
 
 " Why, dear child, he has not only fine eyes, but 
 a soul, too ! If you had seen him, as I have, in the 
 midst of danger ! Ah ! he must know how to love 
 well, he is so brave ! " 
 
 "If you love him so much, why do you allow him 
 to come to Fougeres ?" 
 
 " Had we a moment to talk together when they 
 took us by surprise? Besides, is it not a proof of his 
 love? And can one ever have enough of that? 
 Meanwhile, do my hair." 
 
 But she herself, with electric movements, disar- 
 ranged a hundred times the successful arrange- 
 ments of her head-dress, mingling thoughts which 
 were still stormy with the cares of a coquette. 
 While adding a fresh wave to her hair, or making 
 its tresses more glossy, she kept asking herself, 
 with remains of mistrust, whether the marquis was 
 not deceiving her, and then she concluded that 
 such trickery would be inexplicable, since he ex- 
 posed himself boldly to immediate vengeance by 
 coming to seek her at Fougeres. As she studied 
 cunningly at her glass the effects of a sidelong 
 glance, of a smile, of a slight contraction of the 
 forehead, of an attitude of displeasure, of love, or 
 of disdain, she was still seeking some woman's wile 
 to test the young chief's heart up to the very last 
 moment. 
 
 "You are right, Francine !" she said. "1 would, 
 like you, that the marriage were over. This day ie> 
 the last of my days of cloud— it is big either with 
 my death or with our happiness. This fog is hatO" 
 ful," she added, looking over toward the still mist- 
 wrapped summits of Saint Sulpice. Then she set 
 to work to arrange the silk and muslin curtains 
 which decked the window, amusing herself with 
 
328 THE CSOUANS. 
 
 intercepting the light, so as to produce in the apart- 
 ment a voluptuous clear-obscure. 
 
 "Francine," said she, "take these toys which in- 
 cumber the chimney-piece away, and leave nothing 
 there but the clock and the two Dresden vases, in 
 which I will myself arrange the winter flowers that 
 Corentin found for me. Let all the chairs go out ; 
 I will have nothing here but the sofa and one arm- 
 chair. When you have done, child, you shall 
 sweep the carpet, so as to bring out the color of it, 
 and then you shall put candles into the chimney 
 sconces and the candlesticks." 
 
 Marie gazed long and attentively at the old 
 tapestry which covered the walls of the room. Led 
 by her native taste, she succeeded in finding, amid 
 the warp, bright shades of such tints as might es- 
 tablish connection between this old-world decora- 
 tion and the furniture and accessories of the 
 boudoir, either by harmony of colors or by attrac- 
 tive contrasts. The same principle guided her in 
 arranging the flowers with which she filled the 
 twisted vases that adorned the room. The sofa 
 was placed near the fire. At each side of the bed, 
 M'^ich stood by the wall parallel to that where the 
 f e-place was, she put, on two little gilt tables, great 
 ) resden vases full of foliage and flowers which 
 exhaled the sweetest perfumes. She shivered more 
 than once as she arranged the sweeping drapery of 
 green damask that overhung the bed, and as she 
 studied the curving lines of the flowered coverlet 
 wherewith she hid the bed itself. Preparations of 
 this kind always have an indefinable, secret joy, 
 and bring with them so delightful a provocative 
 that ofttimes in the midst of such provision of de- 
 light a woman forgets all her doubts, as Mile, de 
 Verneuil was then forgetting hers. Is there not a 
 kind of religion in this abundant care taken for a 
 beloved object who is not there to see it or reward 
 it, but who is to pay for it later with the smile of 
 approbation, which graceful preparations of this 
 kind, always so well understood, obtain? Then, so 
 to speak, do women yield themselves up beforehand 
 to love, and there is not one who does not say to 
 
TEE CMOUAKS. 329 
 
 herself, as Mile, de Vernueil thought, "To-night 
 how happy I shall be !" The most innocent of them 
 at these times inscribes this sweet hope in the 
 innermost folds of muslin or of silk, and then the 
 harmony which she establishes around her insen- 
 sibly stamps all things with a love-breathing look. 
 In the center of this voluptuous atmosphere, things 
 become for her living beings, witnesses; and al- 
 ready she transforms them into accomplices of her 
 coming joys. At each movement, at each thought, 
 she is bold to rob the future. Soon she waits no 
 more, she hopes no more, but she finds fault with 
 silence, and the least noise is challenged to give her 
 an omen, till at last doubt comes and places its 
 crooked claws on her heart. She burns, she is agi- 
 tated, she feels herself tortured by thoughts which 
 exert themselves like purely physical forces; by 
 turns she triumphs and is martyred, after a fashion 
 which, but for the hope of joy, she could not endure. 
 Twenty times had Mile, de Verneuil lifted the cur- 
 tains in hopes of seeing a pillar of smoke rising 
 above the rocks ; but the fog seemed to grow grayer 
 and grayer each moment, and in these gray tints 
 her fancy at last showed her sinister omens. 
 Finally, in a moment of impatience, she dropped 
 the curtain, assuring herself that she would come 
 and lift it no more. She looked discontentedly at 
 the room into which she had breathed a soul and a 
 voice, and asked herself whether it would all be in 
 vain. The thought recalled her to her arrange- 
 ments. 
 
 "Little one," she said to Francine, drawing her 
 into a dressing-room close to her own, and lighted 
 by a round window looking upon the dark corner 
 where the town ramparts joined the rocks of the 
 promenade, "put this right, and let all be in order. 
 As for the drawing-room, you can leave it untidy if 
 you like," she added, accompanying her words by 
 one of those smiles which women reserve for their 
 intimates, and the piquant delicacy of which men 
 can never know. 
 
 "Ah, how beautiful you are!" said the little 
 Breton girl. 
 
S30, THE CHOUANS. 
 
 " Why, fools that we all are ! is not a lover always 
 our greatest adornment?" 
 
 Fraiicine left her lying languidly on the ottoman, 
 and withdrew step by step, guessing whether she 
 were loved or not, her mistress would never give up 
 Montauran. 
 
 " Are you sure of what you are telling me, old 
 woman?" said Hulot to Barbette, who had recog- 
 nized him as she entered Fougeres. 
 
 "Have you got eyes? Then, my good sir, look at 
 the rocks of Saint Sulpice — there, to the right of 
 Saint Leonard!" 
 
 Corentin turned his eyes toward the summit in 
 the direction in which Barbette's finger pointed, 
 and as the fog began to lift, he was able to see 
 clearly enough the pillar of white smoke of which 
 Galope-Chopine's widow had spoken. 
 
 "But when will he come? eh, old woman? Will it 
 be at even, or at night?" 
 
 "Good, sir," answered Barbette, "I know nothing 
 of that." 
 
 "Why do you betray your own side?" said Hulot, 
 quickly, after drawing the peasant woman some 
 steps away from Corentin. 
 
 " Ah ! my lord general, look at my boy's foot ! 
 Well ! it is dyed in the blood of my husband, killed 
 by the Chuins, saving your reverence, like a calf, 
 to punish him for the word or two you got out of 
 me the day before yesterday when I was at work in 
 the field. Take my boy, since you have deprived 
 him of father and mother ; but make him a true 
 Blue, good sir! and let him kill many Chuins. 
 There are two hundred crowns ; keep them for him ; 
 if he is careful he should go far with them, since his 
 father took twelve years to get them together." 
 
 Hulot stared with wonder at the pale aud wrinkled 
 peasant woman, whose eyes were tearless. 
 
 "But, mother," said he, "how about yourself? 
 What is to become of you? It would be better for 
 you to keep this money." 
 
 "For me?" she said, sadly, shaking her head; "I 
 have no more need of anything. You might stow 
 me away in the innermost corner of Melusine-s 
 
THE CHOUANS. 331 
 
 tower," and she pointed to one of the castle turrets, 
 " but the Chums would find the waj^ to come and 
 kill me. " 
 
 She kissed her boy with an expression of gloomy 
 sorrow, gazed at him, shed a tear or two, gazed at 
 him once more, and disappeared. 
 
 "Commandant," said Oorentin, "this is one of 
 those opportunities to profit by which needs rather 
 two good heads than one. We know all, and we 
 know nothing. To surround Mile, de Verneuil's 
 house at this moment would be to see her against 
 us ; and you, I, your counter-Ohouans, and your 
 two battalions all put together, are not men enough 
 to fight against this girl if she takes it into her head 
 to save her ci-devant. The fellow is a courtier, and 
 therefore wary ; he is a young man, and a stout- 
 hearted one. We shall never be able to catch him 
 at his entry into Fougeres. Besides, he is very 
 likely here already. Are we to search the houses ? 
 That would be futile ; for it tells you nothing, it 
 gives the alarm, and it disquiets the townsfolk " 
 
 ' ' I am going, " said Hulot, out of temper, ' ' to ord er 
 the sentinel on guard at Saint Leonard to lengthen 
 his beat by three paces, so that he will come in 
 front of Mile, de Verneuil's house. I shall arrange 
 a signal with each sentry ; I shall take up my own 
 post at the guard-house, and when the entrance of 
 any young man is reported to me I shall take a cor- 
 poral with four men, and " 
 
 " And," said Corentin, interrupting the eager sol- 
 dier, " what if the young man is not the marquis ? if 
 the marquis does not enter by the gate ? if he is 
 already with Mile, de Verneuil ? if— if " 
 
 And with this Corentin looked at the comman- 
 dant with an air of superiority, which was so 
 humiliating that the old warrior cried out, " A thou- 
 sand thunders ! go about your own business, citizen 
 of hell ! What have I to do with all that ? If the 
 cockchafer drops into one of my guard-houses, I 
 must needs shoot him ; if I hear that he is in a 
 house I must needs go and surround him, catch 
 him, and shoot him there. But the devil take me if 
 
332 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 A, 
 
 I puzzle my brains in order to stain my own uni- 
 form!" 
 
 " Commandant, letters signed by three ministers 
 bid you obey Mile, de Verneuil." 
 
 "Then, citizen, let her come herself and order 
 me. I will see what can be done then." 
 
 "Very well, citizen," replied Corentin, haughtily; 
 " she shall do so without delay. She shall tell you 
 herself the very hour and minute of the ci-devant's 
 arrival. Perhaps, indeed, she will not be at ease 
 till she has seen you posting your sentinels and sur- 
 rounding her house." 
 
 "The devil has turned man!" said the old demi- 
 brigadier, sorrowfully, to himself, as he saw Coren- 
 tin striding hastily up the Queen's Staircase, on 
 which this scene had passed, and reaching the gate 
 of Saint Leonard. "He will hand over Citizen 
 Montauran to me bound hand and foot," went on 
 Hulot, talking to himself ; " and I shall have the 
 nuisance of presiding over a court-martial. After 
 all," said he, shrugging his shoulders, "the Gars is 
 an enemy of the Republic; he killed my poor 
 Gerard, and it will be at worst one noble the less. 
 Let him go to the devil!" And he turned briskly 
 on his boot-heel, and went the rounds of the town 
 whistling the Marseillaise. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil was deep in one of those reveries 
 whose secrets remain, as it were, buried in the 
 abysses of the soul, and whose crowd of contradic- 
 tory thoughts often show their victims that a 
 stormy and passionate life may be held between 
 four walls, without leaving the couch on which ex- 
 istence is then passed. In presence of the catas- 
 trophe of the drama which she had come to seek, 
 the girl summoned up before her by turns the 
 scenes of love and anger which had so powerfully 
 agitated her life during the ten days that had 
 passed since her first meeting with the marquis. 
 As she did so the sound of a man's step echoed in 
 the saloon beyond her apartment ; she started, the 
 door opened, she turned her head sharply, and saw 
 —Corentin. 
 
