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 THE CHOUANS.
 
 MULE. DE VERNEUIL AND THE MARQUIS.
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 BY 
 
 H. DE BALZAC. 
 
 XEWLY TRAXSLATED 7ATO ENGLISH BY GEORGE SALVTSBURY. 
 
 I LLUSTRATED. 
 
 CHICAGO AND NEW YORK: 
 RAND, MCNALLY & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. 
 
 1891 .
 
 y\ PUBLISHERS, fy
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE AMBUSH. 
 
 IN the early days of the Year Eight, at the beginning 
 of Vendemiaire, or, to adopt the present calendar, 
 towards 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 trav- 
 elers 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 professions so different, that it may not be 
 useless to describe their outward characteristics, in order 
 to lend this history the lively coloring so much prized 
 nowadays, notwithstanding that, as some critics say, it 
 interferes with the portrayal of sentiments. 
 
 Some (and the greater part) of the peasants went bare- 
 foot, with no garments but a large goatskin which cov- 
 ered them from neck to knee, and breeches of white 
 linen of very coarse texture, woven of yarn so rough as to 
 show the rudeness of the country manufacture. The 
 straight locks of their long hair mingled so regularly 
 with the goatskin and hid their downcast faces so com- 
 
 5
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 pletely, that the goatskin itself might have been easily 
 mistaken 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 spec- 
 tator would have seen their eyes flashing 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 Republic 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 surrounding 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 cor- 
 responding 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 serv- 
 ing 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 buttons, and shaped like square-cut cuirasses,
 
 THE AMBUSH. 7 
 
 contrasted as sharply with the white coats and the goat- 
 skins of their companions, as corn-flowers and poppies do 
 with a field of wheat. Some were shod with the sabots 
 which the Breton peasants know how to 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 religiously observed by the 
 peasantry. Their shirt-collars were fastened by silver 
 buttons in the shape of hearts or anchors, and their wal- 
 lets seemed much better stocked than those of their com- 
 panions, not to mention that some finished off their trav- 
 eling 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 districts. 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 Republican 
 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 rudimentary care of per- 
 sonal appearance which a beginning of fortune or of edu- 
 cation sometimes inspires. A looker-on at this group of 
 men, associated by chance and, as it were, each astonished 
 at finding 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
 
 8 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 Republic 
 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 indication of the discordant sympathies of the 
 gathering. Only the Republicans showed any sort of 
 alacrity in their march. For the other members of the 
 troop, though the disparity of their costume was notice- 
 able enough, their faces and their, bearing exhibited the 
 monotonous air of misfortune. Townsmen 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 dis- 
 sembled, for nothing definite could be read on their coun- 
 tenances. 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 examined the woods, the by-paths, and 
 the rocks by the roadside, after the fashion of a dog who 
 snuffs 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 criminals sent to the 
 hulks for life and death. 
 
 The march of this column towards Mayenne, the motley 
 elements which composed it, and the difference of senti-
 
 THE AMBUSH. 9 
 
 ment 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 bag- 
 gage, under the command of a "demi-brigadier. " It may 
 be 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 Mayenne. 
 In this time of 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 remembered to make description 
 superfluous. Now the 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 executive Directory of 
 the French Republic had ordered by virtue of the law of 
 the tenth Messidor preceding. The Government had 
 asked for a hundred millions 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 
 Switzerland 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 Roche's efforts after a four years' war, seemed
 
 10 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 to have grasped at this moment for beginning the strug- 
 gle anew. In the face of so many enemies, the Republic 
 recovered its pristine energy. The defense of the threat- 
 ened departments had been at first provided for by 
 entrusting the matter to the patriot inhabitants in accord- 
 ance 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 difficulty by a piece of 
 parliamentary brag, and having nothing else to send to 
 the disaffected departments, presented 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 departments of the 
 West," an unstatesmanlike arrangement which excited 
 in the West itself such lively hostility that the Direct- 
 ory despaired of an easy triumph over it. Therefore, a 
 few days later, it asked the Assembly to pass special 
 measures in reference to the scanty contingents 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, Ille-et-Vilaine, Morbihan, 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 towards 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 handsome and
 
 THE AMBUSH. I I 
 
 patriotic declarations of the Directory never were put in 
 force further than by their insertion in the Bulletin des 
 Louis. The decrees of the Republic, supported no longer 
 either by great moral ideas, or by patriotism, or by ter- 
 rorthe 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 measures to take, 
 resolved to try to levy by force the Breton contingents, 
 and especially that of Fougeres, one of the most formid- 
 able 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 undertake 
 any military service, the 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 con- 
 centration, and his guess that they wished to procure 
 arms was perhaps not ill justified. So, without waiting 
 for laggards, he took measures for securing, if possible, 
 his retreat on Alen9on, so as to draw near settled dis- 
 tricts, though he knew that the growing disturbance in
 