 "Little traitress!" said the head agent of police, 
 
TUB CH0UAN8. 333 
 
 " will the fancy take you to deceive mG again? At? 
 Marie, Marie ! You are playing a very dangerous 
 game in leaving me out of it, and arranging your 
 Goups without consulting me ! If the marquis has 
 escaped his fate " 
 
 " It is not your fault, you mean ?" answered Mile, 
 de Verneuil, with profound sarcasm. "Sir!" she 
 went on, in a grave voice, "by what right have you 
 once more entered my house?" 
 
 " Your house ?" asked he, with bitter emphasis. 
 
 "You remind me," replied she, with an air of 
 nobility, "that I am not at home. Perhaps you in- 
 tentionally chose this house for the safer commis- 
 sion of your murders here? I will leave it ; I would 
 take refuge in a desert rather than any longer 
 receive " 
 
 "Say the word — spies!" retorted Corentin. "But 
 this house is neither yours nor mine ; it belongs to 
 Government, and as to leaving it, you would do 
 nothing of the kind," added he, darting a devilish 
 look at her. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil rose in an impulse of wrath, 
 and made a step or two forward, but she stopped 
 suddenly as she saw Corentin lift the window cur- 
 tain and begin to smile as he requested her to come 
 close to him. 
 
 "Do you see that pillar of smoke?" said he, with 
 the intense calm which he knew how to preserve 
 on his pallid face, however deeply he was moved. 
 
 "What connection can there be between my de- 
 parture and the weeds that they are burning there?" 
 asked she. 
 
 "Why is your voice so changed in tone?" an- 
 swered Corentin. "Poor little girl!" he added, 
 gently, " I know all. The marquis is coming to-day 
 to Fougeres, and it is not with the intention of giv- 
 ing him up to us that you have arranged this 
 boudoir, tliese ilowers, these wax-lights, in so lux- 
 urious a fashion." 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil grew pale as she saw the mar- 
 quis' death written in the eyes of this tiger with 
 human countenance, and the passion which she felt 
 for her lover rose near madness. Every hair of her 
 
834 THE moUANa. 
 
 head seemed to pour into it a fierce and intolerable 
 pain, and she fell upon the ottoman. Corentin 
 stood for a minute with his arms folded, half pleased 
 at a torture which avenged him for the sarcasm 
 and scorn which this woman had heaped upon him, 
 half vexed at seeing the sufferings of a creature 
 whose yoke, heavy as it might be, always had some- 
 thing agreeable. 
 
 "She loves him!" muttered he. 
 
 "Love him?" cried she, "what does that word 
 mean? Corentin ! he is my life, my soul, the breath 
 of my being!" She flung herself at the feet of the 
 man, whose calm was terrible to her. 
 
 "Soul of mud!" she said, " I would rather abase 
 myself to gain his life than to lose it. I would save 
 him at the price of every drop of my blood. Speak ! 
 What will you have?" 
 
 Corentin started. 
 
 " I came to put myself at your orders, Marie, "he 
 said, the tones of his voice full of gentleness, and 
 raising her up with graceful politeness. "Yes, 
 Marie ! your insults will not hinder me from being 
 all yours, provided that you deceive me no more, 
 You know, Marie, that no man fools me with im- 
 punity." 
 
 " Ah ! if you would have me love you, Corentin, 
 help me to save him !" 
 
 "Well, at what hour does the marquis come?" 
 said he, constraining himself to make the inquiry 
 in a calm tone. 
 
 "Alas! I know not." 
 
 They gazed at each other without speaking. 
 
 "I am lost!" said Mile, de Verneuil to herself. 
 
 " She is deceiving me," thought Corentin. 
 "Marie," he continued, aloud, "I have two maxims; 
 the one is, never to believe a word of what women 
 say, which is the way not to be their dupe ; the 
 other is, always to inquire whether they have not 
 some interest in doing the contrary of what they 
 say, and behaving in a manner the reverse of the 
 actions which they are good enough to confide to 
 us. I think we understand each other now?" 
 
 "Excellently," replied Mile, de Verneuil. "You 
 
T3B CBOUANS. 835 
 
 ■w-ant proofs of my good faith, but I am keeping 
 tnem for the minute when you shall have given me 
 sohie proofs of yours." 
 
 "Grood-by, then, mademoiselle," said Corentin, 
 dryly. 
 
 "Come," continued the girl, smiling, "take a 
 chair. Sit there, and do not sulk, or else I shall 
 manage very well to save the marquis without you. 
 As for the three hundred thousand francs, the pros- 
 pect of which is always before your eyes, I can tell 
 them out for you in gold there on the chimney- 
 piece the moment that the marquis is in safety." 
 
 Oorentin rose, fell back a step or two, and stared 
 at Mile, de Verneuil. 
 
 "You have become rich in a very short time," 
 said he, in a tone the bitteress of which was still 
 disguised. 
 
 "Montauran," said Marie, with a smile of com- 
 passion, "could himself offer you much more than 
 that for his ransom ; go prove to me that you have 
 the means of holding him scathless, and " 
 
 "Could not you," said Corentin, suddenly, "let 
 him escape the same moment that he comes? For 
 Hulot does not know the hour and " 
 
 He stopped, as if he reproached himself with 
 having said too much. 
 
 " But can it be you who are applying to me for a 
 device?" he went on, smiling in the most natural 
 manner. " Listen, Marie ! I am convinced of your 
 sincerity. Promise to make me amends for all that 
 I lose in your service, and I will lull the blockhead 
 of a commandant to sleep so neatly that the mar- 
 quis will enjoy as much liberty at Fougeres as at 
 Saint James." 
 
 "I promise you!" replied the girl, with a kind of 
 solemnity. 
 
 "Not in that way," said he. "Swear it by your 
 mother." 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil started ; but raising a trembling 
 hand, she gave the oath demanded by this man, 
 whose manner had just changed so suddenly, 
 
 "You can do with me as you will," said Corentin. 
 
336 
 
 THE CEOUAnS. 
 
 "Do not deceive me, and you will bless me tTiiS 
 evening." 
 
 "I believe you, Corentin!" cried Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil, quite touched. 
 
 She bowed farewell to him with a gentle inclina- 
 tion of her head, and he on his side smiled with 
 amiability, minglsd with surprise, as he saw the 
 expression of tender melancholy on her face. 
 
 "What a charming creature!" cried Corentin to 
 himself as he departed. " Shall I never possess her, 
 and make her at once the instrument of my fortune 
 and the source of my pleasures? To think of her 
 
 throwing herself at my feet! Oh, jes\ the mar- 
 quis shall perish, and if I cannot obtain the girl 
 except by plunging her into the mire, 1 will plunge 
 her. Anyhow," he thought, as he came to the 
 square whither his steps had led him without his 
 own knowledge, " perhaps she really distrusts me 
 no longer. A hundred thousand crowns at a mo- 
 ment's notice ! She thinks me avaricious. Either 
 it is a trick, or she has married him already. " 
 
 Corentin, lost in thought, could not make up his 
 mind to any certain course of action. The fog, 
 which the sun had dispersed toward midday, was 
 regaining all its force by degrees, atici became so 
 
V 
 
 TEE OHOXTANS. 837 
 
 ick that he could no longer make out the trees 
 eVen at a short distance. 
 
 "Here is a new piece of ill-luck," said he to him- 
 self^ as he went slowly home. " It is impossible to 
 see [anything half a dozen paces off. The weather 
 is protecting our lovers. How is one to watch a 
 house which is guarded by such a fog as this? Who 
 goes there?" cried he, clutching the arm of a 
 stranger who appeared to have escaladed the prom- 
 enade across the most dangerous crags. 
 
 " 'Tis I," said a childish voice, simply. 
 
 " Ah ! the little boy Redf oot. Pon't you wish to 
 avenge your father?" asked Corentin. 
 
 "Yes!" said the child. 
 
 " 'Tis well. Do you know the Gars?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Better still. Well, do not leave me. Do exactly 
 whatsoever I tell you, and you will finish your 
 mother's work and gain big sous. Do you like big 
 sous ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You like big sous, and you want to kill the Gars? 
 I will take care of you. Come, Marie," said Cor- 
 entin to himself, after a pause, "you shall give him 
 up to us yourself ! She is too excitable to judge 
 calmly of the blow I am going to deal her ; and be- 
 sides, passion never reflects. She does not know 
 the marquis' handwriting, so here is the moment to 
 spread a net for her into which her character will 
 make her rush blindly. But to assure the success 
 of my trick, I have need of Hulot, and I must 
 hasten to see him. " 
 
 At the same time Mile, de Verneuil and Francine 
 were debating the means of extricating the^ mar- 
 quis from the dubious generosity of Corentin and 
 the bayonets of Hulot. 
 
 "I will go and warn him," said the Breton girl. 
 
 "Silly child! do you know where he is? Why. I, 
 with all my heart's instinct to aid me, might search 
 long without meeting him." 
 
 After having devised no small number of the 
 idle projects which are so easy to carry out by the 
 
S38 THE CMOUANS. 
 
 fireside, Mile, de Verneuil cried, " When I see hiBi, 
 his danger will inspire me!" 
 
 Then she amused herself, like all ardent spirits, 
 with the determination not to resolve till the last 
 moment, trusting in her star, or in that instinctive 
 address which seldom deserts women. Never, per- 
 haps, had her heart throbbed so wildly. Sometimes 
 she remained as if thunderstruck, with fixed eyes, 
 and then, at the least noise, she quivered like the 
 half -uprooted trees which the wood-cutter shakes 
 strongly with a rope to hasten their fall. Suddenly 
 a violent explosion, produced by the discharge of a 
 dozen guns, echoed in the distance. Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil turned pale, caught Francine's hand, and 
 said to her : 
 
 " I die ; they have killed him !" 
 
 The heavy tread of a soldier was heard in the 
 saloon, and the terrified Francine rose and ushered 
 in a corporal. The Republican, after making a 
 milita"ry salute to Mile, de Verneuil, presented to 
 her some letters written on not very clean paper. 
 The soldier, receiving no answer from the young 
 lady, withdrew, observing, "Madam, 'tis from the 
 commandant." 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil, a prey to sinister forebodings, 
 read the letter, which seemed to have been hastily 
 written by Hulot : 
 
 " 'Mademoiselle, my counter-Chouans have seized 
 one of the Gars' messengers, who has just been 
 shot. Among the letters found on him, that which 
 I inclose may be of some concern to you, etc. ' " 
 
 "Thank Heaven! 'tis not he whom they have 
 killed," cried she, throwing the letter into the fire. 
 
 She breathed more freely, and greedily read the 
 note which |had been sent her. It was from the 
 marquis, and appeared to be addressed to Madame 
 du Gua : 
 
 " 'No, my angel, I shall not go to-night to the 
 Vivetiere. To-night you will lose your wager with 
 the count, and I shall triumph over the Eepublic in 
 the person of this delicious girl, who, you will 
 agree, is surely worth one night. 'Tis the only real 
 advantage that I shall reap from this campaign, tot 
 
THE CHOUANS. 339 
 
 L)^ Vendee is submitting. There is nothing more to 
 do\ in France ; and, of course, we shall return to- 
 gether to England. But to-morrow for serious 
 business ! ' " 
 
 The note dropped from her hands ; she closed her 
 eyes, kept the deepest silence, and remained lean- 
 ing back, her head resting on a cushion. After a 
 long pause she raised her eyes to the clock, which 
 marked the hour of four. 
 
 "And monsieur keeps me waiting!" she said, with 
 savage irony. 
 
 " Oh ! if he only would not come !" cried Francine. 
 
 "If he did not come," said Marie, in a stifled 
 voice, " I would go myself to meet him. But no ! he 
 cannot be long now. Francine, am I very beauti- 
 ful?" 
 
 "You are very pale." 
 
 "Look!" went on Mile, de Verneuil, "look at this 
 perfumed chamber, these flowers, these lights, this 
 intoxicating vapor ! Might not all this give a fore- 
 taste of heaven to him whom to-night I would 
 plunge in the joys of love?" 
 
 "What is the matter, mademoiselle?" 
 
 " I am betrayed, deceived, abused, tricked, 
 cheated, ruined ! And I will kill him ! I will tear 
 him in pieces. Whj^, yes ! there was always in his 
 manner a scorn which he hid but ill, and which I 
 did not choose to see. Oh ! it will kill me ! Fool 
 that I am," said she, with a laugh. "He comes ! I 
 have the night in which to teach him that, whether 
 I be married or no, a man who has once possessed 
 me can never abandon me. I will suit my venge- 
 ance to his offense, and he shall die despairing ! I 
 thought he had some greatness in his soul; but 
 doubtless 'tis a lacker's son. Assuredly he was 
 clever enough in deceiving me, for I still can hardly 
 believe that the man who was capable of handing 
 me over without compassion to Pille-Miche could 
 descend to a trick worthy of Scapin. 'Tis so easy 
 to dupe a loving woman, that it is the basest of 
 coward's deeds. That he should kill me, well and 
 good ! That he should lie— he whom I have exalted 
 so high! To the scaffold! To the scaffold! Ah! 
 
340 TEE CH0UAN8. 
 
 I would I could see him guillotined ! And am 1 
 after all so very cruel? He will die covered with 
 kisses and caresses which will have boen worth to 
 him twenty years of life!" 
 
 "Marie," said Francine, with an angelic sweet- 
 ness, "be your lover's victim, as so many others 
 are ; but do not make yourself either his mistress or 
 his executioner. Keep his image &,t the bottom of 
 your heart, without making it a torture to yourself. 
 If there were no joy in hopeless love, what would 
 become of us, weak women that we are? That 
 God, Marie, of whom you never think, will reward 
 us for having followed our vocation on earth — our 
 vocation to love and to suffer!" 
 
 "Kitten!" answered MUe. de Verneuil, patting 
 Francine's hand. " Your voice is very sweet and 
 very seductive. Reason is attractive, indeed, in 
 your shape. I would 1 could obey you." 
 
 "You pardon him? You would not give him up?" 
 
 "Silence! Speak to me no more of that man. 
 Compared with him, Corentin is a noble being. Do 
 you understand me?" 
 
 She rose, hiding under a face of hideous calm 
 both the distraction which seized her and her inex- 
 tinguishable thirst of vengeance. Her gait, slow 
 and measured, announced a certain irrevocableness 
 of resolve. A prey to thought, devouring the in- 
 sult, and too proud to confess the least of her tor- 
 ments, she went to the picket at the gate of Saint 
 Leonard to ask where the commandant was stay- 
 ing. She had hardly left her house when Corentin 
 entered it. 
 
 "Oh, Monsieur Corentin!" cried Francine, "if 
 you are interested in that young man, save him. 
 Mademoiselle is going to give him up. This 
 wretched paper has ruined all!" 
 
 Corentin took the letter carelessly, asking, " And 
 where has she gone?" 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "I will hasten," said he, "to save her from her 
 own despair." 
 
 He vanished, taking the letter with him, left the 
 house quickly, and said to the little boy who was 
 
THE cmUANS. 8« 
 
 playing before the door, "Which way did the lady 
 who\has just come out, go?" 
 
 Galope-Chopine's son made a step or two with 
 Corentin to show him the steep street which led to 
 the Porte Saint Leonard. "That way," said he, 
 without hesitation, obeying the instinct of venge- 
 ance with which his mother had inspired his heart. 
 
 At the same moment four men in disguise entered 
 . Mile, de Verneuil's house wthout being seen either 
 by the little boy or by Corentin. 
 
 "Go back to your post," said the spy. "Pretend 
 to amuse yourself by twisting the shutter latches ; 
 but keep a sharp lookout and watch everything, 
 even on the house-tops." 
 
 Corentin darted quickly in the direction pointed 
 out by the boy, thought he recognized Mile, de 
 Verneuil through the fog, and actually caught her 
 up at the moment when she reached the guard at 
 Saint Leonard's. 
 
 "Where are you going?" said he, holding out his 
 arm. "You are pale. What has happened? Is it 
 proper for you to go out alone like this? Take my 
 arm." 
 
 "Where is the commandant?" asked she. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil had scarcely finished the words 
 when she heard the movement of a reconnoitering 
 party outside Saint Leonard's Gate, and soon 
 caught Hulot's deep voice in the midst of the noise. 
 
 "God's thunder!" cried he, "I never saw darker 
 weather than this to make rounds in. The ci-devant 
 has the clerk of the weather at his orders." 
 
 "What are you grumbling at?" answered Mile, de 
 Verneuil, pressing his arm hard. " This fog is good 
 to cover vengeance as well as perfidy. Comman- 
 dant," added she, in a low voice, " the question is 
 how to concert measures with me so that the Gars 
 cannot escape to-day." 
 
 "Is heat your house?" asked Hulot, in a voice 
 the emotion of which shuwed his wonder. 
 
 "No," she answered. "But you must give me a 
 trusty man, and I will send him to warn you of the 
 marquis' arrival." 
 
 "What are you thinking of?" said Corentin, 
 
342 TSE CBOUANS. 
 
 eagerly, to Marie. " A soldier in your house would 
 alarm him, but a child (and I know where to find 
 one) will inspire no distrust." 
 
 " Commandant," went on Mile, de Verneuil, 
 " thanks to the fog you are cursing, you can sur- 
 round my house this very moment. Set soldiers 
 everywhere. Place a picket in Saint Leonard's 
 Church, to make sure of the esplanade on which 
 the windows of my drawing-room open. Post men 
 on the promenade, for though the window of my 
 room is twenty feet above the ground, despair some- 
 times lends men strength to cover the most danger- 
 ous distances. Listen ! I shall probably send this 
 gentleman away by the door of my house ; so be 
 sure to give none but a brave man the duty of 
 watching it, for," said she, with a sigh, "no one 
 can deny him courage, and he will defend himself !" 
 
 "Gudin!" cried the commandant, and the young 
 Fougerese started fom the midst of the force which 
 had come back with Hulot, and which had re- 
 mained drawn up at some distance. 
 
 "Listen, my boy," said the old soldier to him, in a 
 low voice; "this brimstone of a girl is giving up 
 the Gars to us. I do not know why, but that does 
 not matter; it is no business of ours. Take ten 
 men with you, and post yourself so as to watch the 
 close at the end of which the girl's house is; but 
 take care that neither you nor your men are seen." 
 
 "Yes, commandant; I know the ground." 
 
 "Well, my boy," went on Hulot; "Beau-Pied 
 shall come and tell you from me when you must 
 draw fox. Try to get up with the marquis your- 
 self, and kill him if you can, so that I may not have 
 to shoot him by form of law. You shall be lieuten- 
 ant in a fortnight, or my name is not Hulot. Here, 
 mademoiselle, is a fellow who will not shirk," said 
 he to the young lady, pointing to Gudin. " He will 
 keep good watch before your house, and if the 
 ci-aevaut comes out or tries to get in he will not 
 miss him. " 
 
 Gudin went off with half a score of soldiers. 
 
 "Are you quite sure what you are doing?" whis- 
 pered Corentm to Mile, de Verneuil. She answered 
 
sare CH0UANI3. m 
 
 hini not, but watched with a kind of satisfaction 
 tTie ^departure of the men who, under the sub-lieu- 
 teuant's orders, went to take up their post on the 
 promenade, and of those who, according to Hulot's 
 instructions, posted themselves along the dark walls 
 of Saint Leonard's. 
 
 "There are houses adjoining mine," she said to 
 the commandant. "Surround them, too. Let us 
 not prepare regret for ourselves by neglecting one 
 single precaution that we ought to take." 
 
 "She has gone mad!" thought Hulot. 
 
 "Am I not a prophet?" said Corentin in his ear. 
 
 " The child I mean to send into the house is the 
 little boy Bloody Foot, and so " 
 
 He did not finish. Mile, de Verneuil had sud- 
 denly sprung toward her house, whither he fol- 
 lowed her, whistling cheerfully, and when he 
 caught her up she had already gained the door, 
 where Corentin also found Galope-Chopine's son. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said he to her, "take this little 
 boy with you. You can have no more unsuspicious 
 or more active messenger. When," and he breathed 
 as it were in the child's ear, " you see the Gars 
 come in, whatever they tell you, run away, come 
 and find me at the guard-house, and I will give you 
 enough to keep you in cakes for the rest of your 
 life." 
 
 ' The youthful Breton pressed Corentin's hand 
 hard at these words, and followed Mile, de Verneuil. 
 
 "Now, my good friends!" cried Corentin, when 
 the door shut, "come to an explanation when you 
 like. If you make love now, my little marquis, it 
 will be in your shroud!" 
 
 But then, unable to make up his mind to lose 
 sight of the fateful abode, he directed his steps to 
 the promenade, where he found the commandant 
 busy in giving some orders. Soon night fell, and 
 two hours passed without the different sentinels, 
 who were stationed at short distances, perceivirijg 
 anything which gave suspicion that the marquis 
 had crossed the triple line of watchful lurkers who 
 beset the three accessible sides of Papegaut's Tower, 
 A score of times Corentin had gone from the prom.< 
 
344 THE CHOUAM. 
 
 enade to the guard-house; as often his expecta- 
 tions had been deceived, and his youthful emissary 
 had not come to meet him. The spy, lost in thought, 
 paced the promenade, a victim to the tortures of 
 three terrible contending passions — love, ambition, 
 and greed. Eight struck on all the clocks. The 
 moon rose very late, so that the fog and the night 
 wrapped in ghastly darkness the spot where the 
 tragedy devised by this man was about to draw to 
 its catastrophe. The agent of police managed to 
 stifle his passions, crossed his arms tightly on his 
 breast, and never turned his eyes from the window 
 which rose like a phantom of light above the tower. 
 When his steps led him in the direction of the glens 
 which edged the precipice he mechanically scru- 
 tinized the fog, which was furrowed by the pale 
 glow of some lights burning here and there in the 
 houses of the town and suburbs above and below 
 the rampart. The deep silence which prevailed 
 was only disturbed by the murmur of the Nancon, 
 by the mournful peals from the belfry at intervals, 
 by the heavy steps of the sentinels, or by the clash 
 of arms as they came, hour after hour, to relieve 
 guard. Mankind and nature alike — all had become 
 solemn. 
 
 It was just at this time that Pille-Miche observed, 
 "It is as black as a wolf's throat!" 
 
 "Get on with you!" answered Marche-a-Terre, 
 "and don't speak any more than a dead dog does !" 
 
 "I scarcely dare draw my breath," rejoined the 
 Chouan. 
 
 "If the man who has just displaced a stone wants 
 my knife sheathed in his heart he has only got to 
 do it again," whispered Marche a-Terre, in so low a 
 voice that it blended with the ripple of the Nancon 
 waters. 
 
 "But it was me," said Pille-Miche. 
 
 "Well, you old money-bag," said the leader, "slip 
 along on your belly like a snake, or else we shall 
 leave our carcasses here before the time !" 
 
 "I say, Marche-a-Terre!" went on the incorrigible 
 Pille-Miche, helping himself, with his hands to hoist 
 himself along on his stomach and reach the level 
 
TEE GHOUANS. 845 
 
 where was his comrade, into whose ear he whis- 
 pered, so low that the Chouans who followed them 
 could not catch a syllable, "I say, Marche-a-Terre ! 
 if we may trust our Grande-Garce, there must be 
 famous booty up there ! Shall we two share?" 
 
 "Listen, Pille-Miche!" said Marche-a-Terre, halt- 
 ing, still flat on his stomach, and the whole body 
 imitated his movement, so exhausted were the Cho- 
 uans by the difficulties which the scarped rock 
 offered to their progress. "I know you," went on 
 Marche-a-Terre, "to be one of those honest Jack 
 Take-alls who are quite as ready to give blows as 
 to receive them when there is no other choice. We 
 have not come here to put on dead men's shoes ; we 
 are devil against devil, and woe to those who have 
 the shortest nails. The Grande-Garce has sent us 
 here to save the Gars. Come 'lift your dog's face 
 up and look at that window above the tower. He 
 is there." 
 