 12 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 the country made the success of his scheme very doubt- 
 ful. Therefore keeping, as his instructions bade him, 
 the deepest silence as to the disasters of the army, and 
 the alarming news from La Vendee, he had endeavored, 
 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 discre- 
 tion, and fill the ranks of his demi- X 
 brigade with the Breton conscripts. 
 For this word "conscript," since so 
 famous, had for the first time taken 
 legal place of the term "requisition- 
 
 ary, given 
 earlier to 
 the recruits 
 of the Re- 
 public. Be- 
 fore 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
 
 THE AMBUSH. 13 
 
 bo halt at the usual resting-place of Jsrnee, where, having 
 recovered their first surprise, his contingent might have 
 opened communication with the Chouans who were doubt- 
 less 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 attention: 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 requisitionaries, and 
 was not long in breaking silence. Indeed, the increas- 
 ing slackness of the Bretons' march had already put a 
 distance of some two hundred paces between them and 
 their escort. Hulot made a peculiar grimace which was 
 habitual with him. 
 
 'What is the matter with these dainty gentlemen?" 
 cried he in a loud tone. "I think our conscripts are 
 planting their stumps instead of stirring them! " 
 
 At these words the officers who were with him turned 
 with a sudden movement, somewhat resembling the start 
 with which a sleeping man wakes at a sudden noise. 
 Sergeants and corporals did the like; and the whole com- 
 pany stopped without having <heard the wished-for sound 
 of "Halt!" If at first the officers directed their eyes to 
 the detachment which, like a lengthened tortoise, was 
 slowly climbing the hill, they young men whom the 
 defense 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
 
 14 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 beneath their eyes to leave unanswered 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 
 differences 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 be- 
 neath 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 officers could 
 descry, in all its extent, a river basin as remarkable for 
 the extraordinary fertility of its soil as for the varied 
 character of its aspect. On all sides mountains of gran- 
 ite 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 enclosure, at the bottom of which there extends 
 a huge expanse of soft meadow, arranged like an English 
 garden. The multitude of green hedges surrounding 
 many properties irregular in size, but all of them well 
 wooded, gives this sheet of green an aspect rare in 
 France, and it contains in its multiplied contrast, of as- 
 pect a wealth of secret beauties lavish enough to influ- 
 ence even the coldest minds. 
 
 At the time we speak of, the landscape was illuminated 
 by that fleeting splendor with which nature delights 
 sometimes to heighten the beauty of her everlasting cre- 
 ations. While the detachment was crossing the valley 
 the rising sun had slowly dissipated the light white
 
 THE AMBUSH. 15 
 
 mists which in September mornings are wont to flit over 
 the fields. At the moment when the soldiers turned their 
 heads, an invisible hand seemed to strip the landscape 
 of the last of its veils veils of delicate cloud like a 
 shroud of transparent gauze, covering precious jewels and 
 heightening curiosity as they shine through it over the 
 wide horizon which presented itself to the officers. The 
 sky showed not the faintest cloud to suggest, by its silver 
 sheen, that the huge blue vault was the firmament. It 
 seemed rather a silken canopy supported at irregular 
 intervals by the mountain-tops, and set in the air to 
 protect the shining mosaic of field and meadow, stream 
 and woodland. The officers could not weary of survey- 
 ing 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 some 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 har- 
 vested, rose in tapering sheaves like the stacks of mus- 
 kets 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 sombre slate, 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 
 obvious 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 incense, and 
 intoxicated the admiring gazers on this lovely country 
 gazers who saw with rapture its unknown flowers, its 
 flourishing vegetation, its verdure equal to that of its
 
 i6 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 neighbor and in one way namesake, England. The 
 scene, already worthy enough of the theatre, was further 
 enlivened by cattle, while the birds sang and made the 
 whole valley utter a sweet, low melody which vibrated 
 in the air. If the reader's imagination will concentrate 
 itself so as fully to conceive the rich accidents of light 
 and shade, the misty mountain horizons, 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 moment 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 sen- 
 sitive 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
 
 THE AMBUSH. 1 7 
 
 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 positions 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 
 men to be caught by the charms of a landscape, were 
 they those of the Earthly Paradise itself. So he shook 
 his head disapprovingly, and contracted a pair of thick 
 black eyebrows which gave a harsh cast to his counte- 
 nance. 
 