 At the same moment midnight struck. The moon 
 rose, and gave to the fog the aspect of a white 
 smoke. Pille-Miche clutched Marche-a-Terre's arm 
 violently, and, without speaking, pointed to the tri- 
 angular steel of some glancing bayonets ten feet 
 above them. 
 
 "The Blues are there already!" said he; "we 
 shall do nothing by force." 
 
 "Patience!" answered Marche-a-Terre; "if I ex- 
 amined the whole place rightly this morning we 
 shall find at the foot of the Papegaut's Tower, be- 
 tween the ramparts and the promenade, a little 
 space where they constantly store manure, and on 
 which a man can drop from above as on a bed." 
 
 "If Saint Labre," said Pille-Miche, "would gra- 
 ciously change the blood which is going to flow into 
 good cider, the men of Fougeres would find stores 
 of it to-morrow!" 
 
 Marche-a-Terre covered his friend's mouth with 
 his broad hand. Then a caution, given under his 
 breath, ran from file to file to the very last Chouan 
 who hung in the air, clinging to the briers of the 
 schist. Indeed, Corentin's ear was too well trained 
 not to have heard the rustle of some bushes which 
 
■ 346 TEE CHOUANS. 
 
 the Chouans had pulled about, and the slight noisG 
 of the pebbles rolling to the bottom of the precipice, 
 standing, as he did, on the edge of the esplanade. 
 Marche-a-Terre, who seemed to possess the gift of 
 seeing in the dark, or whose senses, from their con- 
 tinual exercise, must have acquired the delicacy of 
 those of savages, had caught sight of Corentin. 
 Perhaps, like a well-broken dog, he had even 
 scented him. The detective listened in vain through 
 the silence, stared in vain at the natural wall of 
 schist; he could discover nothing there. If the 
 deceptive glimmer of the fog allowed him to per- 
 ceive some Chouans, he took them for pieces of 
 rock, so well did these human bodies preserve the 
 air of inanimate masses. The danger which the 
 party ran was of brief duration. Corentin was 
 drawn off by a very distinct noise which was 
 audible at the other end of the promenade, where 
 the supporting wall ceased and the rapid slope of 
 the cliff began. A path traced along the border of 
 the schist, and communicating with the Queen's 
 Staircase, ended exactly at this meeting-place. As 
 Corentin arrived there he saw a figure rise as if by 
 magic, and when he put out his hand to grasp this 
 form — of whose intentions, whether it was real or 
 fantastic, he did not augur well — he met the soft 
 and rounded outlines of a woman. 
 
 "The duse take you, my good woman!" said he, 
 in a low tone ; "if you had met any one but me you 
 would have been likely to get a bullet through your 
 head. But whence do you come, and whither are 
 you going at such an hour as this? Are you dumb? 
 It is really a woman, though," said he to himself. 
 
 As silence was becoming dangerous, the stranger 
 replied, in a tone which showed great fright, " Oh ! 
 good man, I be coming back from the veiUeel" * 
 
 " 'Tis the marquis' pretended mother," thought 
 Corentin. " Let us see what she is going to do. " 
 
 * There is, I believe, more than one local name for this { ^= "even- 
 ing party, half for work and half for amnsement") in English dialects. 
 But the only one known to literary English is "wake," which has too 
 special and lugubrious a meaning. — Translator's Note. 
 
THE CHOUAKS. 2i1 
 
 '■Well, then, go that way, old woman," he went 
 on, aloud, and pretending not to recognize her; 
 "keep to the left if you don't want to get shot." 
 
 He remained where he was, but as soon as he 
 saw Madame du Gua making her way to the Pape- 
 gaut's Tower, he followed her afar off with devilish 
 cunning. During this fatal meeting the Chouans 
 had very cleverly taken up their position on the 
 manure heaps to which Marche-a-Terre had guided 
 them. 
 
 " Here is the Grande-Garce !" whispered Marche-a- 
 Terre, as he rose to his feet against the tower, just 
 as a bear might have done. "We are here!" said 
 he to the lady. 
 
 "Good!" answered Madame du Gua. "If you 
 could find a ladder in that house where the garden 
 ends, six feet below the dunghill, the Gars would 
 be saved. Do you see that round window up there ? 
 It opens on a dressing-room adjoining the bedroom, 
 and that is where you have to go. The side of the 
 tower at the bottom of which you are, is the only 
 one not watched. The horses are ready and if you 
 have made sure of the passage of the Nancon, we 
 shall get him out of danger in a quarter of an hour, 
 for all his madness. But if that strumpet wants to 
 come with him, poniard her!" 
 
 When Corentin saw that some of the indistinct 
 shapes which he had at first taken for stones were 
 cautiously moving, he at once went off to the guard 
 at the Porte Saint Leonard, where he found the 
 commandant, asleep, but fully dressed, on a camp- 
 bed. 
 
 "Let him alone!" said Beau-Pied rudely to Coren- 
 tin ; "he has only just lain down there." 
 
 "The Chouans are here!" cried Corentin into 
 Hulot's ear. 
 
 " It is impossible ; but so much the better!" cried 
 the commandant, dead asleep as he was. "At any 
 rate, ws «ball have some fighting." 
 
 When Hulot arrived on. tbe promenade, Corentin 
 showed him in the gloom the sttaEg'^f'-^'si Won occu- 
 pied by the Chouans. 
 
 "They must have eluded or stifled the sentinels 
 
3i8 THE CBOXIAm. 
 
 placed between the Queen's Staircase and the 
 castle," cried the commandant. "Oh, thunder! 
 what a fog ! But patience ! I will send fifty men 
 under a lieutenant to the foot of the rock. It is no 
 good attacking them where they are, for the brutes 
 are so tough that they would let themselves drop to 
 the bottom of the precipice like stones, without 
 breaking a limb." 
 
 The cracked bell of the belfry was sounding two 
 when the commandant came back to the prome- 
 nade, after taking^he strictest military precautions 
 for getting hold of the Chouans commanded by 
 Marche-a-Terre. By this time, all the guards hav- 
 ing been doubled. Mile, de Verneuil's house had 
 become the center of a small army. The comman- 
 dant found Corentin plunged in contemplation of 
 the window which shone above the Papegaut's 
 Tower. 
 
 "Citizen," said Hulot to him, "I think the c^- 
 devant is making fools of us, for nothing has 
 stirred. " 
 
 "He is there!" cried Corentin, pointing to the 
 window. " I saw the shadow of a man on the blind. 
 But I cannot understand what has become of my 
 little boy. They must have killed him, or gained 
 him over. Why, commandant, there is a man for 
 you ! Let us advance !" 
 
 "God's thunder!" cried Hulot, who had his own 
 reasons for waiting ; " I am not going to arrest him 
 in bed ! If he has gone in he must come out, and 
 Gudin will not miss him." 
 
 " Commandant, I order you in the name of the 
 law to advance instantly upon this house!" 
 
 " You are a pretty fellow to think you can set me 
 going!" 
 
 But Corentin, without disturbing himself at the 
 commandant's wrath, said coolly : 
 
 " You will please to obey me. Here is an order in 
 regular form, signed by the Minister of War, which 
 will oblige you to do so," he continued, drawing a 
 paper from his pocket. "Do you fancy us fools 
 enough to let that girl do as she pleases? 'Tis a 
 
THE CHOUANS, 349 
 
 civil war that we are stifling and the greatness of 
 the result excuses the meanness of the means." 
 
 "1 take the liberty, citizen, of bidding you go and 
 — you understand me? Enough ! Put your left foot 
 foremost, leave me alone — and do it in less than no 
 time!" 
 
 "But read," said Corentin. 
 
 "Don't bother me with your commissions!" cried 
 Hulot, in a rage at receiving orders from a creature 
 whom he held so despicable. But at the same 
 mome»t, Galope-Chopine's son appeared in their 
 midst, like a rat coming out of the ground. 
 
 "The Gars is on his way !" he cried. 
 
 "Which way?" 
 
 "By Saint Leonard's street." 
 
 "Beau-Pied," whispered Hulot in the ear of the 
 corporal who svas near him, "run and tell the lieu- 
 tenant to advance on the house, and keep up some 
 nice little file-firing ! You understand? File to the 
 left, and march on the tower, you there!" he cried, 
 aloud. 
 
 In order perfectly to comprehend the catastrophe, 
 it is necessary now to return with Mile, de Verneuil 
 to her house. When passion comes to a crisis, it 
 produces in us an intensity of intoxication far above 
 the trivial stimulus of opium or of wine. The lucid- 
 ity Avhich ideas then acquire, the delicacy of the 
 over-excited senses, produce the strangest and the 
 most unexpected effects. When they find them- 
 selves under the tyranny of a single thought, certain 
 persons clearly perceive things the most difficult of 
 perception, while the most palpable objects are for 
 them as though they did not exist. Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil was suffering from this kind of intoxication, 
 which turns real life into something resembling the 
 existence of sleep-walkers, when, after reading the 
 marquis' letter, she eagerly made all arrangements 
 to prevent his escaping her vengeance, just as, but 
 the moment before, she had made every prepara- 
 tion for the first festival of her love. But when she 
 saw her house carefully surrounded, by her own 
 orders, with a triple row of bayonets, her soul was 
 suddenly enlightened. She sat in judgment on her 
 
350 THE CHOUAim 
 
 own conduct, and decided, with a kind of lio?ror, 
 that what she had just committed was a crime. Ir* 
 her first moment of distress she sprang toward t je 
 door-step, and stood there motionless for an instant, 
 endeavoring to reflect, but unable to bring, anj 
 reasoning process to a conclusion. She was so abso- 
 lutely uncertain of what she had just done, that she 
 asked herself why she was standing in the vestibule 
 of her own touse, holding a strange child by the 
 hand. Before her eyes thousands of sparks danced 
 in the air like tongues of fire. She began to walk 
 in order to shake off the hideous stupor which had 
 enveloped her, but like a person asleep, she could 
 not realize the true form or color of any object. 
 She clutched the little boy's hand with a violence 
 foreign to her usual nature, and drew him along 
 with so rapid a step that she seemed to possess the 
 agility of a mad woman. She saw nothing at all 
 in the drawing-room, as she crossed it, and yet she 
 received there the salutes of three men, who drew 
 aside to make way for her, 
 
 "Here she is!" said one. 
 
 "She is very beautiful!" cried the priest. 
 
 "Yes," answered the first speaker; "but how pale 
 and agitated she is!" 
 
 "And how absent!" said a third. "She does not 
 see us." 
 
 At her own chamber door Mile, de Verneuil per- 
 ceived the sweet and joyful face of Francine, who 
 whispered in her ear, "He is there, Marie!" 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil roused herself, was able to col- 
 lect her thoughts, looked at the child whose hand 
 she held, and answered Francine : 
 
 " Lock this little boy up somewhere, and if you 
 wish me to live, take good care not to let him 
 escape." 
 
 As she slowly uttered these words she had been 
 fixing her eyes on the chamber door, on which they 
 remained glued with so terrible a stillness that a 
 man might have thought she saw her victim 
 through the thickness of the panels. She gently 
 pushed the door open, and shut it without turning 
 her back, for she perceived the marquis standing in 
 
TBE CMOUANS. 351 
 
 front of the fire-place. The young noble's dress, 
 without being too elaborate, had a certain festal air 
 of ornament, which heightened, the dazzling effect 
 that lovers produce on women. As she saw this 
 Mile, de Verneuil recovered all her presence of 
 mind. Her lips — strongly set though half open — 
 exhibited the enamel of her white teeth, and out- 
 lined an incomplete smile, the expression of which 
 was one of terror rather than of delight. She step- 
 ped slowly toward the young man, and pointed 
 with her finger toward the clock. 
 