 "Why the devil do they not come on?" he asked a sec- 
 ond 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 summon 
 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 flap- 
 ping ears and his red hair made him seem akin rather to 
 herbivorous animals than to the goodly Caucasian race. 
 Moreover, the bare head was made still more remarkable 
 by its complete lack of some other features of a man 
 who has lived in the society of his fellows. The face, 
 2
 
 l8 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 sun-bronzed and with sharp outlines vaguely suggesting 
 the granite of which the country-side consists, was the 
 only visible part of this singular being's person. From 
 the neck downwards he was wrapped in a sarrau a kind 
 of smock-frock in red linen coarser still than that of the 
 poorest 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 fasten- 
 ings 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 his goatskins, fell on each side of his face, 
 evenly parted and resembling certain mediaeval sculpt 
 ures 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 sudden 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 AMBUSH. IQ 
 
 "the reason is," and he pointed his huge rough hand 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 im- 
 pression 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 axe-blows, his 
 rugged exterior, the dense ignorance imprinted on his 
 features, made him resemble some savage demigod. He 
 kept his seer-like attitude, and seemed like an apparition 
 of the very genius of Brittany aroused from a three- 
 years' sleep, and ready to begin once more a war where 
 victory 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 gunshot 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, from 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 questioning 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,
 
 2O THE CHOUANS. 
 
 which in the interval had fallen into the usual sheepish 
 expression of torpidity that wraps the peasant when not 
 in a state of excitement. 
 
 "From the country of the Gars," answered the man, 
 quite unperturbed. 
 
 "Your name? " 
 
 "Marche-cl- 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 arrests all further 
 inquiry in despair. He seated himself calmly by the 
 way-side, 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 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 approach- 
 ing 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 significantly 
 at his adjutant Gerard, who was near him, squeezed his
 
 THE AMBUSH. 21 
 
 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 everything 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 (pro- 
 nounced go) 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 
 z'ir, "man;" the root of virtus, "strength," "courage." This 
 little disquisition may be excused by its patriotic char- 
 acter; and it may further serve to rehabilitate in some 
 persons' minds terms such as gars, garcon, garconnette, 
 garce, garcette, which are generally excluded from common 
 parlance as improper, but which have a warlike origin, 
 and which will recur here and there in the course of our 
 history. "Tis a brave wench" (garce) was the somewhat 
 misunderstood 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 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 town-
 
 22 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 ship is inhabited 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 language and manners. Thus, 
 also, their life keeps deep traces of the superstitious be- 
 liefs and practices of ancient times. In one place, feudal 
 customs 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 primeval forests. An inconceivable 
 ferocity and a bestial obstinacy, found in company with 
 the most absolute fidelity to an oath; a complete ab- 
 sence of our laws, our manners, our dress, our new-fangled 
 coinage, our very language, combined with a patriarchal 
 simplicity of life and with heroic virtues, unite in re- 
 ducing the dwellers in these regions below the Mohicans 
 and the redskins of North America in the higher intel- 
 lectual 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 observa- 
 tion than Canada itself. Surrounded by light and heat, 
 whose beneficent influences 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 in the same direc- 
 tionperish whelmed in the undisturbed bosom of a pop- 
 ulation devoted to immemorial use and wont. But suffi- 
 cient explanations of this ill-luck are found in the char- 
 acter of the soil, still furrowed with ravines, torrents, 
 lakes, and marshes; still bristling with hedges impro-
 
 THE AMBUSH. 23 
 
 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 dangerous nature our history will 
 discover, and obstinately hostile to new methods of agri- 
 culture. The very picturesque arrangement of the coun- 
 try, the very superstitions of its inhabitants, prevent at 
 once the association of individuals and the advantages 
 of comparison and exchange of ideas. There are no vil- 
 lages 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 recog- 
 nized meetings are the quickly dissolved congregations 
 which Sunday and other ecclesiastical festivals bring to- 
 gether 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 listening to the awe- 
 inspiring words of the priest, the peasant goes back for a 
 whole week to his unwholesome 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 Repub- 
 lic, and that these quarters of Brittany furnished, five 
 years before the date at which our story begins, whole 
 masses of soldiery for the first Chouannerie. The broth- 
 ers Cottereau, bold smugglers, who gave this war its 
 name, plied their perilous 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 
 
 * I have done violence to the text here as printed: Si La Vendee fit unbrigand- 
 age de la guerre. But the point of the antithesis and the truth of history seem abso- 
 lutely to require the supposition of a misprint. Translator's Note.
 