 " A man who is worth loving is worth the trouble 
 of waiting for him," said she, with feigned gayety. 
 
 And then, overcome by the violence of her feel- 
 ings, she sank upon the sofa which stood near the 
 fire-place. 
 
 "Dearest Marie, you are very attractive when 
 you are angry!" said the marquis, seating himself 
 beside her, taking a hand which she abandoned to 
 him, and begging for a glance which she would not 
 give. "I hope," he went on, in a tender and caress- 
 ing tone, " that Marie will in a moment be vexed 
 with herself for having hidden her face from her 
 fortunate husband." 
 
 When she heard these words she turned sharply, 
 and stared him straight in the eyes. 
 
 "What does this formidable look mean?" con- 
 tinued he, laughing. " But your hand is on fire, my 
 love what is the matter?" 
 
 " Your love?" she answered, in a broken and stifled 
 tone. 
 
 "Yes!" said he, kneeling before her and seizing 
 both her hands, which he covered with kisses. 
 "Yes, my love. I am yours for life." 
 
 She repulsed him violently and rose ; her features 
 were convulsed, she laughed with the laugh of a 
 maniac, and said: "You do not mean a word you 
 say ! Oh, man more deceitful than the lowest of 
 criminals !" She rushed to the dagger which lay 
 by a vase of flowers, and flashed it within an inch 
 or two of the astonished young man's breast. 
 
 "Bah!" she said, throwing it down, "I have not 
 respect enough for you to kill you. Your blood is 
 
352 . TRE CBOUAM. 
 
 even too vile to be shed by soldiers, and I see no fit 
 end for you but the hangman !" 
 
 The words were uttered with difficulty in a low 
 tone, and she stamped as she spoke, like an angry, 
 spoiled child. The marquis drew near her, trying 
 to embrace her. "Do not touch me!" she cried, 
 starting back with a movement of horror. 
 
 "She is mad!" said the marquis, despairingly, to 
 himself. 
 
 "Yes!" she repeated, "mad! but not mad enough 
 yet to be your plaything ! What would I not par- 
 don to passion? But to wish to possess me without 
 loving me, and to write as much to that " 
 
 "To whom did I write?" asked he, with an aston- 
 ishment which was clearly not feigned. 
 
 " To that virtuous woman who wanted to kill me !" 
 
 Then the marquis turned pale, grasped the back 
 of the arm-chair, on which he leaned so fiercely 
 that he broke it, and cried, "If Madame du Gua has 
 been guilty of any foul trick " 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil looked for the letter, found it 
 not, and called Francine. The Breton girl came. 
 
 "Where is the letter?" 
 
 "Monsieur Corentin took it." 
 
 " Corentin ! Ah, I see it all ! He forged the letter 
 and deceived me, as he does deceive, with the 
 fiend's own art!" 
 
 The», uttering a piercing shriek, she dropped on 
 the sofa to which she staggered, and torrents of 
 tears poured from her eyes. Doubt and certainty 
 were equally horrible. The marquis flung himself 
 at his mistress' feet, and pressed her to his heart, 
 repeating a dozen times these words, the only ones 
 he could utter : 
 
 "Why weep, my angel? Where is the harm? 
 Even your reproaches are full of love. Do not 
 weep. I love you. I love you forever." 
 
 Suddenly he felt her embrace him with more than 
 human strength, and heard her, amid her sobs, say, 
 "You love me still?" 
 
 "You doubt it?" he answered, in a tone almost 
 melancholy. 
 
 She disengaged herself sharply from his arms, 
 
TBE CBOnAM 3S3 
 
 and fled, as if frightened and confused, a pace or 
 two from him. "Do I doubt it?" she cried. 
 
 But she saw the marquis smile with such sweet 
 sarcasm that the words died on her lips. She 
 allowed him to take her hand and lead her to the 
 threshold. Then Marie saw at the end of the saloon 
 an altar, which had been hurriedly arranged during 
 her absence. The priest had at that moment ar- 
 rayed himself in his sacerdotal vestments ; lighted 
 tapers cast on the ceiling a glow as sweet as hope ; 
 and she recognized in the two men who had bowed 
 to her the Count de Bauvan and the Baron du 
 Gfuenic, the two witnesses chosen by Montauran. 
 
 "Will you again refuse me?" whispered the mar- 
 quis to her. 
 
 At this spectacle she made one step back so as to 
 regain her chamber, fell on her knees, stretched 
 her hands toward the marquis, and cried, " Oh, f or- 
 givp me ! forgive ! forgive f" 
 
 Hei- voice sank, her head fell back, hex eyes 
 closed, and she remained as if lifeless in the arms 
 of the marauis and of Francine. When she opened 
 her eye^ again she met those o " the young chief, 
 full o" l^vinpf kindness. 
 
 "Patience, Marie 1 This storm is the last," said 
 he. 
 
 "Th" last!" she repeated. 
 
 Francin^ and the marquis looked at each other in 
 astonishmen'' bu' she bade them be silent by a 
 gesture. 
 
 "Call tho priest," she said, "and leave me alone 
 with Mim." 
 
 They withdrew. 
 
 "Father!' she said to the priest, who suddenly 
 appearc' before her. "Father! in my childhood an 
 old man, white-haired like yourself, frequently re- 
 peated t ' rap that, with a lively faith, man can 
 obtain everythinr from God. Is this true?" 
 
 "It is true," answered the priest. "Everything is 
 possible to Him who has created everything." 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil threw herself on her knees with 
 wonderful enthusiasm. "Oh, my God!" said she, 
 in her ecstasy, "my faith in Thee is equal to my 
 
354 
 
 THE CR0UAN3. 
 
 love for him ! Inspire me now ; let a miracle be 
 done, or take my life!" 
 
 "Your prayer will be heard," said the priest. 
 
 Then Mile, de Verneuil presented herself to the 
 gaze of the company, leaning on the arm of the 
 aged, white-haired ecclesiastic. Now, when her 
 deep and secret emotion gave her to her lover's love 
 she was more radiantly beautiful than she had ever 
 been before, for a serenity resembling that which 
 painters delight in imparting to martyrs stamped 
 
 or hei face p character of majesty. She held cut 
 her hand to the marquis, and they advanced to- 
 gether to the altar, at which they knelt down. This 
 marriage, which was abou* to be celebrated but a 
 few steps from the nuptial couch, the hastily erected 
 altar.the cross, the vases, the chalice brought secret- 
 ly by the priest, the incense smoke eddying round 
 cornices which had as yet seen nothing but the steam 
 of banquets the priest vested only in cassock and 
 stole, the sacred tapers in a profane saloon, com- 
 
THE CH0UAN8.1 855 
 
 posed a strange and touching scene which may give 
 a final touch to our sketch of those times of un- 
 happy memory, when civil discord had overthrown 
 the most holy institutions. Then religious cere- 
 monies had all the attraction of mysteries. Chil- 
 dren were baptized in the chambers where their 
 mothers still groaned. As of old, the Lord came in 
 simplicity and poverty to console the dying. Nay, 
 young girls received the Holy Bread for the first 
 time in the very place where they had played the 
 night before. The union of the marquis and Mile, 
 de Verneuil was about to be hallowed, like many 
 others, by an act contravening the new legislation ; 
 but later these marriages, celebrated for the most 
 part at the foot of the oak trees, were all scrupu- 
 lously legalized. The priest who thus kept up the 
 old usages to the last moment was one of those men 
 who are faithful to their principles through the 
 fiercest of the storm. His voice, guiltless of the 
 oath which the Republic had exacted, uttered amid 
 the tempest only words of peace. He did not, as 
 Abbe Gudin had done, stir the fire of discord. But 
 he had, with many others, devoted himself to the 
 dangerous mission of performing the rites of the 
 priesthood for the Catholic remnant of souls. In 
 order to succeed in this perilous ministry he em- 
 ployed all the pious artifices which persecution 
 necessitates ; and the marquis had only succeeded 
 in discovering him in one of the lurking-places 
 which even in our days bear the name of Pi-iests' 
 Holes. The mere sight of his pale and suffering 
 face had such power in inspiring devotion and re- 
 spect that it was enough to give to the worldly 
 drawing-room the air of a holy place. All was 
 ready for the act of misfortune and of joy. Before 
 beginning the ceremony, the priest, amid profound 
 silence, asked the name of the bride. 
 
 " Marie Nathahe, daughter of Mademoiselle 
 Blanche de Casteran, deceased, sometime abbess of 
 our Lady of Seez, and of Victor Amadeus, Duke of 
 Verneuil." 
 
 "Born?" 
 
 "At La Chasterie, near Alencon." 
 
856 TBE CHOUANS. 
 
 "I did not think," whispered the baron to the 
 count, " that Montauran would be silly enough to 
 marry her. A duke's natural daughter ! Fie ! fie !" 
 
 "Had she been a king's, it were a different thing," 
 answered the Count de Bauvan, with a smile. " But 
 I am not the man to blame him. The other pleases 
 me, and it is with ' Charette's Filly,' as they call 
 her, that I shall make my campaign. She is no 
 cooing dove." 
 
 The marquis' name had been filled in beforehand ; 
 the two lovers signed, and the witnesses after them. 
 The ceremony began, and at the same moment 
 Marie, and she alone, heard the rattle of the guns 
 and the heavy, measured tramp of the soldiers, 
 who, no doubt, were coming to relieve the guard of 
 Blues that she had had posted in the church. She 
 shuddered, and raised her eyes to the cross on the 
 altar. 
 
 "She is a saint at last!" murmured Francine. 
 
 And the count added, under his breath, "Give 
 me saints like that, and 1 will be dusedly devout!" 
 
 When the priest put the formal question to Mile, 
 de Verneuil she answered with a "Yes!" followed 
 by a deep sigh. Then she leaned toward her hus- 
 band's ear, and said to him : 
 
 " Before long you will know why I am false to the 
 oath I took never to marry you." 
 
 When, after the ceremony, the company had 
 passed into a room where dinner had been served, 
 and at the very moment when the guests were tak- 
 ing their places, Jeremy entered in a state of 
 alarm. The poor bride rose quickly, went, followed 
 by Francine, to meet him, and with one of the ex- 
 cuses which women know so well how to invent, 
 begged the marquis to do the honors of the feast 
 by himself for a short time. Then she drew the 
 servant aside before he could commit an indiscre- 
 tion, which would have been fatal. 
 
 "Ah! Francine. To feel one's self dying and not 
 to be able to say 'I die!' " cried Mile, de Verneuil, 
 who did not return to the dining-room. 
 
 Her absence was capable of being interpreted on 
 the score of the just-concluded rite. At the end of 
 
THE CHOUANS. 357 
 
 the meal, and just as the marquis' anxiety had 
 reached its height, Marie came back in the full gala 
 costume of a bride. Her face was joyous and 
 serene, while Francine, who was with her, showed 
 such profound alarm in all her features that the 
 guests thought they saw in the two countenances 
 some eccentric picture where the wild pencil of Sal- 
 vator Rosa had represented Death and Life hand in 
 hand. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said she to the priest, the baron, 
 and the count, " you must be my guests this night ; 
 for you would run too much risk in trying to leave 
 Fougeres. My good maid has her orders, and will 
 guide each of you to his apartment. No mutiny!" 
 said she to the priest, who was about to speak. " I 
 hope you will not disobey a lady's orders on the 
 day of her marriage." 
 
 An hour later she found herself alone with her 
 lover in the voluptuous chamber which she had 
 arranged so gracefully. They had come at last to 
 that fateful couch where so many hopes are shat- 
 tered as though at a tomb, where the chance of 
 waking to a happy life is so doubtful, where true 
 love dies or is born, according to the strength of 
 the character, which is only there truly tested. 
 Marie looked at the clock, and said to herself, " Six 
 hours more to live !" 
 
 "What! I have been able to sleep!" she cried 
 toward morning, as she awoke with a start in one 
 of those sudden movements which disturb us when 
 we have arranged with ourselves to wake next day 
 at a certain time. "Yes! I have slept," she re- 
 peated, seeing by the glimmer of the candles that 
 the clock hand would soon point to the hour of two 
 in the morning. 
 
 She turned and gazed at the marquis, who was 
 asleep, his head resting on one hand, as chil- 
 dren sleep, while with the other hand he clasped 
 his wife's, a half -smile on his face as though he had 
 slumbered in the midst of a kiss. 
 
 "Ah!" she whispered, "he sleeps like a child! 
 But how could he mistrust me— me, who owe him 
 ineffable happiness?" 
 
358 TEE CEOUANS. 
 
 She touched him gently ; he woke and finisne^ ane 
 smile. Then he kissed the hand he held, and gk^ed 
 at the unhappy woman with such fire in his ^yes 
 that, unable to bear their passionate blaze, she 
 slowly dropped her ample eyelids, as if to forbid 
 herself a dangerous spectacle. But as she thus 
 vailed the ardor of her own glances she so provoked 
 desire in the act of seeming to thwart it, that but 
 for the depth of the fear which she tried to hide, 
 her husband might have accused her of excess of 
 coquetry. Both at the same time raised their gra- 
 cious heads, and still full of the pleasures they had 
 enjoyed, exchanged signs of gratitude. But tho 
 marquis, after rapidly examining the exquisite pict- 
 ure which his wife's face presented, attributing to 
 some melancholy thought the cloud which shadowed 
 Marie's brows, said gently to her: 
 
 "Why this shadow of sadness, love?" 
 
 "Poor Alphonse! Whither do you think I have 
 brought you?" asked she, trembling. 
 
 " To happiness " 
 
 "To death!" 
 
 And with a shudder of horror she sprang out ot 
 bed. The astonished marquis followed her, and his 
 wife drew him close to the window, after making a 
 frantic gesture, which escaped him. Marie drew 
 the curtain, and pointed out to him with her finger 
 a score of soldiers on the square. The moon, which 
 had chased away the fog, cast its white light on the 
 uniforms, the guns, the impassive figure of Coren- 
 tin, who paced to and fro like a jackal waiting for 
 his prey, and the commandant, who stood motion- 
 less, his arms crossed, his face lifted, his lips drawn 
 back, ill at ease, and on the watch. 
 
 " Well, Marie ! never mind them, but come back !" 
 
 "Why do you smile, Alphonse? 'Twas I who 
 placed them there!" 
 
 "You are dreaming!" 
 
 «No!" 
 
 They looked at each other for a moment; the 
 marquis guessed all, and, clasping her in his arms, 
 said: 
 
 « There 1 I love you stilll" 
 
THE CBoUANa. 
 
 359 
 
 "Then all is not lost!" cried Marie. "Alphonse," 
 she said, after a pause, "there is still hope!" 
 
 At this moment they distinctly heard the low- 
 owl's hoot, and Francine came suddenly out of the 
 dressmg-room. "Pierre is there !" she cried, with a 
 
 
 joy bordering on delirium. IThen she and the 
 marchioness dressed Montauran in a Chouan's garb 
 with the wonderful rapidity which belongs only to 
 women. When the marchioness saw her husband 
 busy loading the weapons which Francine had 
 
360 THE CJtOVANS. 
 
 brought, she slipped out deftly, after making a sign 
 of intelligence to her faithful Breton maid. Then 
 Francine led the marquis to the dressing-room 
 which adjoined the chamber, and the young chief, 
 seeing a number of sheets strongly knotted to- 
 gether, could appreciate the careful activity with 
 which the girl had worked to outwit the vigilance 
 of the soldiers. 
 
 "lean never get through there," said the mar- 
 quis, scanning the narrow embrasure of the osil-de- 
 ooeuf. 
 
 But at the same moment a huge, dark face filled 
 its oval, and a hoarse voice, well known to Fran- 
 cine, cried, in a low tone : 
 
 "Be quick, general! These toads of Blues are 
 stirring." 
 
 "Oh! one kiss more!" said a sweet, quivering 
 voice. 
 
 The marquis, whose foot was already on the lad- 
 der of deliverance, but a part of whose body was 
 still in the loop-hole, felt himself embraced despair- 
 ingly. He uttered a cry as he perceived that his 
 wife had put on his own garments. He would have 
 held her, but she tore herself fiercely from his arms, 
 and he found himself obliged to descend. He held 
 a rag of stuff in his hand, and a sudden gleam of 
 moonlight coming to give him light, he saw that 
 the fragment was part of the waistcoat he had worn 
 the night before. 
 
 « Halt ! Fire by platoons ! " 
 
 These words, uttered by Hulot in the midst of a 
 silence which was terrifying, broke the spell that 
 seemed to reign over the actors and the scene. A 
 salvo of bullets coming from the depths of the val- 
 ley to the foot of the tower succeeded the volleys of 
 the Blues stationed on the promenade. The Repub- 
 lican fire was steady, continuous, unpitying, but its 
 victims uttered not a single cry, and between each 
 rolley the silence was terrible. 
 
 Still, Corentin, who had heard one of the aerial 
 forms which he had pointed out to the commandant 
 falling from the upper part of the ladder, suspected 
 some trick. 
 
TEE CHOTJANS. 361 
 
 "Not one of our birds sings," said he to Hulot. 
 " Our two lovers are quite capable of playing some 
 trick to amuse us here, while they are perhaps 
 escaping by the other side." 
 
 And the spy, eager to clear up the puzzle, sent 
 Galope-Chopine's son to fetch torches. 
 
 Corentin's suggestion was so well understood by 
 Hulot that the old soldier, attentive to the noise of 
 serious fighting in front of the guard at Saint Leon- 
 ard's, cried, " 'Tis true; there cannot be two of 
 them." And he rushed toward the guard-house. 
 
 " We have washed his head with lead, comman- 
 dant," said Beau-Pied, coming to meet him. " But 
 he has killed Gudin and wounded two men. The 
 madman broke through three lines of our fellows, 
 and would have gained the fields but for the sen- 
 tinel at the Porte Saint Leonard, who skewered him 
 with his bayonet." 
 
 When he heard these words the commandant 
 hurried into the guard-house, and saw on the camp- 
 bed a bleeding form which had just been placed 
 there. He drew near the seeming marquis, raised 
 the hat which covered his face, and dropped upon 
 a chair. 
 
 "I thought so!" he cried, fiercely, folding his 
 arms. " Holy thunder ! she had kept him too long !" 
 
 None of the soldiers stirred. The commandant's 
 action had displaced the long black hair of a 
 woman, which fell down. Then suddenly the silence 
 was broken by the tramp of many armed men. 
 Corentin entered the guard-house in front of four 
 soldiers carrying Montauran, both whose legs and 
 arms had been broken by many gunshots, on a 
 bier formed by their guns. The marquis was laid 
 on the camp-bed by the side of his wife, saw her, 
 and summoned up strength enough to clutch her 
 hand convulsively. The dying girl painfully turned 
 her head, recognized her husband, shuddered with 
 a spasm horrible to see, and murmured these words 
 in an almost stifled voice : 
 
 " A Day without a Morrow \ God has heard my 
 prayer too well!" 
 
 "Commandant," said the marquis, gathering all 
 
362 TEE CUOifANS, 
 
 his strength, but never quitting Marie's hand, "1 
 count on your honor to announce my death to my 
 younger brother, who is at London. Write to him 
 not to bear arms against France, if he would obey 
 my last words, but never to abandon the king's 
 service." 
 
 "It shall be done!" said Hulot, pressing the dying 
 man's hand. 
 
 " Take them to the hospital there !" cried Corentin. 
 
 Hulot seized the spy by his arm so as to leave the 
 mark of the nails in his flesh, and said, " As your 
 task is done here, get out and take a good look at 
 the face of Commandant Hulot, so as to keep out of 
 his way, unless you want him to sheathe his toast- 
 ing-iron in your belly." And the old soldier half 
 drew it as he spoke. 
 
 " There is another of your honest folk who will 
 never make their fortune !" said Corentin to himself 
 when he was well away from the guard-house. 
 
 The marquis had still strength to thank his foe 
 by moving his head, as a mark of the esteem which 
 soldiers have for generous enemies. 
 
 In 1837 an old man, accompanied by his wife, was 
 bargaining for cattle on the market-place of Fou- 
 geres, without anybody saying anything to him, 
 though he had killed more than a hundred men. 
 They did not even remind him of his surname of 
 Marche-a-Terre. The person to whom the writer 
 owes much precious information as to the charac- 
 ters of this story saw him leading ofF a cow with 
 that air of simplicity and probity, as he went, which 
 makes men say, "That's an honest fellow!" 
 
 As for Cibot, called Pille-Miche, his end is already 
 known. It may be that Marche-a-Terre made a vain 
 attempt to save his comrade from the scaffold, and 
 was present on the square'of Alencon at the terrible 
 riot which was one of the incidents of the famous 
 trial of Eifoel, Briond, and La Chanterie. 
 
 (TH£ bnd.) 
 
h. L. Burt*s Catalogue of Books for 
 Youf?g People by Popular Writers, 52- 
 58 Duane Street, New York Ng v« sg 
 
 ■ ir ' IB ■■ III! IMIIIIIBnHMHM* 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 Joe's Luck: A Boj's Adventures in Calif omia.~ By 
 
 HoBATio Alger, Jr. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 The story la chock fall of stii-rlna Incidents, while the amnslnff situ- 
 ations are furnished by Joshua Blckford, from Pumpkin Hollow, and the 
 fellow who modestly styles himself the "Rip-tall Roarer, from Pike Co., 
 Missouri." Mr. Alger never writes a poor book, and "Joe's Luck" Is cer- 
 tainly one of bis best. 
 
 Tom the Bootblack; or. The Eoad to Success. By 
 
 HoBATio Alger, Jr. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 A bright, enterprising lad was Tom the Bootblack. He was not at all 
 ashamed of his humble calling, though always on the lookout to better 
 hlmsolt. The lad started for Cincinnati to look up his heritage. Mr. 
 Grey, the uncle, did not hesitate to employ a ruffian to kill the lad. The 
 plan failed, and Gilbert Grey, once Tom the bootblack, came into a com- 
 fortable fortune. This Is one of Mr. Alger's best stories. 
 
 Dan the Newsboy. By Hoeatio Algek, Je. 13mo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Dan Mordaunt and his mother live In a poor tenement, and the lad Is 
 plucklly trying to make ends meet by selling papers in the streets of New 
 York. A little heiress of six years is confided to the care of the Mor- 
 daunts. The child is kidnapped and Dan tracks the child to the house 
 where she la hidden, and rescues her. The wealthy aunt of the little 
 heiress is so delighted with Dan's courage and mauy good qualities 
 that she adopts him as her heir. 
 
 Tony the Hero: A Brave Boy's Adventure with a 
 
 Tramp. By Horatio Algbr, Jr. 13mo, clotli, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Tony, a sturdy bright-eyed boy of fourteen, is under the control ol 
 Rudolph Rugg, a thorough rascal. After much abuse Tony runs away 
 and geta a job as stable boy in a country hotel. Tony la heir to a 
 large estate. Rudolph for a consideration hunts up Tony and throws 
 him down a deep well. Of course Tony escapes from the fate provided 
 for him, and by a brave act, a rich friend secures bis rlghta and Tony 
 Is prosperous. A very entertaining book. 
 
 The Errand Boy; or. How Phil Brent Won Success. 
 
 By Horatio Alger, Jr. 13mo, clotli illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 The career of "The Errand Boy" embracea the city adventures of a 
 vmart country lad. Philip was brought up by a kind-hearted innkeeper 
 named Brent. The death of Mrs. Brent paved the way for the hero's 
 subsequent troubles. A retired merchant In New York secures him the 
 situation of errand boy, and thereafter stands as his friend. 
 
 Tom Temple's Career. By Hoeatio Algee^ Je. ISmo, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Tom Temple is a bright, self-reliant lad. He leaves Plympton village 
 to seek work in New York, whence he undertakes an Important mission 
 to California. Some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that 
 the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been 
 reached. The tale is written in Mr. Alger's moat fascinating style. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, Dr sent postpaid on receipt of price by tfe* 
 gubllsber, A. L. BVET, S2-W Ouaae Street. New Yorb 
 
2 a; tJ. BURT^S BOOKS FOE tOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. "^ 
 
 Frank Fowkr, the Cash Boy. By Hoeatio Alger, Je^ 
 
 ]2mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Prank Fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living for 
 himself and his foster-sister Grace. Going to New York he obtains a 
 Situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. He renders a service to a 
 wealthy old gentleman who takes a fancy to the lad, and thereafter 
 helps the lad to gain success and fortune. 
 
 Tom Thatcher's Fortune. By Horatio Alger, Jr. 
 
 13mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Tom Thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. He supports hia 
 mother and sister on meagre wages earned as a shoe-pegger in John 
 Simpson's factory. Tom is discharged from the factory and starts over* 
 land for California. He meets with many adventures. The story Is told 
 In a way which has made Mr. Alger's name a household word in so many 
 homes. 
 
 The Train Boy. By Horatio Alger, Jr. 12ino, 
 
 cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Paul Palmer was a wide-awake boy of sixteen who supported hia mother 
 and sister by selling books and papers on the Chicago and Milwaukee 
 Eallroad. He detects a young man in the act of picking the pocket of a 
 young lady. In a railway accident many passengers are killed, but Paul 
 Is fortunate enough to assist a Chicago merchant, who out of gratitude 
 takes him Into his employ. Paul succeeds with tact and judgment and 
 ts well started on the road to business prominence. 
 
 Mark Mason's Victory. The Trials and Triumphs of 
 
 a Telegraph Boy. By Horatio Alger, Jr. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, prico 
 
 $1.00. 
 
 Mark Mason, the telegraph boy, was a sturdy, honest lad, who plucklly 
 won his way to success by his honest manly efPorts under many diffi- 
 culties. This story will please the very large class of boys who regard 
 Mr. Alger as a favorite author. 
 
 A Debt of Honor. The Story of Gerald Lane's Success 
 
 in the Far West. By Horatio Alger, Jr. IStuo, cloth, illustrated, price 
 
 Sfl.OO. 
 
 The story of Gerald Lane and the account of the many trials and dla- 
 appointmeuts which he passed through befoi he attained success, will 
 Interest all boys who have read the previous stories of this delightful 
 author. 
 
 Ben Brude. Scenes in the Life of a Bowery Newsboy. 
 
 By Horatio Algbr, Jr. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Ben Bruce was a brave, manly, generous boy. The story of hia efforts, 
 and many seeming failures and disappointments, and his final success, are 
 most interesting to all readers. The tale is written in Mr. Alger'9 
 most fascinating style. 
 
 The Castaways; or, On the Florida Eeefs. By James 
 
 Otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 This tale smacks of the salt sea. From the moment that the Sea 
 Queen leaves lower New York bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed ofC 
 the coast of Florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind 
 through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to 
 the leeward. The adventures of Ben Clark, the hero of the atorv and 
 J'ake the cook, cannot fall to charm the reader. As a writer for youug 
 people Mr. Otis is a prim e favo rite. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by tht 
 Ktablisher, A. L. BV&I, 62-6ft Suane Street, Xiev YorL , 
 
A. L. BU RT^S BOOKS FOB tOTJNG^ PEOPLE. Si 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS- 
 
 Wrecked on Spider Island; or. How Ned Kogers Found 
 
 the Treasure. By James Otis. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Ned Rogers, a "down-east'" plucky lad ships as cabin boy to earn 
 a liTelihood. Ned is marooned on Spider Island, and while there dis- 
 covers a wreck submerged in the sand, and finds a considerable amount 
 of treasure. The capture of the treasure and the incidents of the 
 voyage serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most 
 captious boy could desire. 
 
 The Searcli for the Silver City: A Tale of Adventure in 
 
 Yucatan. By James Otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price Sl.OO. 
 
 Two lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark on the steam 
 yacht Day Dream for a cruise to the tropics. The yacht is destroyed 
 by fire, and then the boat is cast upon the coast of Yucatan. They 
 bear of the wonderful Silver City, of the Chan Santa Cruz Indians, 
 and with the help of a faithful Indian ally carry off a number of the 
 golden Images from the temples. Pursued with relentless vigor at last 
 their escape Is effected in an astonishing manner. The s^ory is so 
 full of exciting Incidents that the reader is quite carried away with 
 the novelty and realism of the narrative. 
 
 A Eunaway Brig; or. An Accidental Cruise. By 
 
 James Otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 This Is a sea tale, and the reauer can look out upon the wide shimmer* 
 Ing sea as It flashes back the sunlight, and imagine himself afloat with 
 Harry Vandyne, Walter Morse, Jim Libby and that old shell-back. Bob 
 Brace, on the brig Bonita. The boys discover a mysterious document 
 which enables them to find a buried treasure. They are stranded on 
 an Island and at last are rescued with the treasure. The boys are sure 
 to be fascinated with this entertaining story. 
 
 The Treasure Finders: A Boy^s Adventures in 
 
 Nicaragua. By James Otis. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 Roy and Dean Coloney, with their guide Tongla, leave their father's 
 Indigo plantation to visit the wonderful ruins of an ancient city. The 
 boys eagerly explore the temples of an extinct race and discover three 
 golden images cunningly hidden away. They escape with the greatest 
 difficulty. Eventually they reach safety with their golden prizes. We 
 doubt If there ever was written a more entertaining story than "The 
 Treasure Finders. ' * 
 
 Jack, the Hunchback. A Story of the Coast of Maine. 
 
 By James Otis. Price $1.00. 
 
 This is the story of a little hunchback who lived on Cape Elizabeth, 
 on the coast of Maine. His trials and successes are most interesting. 
 From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us 
 along as on a stream whose current varies In direction, but never loses 
 Its force. 
 
 With Washington at Monmouth: A Story of Three 
 
 Philadelphia Boys. By James Otis. 13mo, ornamental cloth, olivine 
 
 edges, illustrated, price $1.60. 
 
 Three Philadelphia lada assist the American spies and make regular 
 and frequent visits to Valley Forge in the Winter while the British 
 occupied the city. The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life 
 Bklllfnlly drawn, and the glimpses of Washington's soldiers which are 
 ^ven shown that the work has not been hastily done, or without con- 
 siderable study. The story is wholesome and patriotic in tone, as are 
 all of Mr. Otis' works. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or seni postpaid on receipt of price by th« 
 publisher, A. L. BURT, 62-5ft Suane Street, New York, 
 
4 A. t. BURT^S BOOKS FOR YOTJNG PEOPIiB. 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 [With Lafayette at Yorktown: A Story of How Two 
 
 Boys Joined the Continental Army. By James Otis. 12mo, ornamental 
 
 cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50. 
 
 Two lads from Portmtuth, N. H., attempt to enlist in the Colonial 
 Army, and are given employment as spies. There is no lack of exciting 
 Incidents which the youthful reader craves, but It is healthful excite- 
 ment brimming with facts which every boy should be familiar with, 
 and while tj^e reader is following the adventures of Ben JafFrays and 
 Ned Allen he is acquiring a fund of historical lore which will remain 
 in his memory long after that which he has memorized from text- 
 books has been forgotten. 
 
 !fl.t the Siege of Havana. Being the Experiences of 
 
 Three Boys Serving under Israel Putnam in 1762. By James Otis. 13tno, 
 
 ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50. 
 "At the Siege of Havana" deals with that portion of the Island's 
 history when the English king captured the capital, thanks to the 
 assistance given by the troops from New England, led In part by Col. 
 Israel Putnam. 
 
 The principal characters are Darius Lunt, the lad who, represented as 
 telling the story, and his comrades, Robert Clement and Nicholas 
 Vallet. Colonel Putnam also figures to considerable extent, necessarily. 
 In the tale, and the whole forms one of the most readable stories founded on 
 historical facts. 
 
 The Defense of Fort Henry, A Story of Wheeling 
 
 Creek in 1777. By Jambs Otis. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges, 
 
 illustrated, price $1.50. 
 
 Nowhere in the history of our country can be found more heroic or 
 thrilling incidents than in the story of those brave men and women 
 who founded the settlement of Wheeling in the Colony of Virginia. The 
 recital of what Elizabeth Zane did is in itself as heroic a story as can 
 be imagined. The wondrous bravery displayed by Major MeCuUoch 
 and his gallant comrades, the sufferings of the colonists and their sacrifice 
 of blood and life, stir the blood of old as well as young readers. 
 
 The Capture of the Laughing Mary. A Story of Three 
 
 New York Boys in 1776. By James Otis. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine 
 
 edgres, price $1.50. 
 
 *'During the British occupancy of New York, at the outbreak of the 
 Eevolutlon, a Yankee lad bears of the plot to take General Washington's 
 person, and calls in two companions to assist the patriot cause. They 
 do some astonishing things, and, incidentally, lay the way for an 
 American navy later, by the exploit which gives Its name to the 
 work. Mr. Otis' books are too well known to reauire any particular 
 commendation to the young." — Evening Post, 
 
 .With Warren at Bunker Hill. A Story of the Siege of 
 
 Boston. By James Otis. 13mo, ornametnal cloth, olivine edges, illus- 
 trated, price $1.50. 
 
 "This is a tale of the siege of Boston, which opens on the day after 
 the doings at Lexington and Concord, with a description of home life 
 In Boston, introduces the reader to the British camp at Charlestown, 
 shows Gen. Warren at home, describes what a boy thought of the 
 battle of Bunker Hill, and closes with the raising of the siege. The 
 three heroes, George Wentworth, Ben Scarlett and an old ropemaker. 
 Incur the enmity of a young Tory, who causes them many adventurea 
 Uie boys will like to read." — ^Detroit Free Press. 
 
 am I I ■ ; , ■ I I... .- ,11 ■ I I r.— ^iS^M^^^ 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 publisher, A. Ii. BUEI, &2;58 Duane Street, Kew Tors. 
 
a. t^, BURT^S BOOKS FOR YOTTNG PEOPLE. S 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYsT" 
 
 With the Swamp Fox. The Story of General Marion's 
 
 Spies. By James Otis. 12nio, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 This story deals with General Francis Marion's heroic struggle in the 
 Garolinas. General Marion's arrival to take command of these brave 
 men and rough riders is pictured as a boy might have Been it. and 
 although the story is devoted to what the lads did, the Swamp Fox 
 Is ever present in the mind of the reader. 
 
 On the Kentucky Frontier. A Story of the Fighting 
 
 Pioneers of the West. By James Otis. 13mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. 
 
 In the history of our country there is no more thrilling story than 
 that of the worlc done on the Mississippi river by a handful of frontiers- 
 men. Mr. Otis takes the reader on that famous expedition from the 
 arrival of Major Clarke's force at Corn Island, until Kaskaskia was 
 captured. He relates that part of Simon Kenton's life history which 
 is not usually touched upon either by the historian or the story teller. 
 This is one of the most entertaining books for young people which has 
 been publishtd. 
 
 Sarah Dillard's Ride. A Story of South Carolina in 
 
 in 1780. By James Otis. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "This book deals with the Garolinas in 1780, giving a wealth of detail of 
 the Mountain Men who struggled so valiantly against the king's troops. 
 Major Ferguson is the prominent British officer of the story, which ia 
 told as though coming from a youth who experienced these adventures. 
 In this way the famous ride of Sarah Dillard is brought out as an 
 Incident of the plot." — Boston Journal. 
 
 A Tory Plot. A Story of the Attempt to Kill General 
 
 Washington, By James Otis. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 •* 'A Tory Plot' is the story of two lads who overhear something 
 of the plot originated during the Revolution by Gov. Tryon to capture 
 or murder Washington. They communicate their knowledge to Gen, 
 Putnam and are commissioned by him to play the role of detectives 
 In the matter. They do so, and meet with many adventures and hair- 
 breadth escapes. The boys are, of course, mythical, but they serve to en- 
 able the author to put into very attractive shape much valuable knowledge 
 concerning one phase of the Revolution." — Pittsburgh Times. 
 
 A Traitor's Escape, A Story of the Attempt to Seize 
 
 Benedict Arnold, By James Otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 "This is a tale with stirring scenes depicted in each chapter, bringing 
 clearly before the mind the glorious deeds of the early settlers in this 
 country. In an historical work dealing with this country's past, no 
 plot can hold the attention closer than this one, which describes the 
 attempt and partial success of Benedict Arnold's escape to New York, 
 where he remained as the guest of Sir Henry Clinton. All those who 
 actually figured in the arrest of the traitor, as well as Gen. Washing- 
 ton, are Included as characters." — ^Albany Union. 
 
 A Cruise with Paul Jones. A Story of Naval Warfare 
 
 in 1776. By Jambs Otis. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 *'This story takes up that portion of Paul Jones' adventurous Ufe 
 when he was hovering off the British coast, watching for an oppor- 
 tunity to strike the enemy a blow. It deals more particularly with 
 his descent upon Whitehaven, the seizure of Lady Selkirk's plate, and 
 the famous battle with the Drake. The boy who figures in the tale 
 Is one who was taken from a derelict bj Paul Jones shortly after this 
 particular cruise was begun." — Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 For Bale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of prTce By tha 
 9UbU8her« A4 Xm SUST. 62-58 Duane Street, New York. 
 
8 A. h. BtJRT^S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 Corporal Lige's Recruit. A Story of Crown Point and 
 
 Ticonderoga, By Jaues Otis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1,00. 
 
 "In 'Corporal Lige's Eecruit,' Mr. Otis tells the amusing story of an 
 old soldier, proud of his record, who had served the king la '5S, and who 
 takes the lad, Isaac Bice, as his 'personal recruit.* The lad acquits 
 bimself superibly. Col. Ethau Allen 'in the name of God and the con- 
 tinental cons:ress,' infuses much martial spirit into the narrative* which 
 will arouse the keenest Interest as it proceeds. Crown Point, Ticon- 
 deroga, Benedict Arnold and numerous other famous historical names 
 appear In this dramatic tale." — Boston Globe. 
 
 Morgan, t!he Jersey Spy, A Story of the Siege of York- 
 town in 1781. By James Otis. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1-00. 
 *'The two lads who are utilized by the author to emphasize the details 
 of the work done during that memorable time were real boys who lived 
 en the banks of the York river, and who aided the Jersey spy in his 
 dangerous occupation. In the guise of fishermen the lads visit York- 
 town, are suspected of being spies, and put under arrest. Morgan risks 
 his life to save them. The final escape, the thrilling encounter with a 
 squad of red coats, when they are exposed equally to the bullets of 
 friends and foes, told in a masterly fashion, makes of this vo]'::me one 
 of the'most entertaining books of the year." — Inter-Ocean. 
 
 The Young Scout: The Story of a West Point Lieu- 
 tenant. By Edward S. Ellis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1,00. 
 The crafty Apache chief Geronimo but a few years ago was the 
 
 most terrible scourge of the southwest border. The author has woven, 
 in a tale of thrilling Interest, all the Incidents of Geronimo's last raid. 
 The hero Is Lieutenant James Decker, a recent graduate of West Point. 
 Ambitious to distinguish himself the young man takes many a desperate 
 chance against the enemy and on more than one occasion narrowly 
 escapes with his life. In our opinion Mr. Ellis is the best writer <^ 
 Indian stories now before the public. 
 
 Adrift in the Wilds: The Adventures of Two Ship- 
 wrecked Boys. By Edwabd S. Ellis. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 Elwood Brandon and Howard Lawrence are en route for San Fran- 
 cisco. Oft the coast of California the steamer takes fire. The two boya 
 reach the shore with several of the passengers. Young Brandon be- 
 comes separated from his party and is captured by hostile Indians* 
 but is afterwards rescued. This is a very entertaining narrative of 
 Southern California. 
 
 A Young Hero; or, Fighting to Win. By Edward S. 
 
 Ellis. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 This story tells how a valuable solid silver service was stolen from 
 the Misses Perklnpine, two very old and simple minded ladies. Fred 
 Sheldon, the hero of this story, undertakes to discover the thieves and 
 have them arrested. After much time spent In detective work, he 
 succeeds in discovering the silver plate and winning the reward. The 
 story is told in Mr. Ellis' most fascinating style. Every boy wUl be 
 glad to read this delightful book. 
 
 lost in the Eockies. A Story of Adventure in the 
 
 Rocky Mountains. By Edward S. Ellis. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1. 
 
 Incident succeeds Incident, and adventure is piled upon adventure, 
 and at the end the reader, be he boy or man, will have experienced 
 breathless enjoyment in this romantic story describing many adventures In 
 the Rockies a nd among the Indians. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the 
 pubUsher, A. I.. HURT, 62-68 Duane Stroet, New York. 
 
A. L. hurt's books FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. % 
 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 & Jaunt Through Java: The Story of a Journey to 
 
 the Sacred Mountain. By Edwabd S. Ellis. 12iuo, cloth, iUustratedi 
 
 price Sl.OO. 
 
 The interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of 
 two cousins, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their trip acrosss the island 
 of Java, from Samarang to the Sacred Mountain. lu a laud where the 
 Royal Bengal tiger, the rhinoceros, and other fierce beasts are to be 
 met with, it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a 
 lively experience. There is not a dull page in the book. 
 
 The Boy Patriot. A Story of Jack, the Young Priend 
 
 of Washington. By Edward S. Ellis. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, illus> 
 
 trated, price $1.50. 
 
 "There are adventures of all kinds for the hero and his friends, whose 
 pluck and ingenuity in extricating themselves from awkward fixes are 
 always equal to' the occasion. ' It is an excellent story full of honest, 
 manly, patriotic efforts on the part of the hero. A very vivid description 
 of the battle of Trenton is also found in this story." — Journal of 
 Education, 
 
 A Yankee Lad's Pluck. How Bert Larkin Saved his 
 
 Father's Eanch in Porto Bico. By Wm. P. Chipman. 18mo, cloth, illus- 
 trated, price $1.00. 
 
 "Bert Larkin, the hero of the story, early excites our admiration, 
 and is altogether a fine character such as boys will delight in, whilst 
 the story of his numerous adventures la very graphically told. This 
 will, we think, prove one of the most popular hoys' hooka this season." — 
 Gazette, 
 
 A Brave Defense. A Story of the Massacre at Fort 
 
 Griswold in 1781. By William P. Chipmah. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 
 
 $1.00. 
 
 Perhaps no more gallant fight against fearful odds took place during 
 the Revolutionary War than that at Port Griswold, Groton Heights, Conn., 
 in 1781. The boys are real boys who were actually on the muster rolls, 
 either at Fort Trumbull on the New Loudon side, or of Fort Griswold on 
 the Groton side of the Thames. The youthful reader who follows Halsey 
 Sanford and Levi Dart and Tom Malleson, and their equally brave com- 
 rades, through their thrilling adventures will be learning something more 
 than historical facts: they will be imbibing lessons of fidelity, of bravery, 
 of heroism, and of manliness, which must prove serviceable in the arena 
 of life, 
 
 iThe Young Minuteman. A Story of the Capture of 
 
 General Prescott in 1777. By William P. Chipmak, ISmo, cloth, illustrated, 
 
 price $1.00. 
 
 This story is based upon actual events which occurred during the British 
 occupation of the waters of Narragansett Bay. Darius Wale and William 
 Northrop belong to "the coast patrol." The story is a strong one, dealing 
 only with actual events. There is, however, no lack of thrilling adventure, 
 and every lad who is fortunate enough to obtain the book will find not 
 only that his historical knowledge is increased, but that his own patriotism 
 and love of country are deepened. 
 
 For the Temple: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. 
 
 By G. A. Hentt. With illustrations by S. J. Solomon. 12mp, cloth, olivine 
 edges, price $1.00. 
 
 "Mr. Henty'a graphic prose picture of the hopeless Jewish resistance 
 to Roman sway adds another leaf to his record of the famous wars of 
 the world. The book is one of Mr. Henty's cleverest etCorts. "— Graphic. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by ths 
 publisher. A, Ii. BURX, 62-68 Duane Street, ITew York, 
 
8 A. L. hurt's books for totjng people. 
 BOOKS FOR BOYS. 
 
 Roy Gilbert's Search: A Tale of the Great Lakes. By 
 
 Wm. p. Chipman. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 A deep mystery hangs over the parentage of Roy Gilbert. He arranges 
 with two schoolmates to make a tour of the Great Lakes on a steam 
 launch. The three boys visit many points of interest on the lakes. 
 Afterwards the lads rescue an elderly gentleman and a lady from a sink- 
 ing yacht. Later on the boys narrowly escape with their lives. The 
 bero is a manly, self-reliant boy, whose adventures will be followed 
 (vlth interest. 
 
 The Slate Picker: The Story of a Boy's Life in the 
 
 Coal Mines. By Harry Prentice. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00. 
 
 This is a story of a boy's life in the coal mines of Pennsylvania. 
 Ben Burton, the hero, had a hard road to travel, but by grit and energy 
 he advanced step by step until he found himself called upon to fill the 
 position of chief engineer of the Kohinoor Coal Company. This is a 
 book of extreme interest to every boy reader. 
 
 The Boy Cruisers; or, Paddling in Florida. By St. 
 
 George Eathbokne. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00 
 Andrew George and Rowland Carter start on a canoe trip along the 
 Gulf coast, from Key West to Tampa, Florida. Their first adventure 
 is with a pair of rascals who steal their boats. Next they run into 
 a gale in the Gulf. After that they have a lively time with alli- 
 gators and Andrew gets Into trouble with a band of Seminole Indians. 
 Mr. Rathbornc knows Just how to interest the Boys, and lads who are 
 in search of a rare treat will do well to read this entertaining story. 
 
 Captured by Zulus: A Story of Trapping in Africa. 
 
 By Harry Prentice. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price §1.00. 
 
 This story details the adventures of two lads, Dick Elsworth and Bob 
 Harvey, in the wilds of South Africa. By stratagem the Zulus capture 
 Dick and Bob and take them to their principal kraal or village. The 
 lads escape death by dig ing their way out of the prison hut by night. 
 They are pursued, but the Zulus finally give up pursuit. Mr. Prentice 
 tells exactly how wild-beast collectors secure specimens on their native 
 stamping grounds, and these descriptions make very entertaining reading. 
 
 Tom the Eeady; or, Up from the Lowest. By Ean- 
 
 DOiiPH Hill. ISmo, cloth, illustrated, price $1,00. 
 
 This is a dramatic narrative of the unaided rise of a fearless, ambi- 
 tions boy from the lowest round of fortune's ladder to wealth and the 
 governorship of his native State. Tom Seacomb begins life with a pur- 
 pose, and eventually overcomes those who oppose him. How he manages 
 to win the battle is told by Mr. Hill in a masterfrl way that thrills 
 the reader and holds his attention and sympathy to the end. 
 
 Captain Kidd's Gold: The True Story of an Adven- 
 turous Sailor Boy. By James Frantilin Fitts. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, 
 price ®1.00. 
 
 There is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea 
 of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy Portri- 
 guese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes. There 
 were many famous sea rovers, but jione more celebrated than Capt. Kidd. 
 Paul Jones Garry inherits a document which locates a considerable 
 treasure buried by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book is an 
 ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water New England ancestry, and his 
 efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most 
 absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, oi sent postpaid on receipt of price by th> 
 publisher, A. L, SUBT, S2-d8 Suana Street» Hew YoriL,