 24 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 made brigandage of war. The proscription of the royal 
 family, the destruction of religion, 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 recruit soldiers among these popula- 
 tions, 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 picture of the 
 men who made up the detachment of requisitionaries, 
 the account of the gars who appeared at the top of Pil- 
 grim Hill, give in miniature a faithful idea of the prov- 
 ince and its inhabitants; any trained imagination can, 
 by following these details, conceive the theatre and the 
 methods of the war; for its whole elements are there. 
 At that time the blooming hedges of these lovely valleys 
 dih invisible foes: each meadow was a place of arms, 
 each tree threatened a snare, each willow trunk held an 
 ambuscade. The field of battle was everywhere. At 
 each corner gun-barrels lay in wait for the Blues, whom 
 young girls laughingly enticed under fire, without think- 
 ing themselves guilty of treachery. Nay, they made pil- 
 grimage 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 fetichism, of these uneducated creatures, 
 robbed murder of all remorse. Thus, when once the 
 strife was entered on, the whole country was full of ter- 
 rors: noise was as alarming as silence; an amiable recep- 
 tion as threats; the family hearth as the highway.
 
 THE AMBUSH. 25 
 
 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 description, exact in all points, of this struggle, the 
 historian ought to add that no sooner was Hoche's 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 indications of 
 treachery which Marche-a-Terre's 
 goatskins revealed, than he be- 
 came 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 re- 
 vived, and no doubt would be, 
 after a three-years' rest, more ter- 
 rible 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-dis- 
 posed minds. English gold had 
 doubtless, as always, helped the 
 internal discords of France. The 
 Republic, abandoned by 
 young Bonaparte, who had 
 seemed its tutelary genius, 
 appeared incapable of re- 
 sisting so many enemies, -^^ iL E ,llt 
 the worst of whom was showing himself last. Civil war, 
 foretold already by hundreds of petty risings, assumed an
 
 26 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 air of altogether novel gravity when the Chouans dared to 
 conceive the idea of attacking so strong an escort. Such 
 were the thoughts which followed one another (though by 
 no means so succinctly put) in the mind of Hulot as soon 
 as he seemed to see in the apparition of Marche-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 
 observation to Gerard, with which we finished our last 
 scene, gave Hulot an opportunity of recovering his cool- 
 ness. 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 canni- 
 bals themselves might haply 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 ban- 
 nocks 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 coun- 
 tenance soon grew brighter; sorry as he was for the 
 Republic'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 outwit the 
 man. however darkly cunning he might be, whom they 
 did himself the honor to send against him. 
 
 Before, however, making up his mind to any course of 
 action, he set himself to examine the position 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, not, it is true, very deep, but 
 flanked by woods, and with several by-paths debouching 
 on it, lie once more frowned hard with his black brows,
 
 THE AMBUSH. 
 
 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 Hu- 
 lot's coolness as 
 he had- been at 
 his passing fear. 
 
 "Hist!" said 
 the command- 
 ant; "we are in 
 the wolf s throat 
 and as it is as 
 dark there as in 
 a chimney, we 
 had better light 
 a candle. Luck 
 ily, " he went 
 on, "we hold the, 
 top of the ridge. " 
 He bestowed a 
 forcible epithet 
 upon the said 
 ridge, and add- 
 ed, "I shall see 
 
 L II. 
 my way soon, 
 
 perhaps." Then 
 
 taking the two officers with him, he posted them round
 
 28 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 
 moment the demi-brigadier kept his eye steadily on the 
 Breton, who seemed quite 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 Direct- 
 ory, in consequence of a row in the Assembly, has mud- 
 dled our business once more. The pentarchy of panta- 
 loons (the last word is nearer French at 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 Chouans are abroad on 
 the wing: and those who pull the strings of the pup- 
 pets 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 min- 
 istry. Luckily, friends have given me private informa- 
 tion of the mess we are in. Fouch 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-devant, a man full of talent and vigor, whose hope is
 
 THE AMBUSH. 2Q 
 
 to unite Vendeans and Chouans, and so lower the Repub- 
 lic's crest. The fellow has actually landed in Morbihan; 
 I learned it before anyone, and told our clever ones at 
 Paris. He calls himself the Gars. 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-devant who comes from London to dust our 
 jackets for us! " 
 
 When they learned this secret and critical intelligence, 
 the two officers, knowing that their commandant never 
 took alarm at shadows, assumed the steady mien which 
 soldiers wear in time of danger when they are of good 
 stuff and accustomed to look ahead in human affairs. 
 Gerard, whose post, since suppressed, put him 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 
 sign of emotion, though he saw himself thus scanned 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 on the situation. But at the first word of 
 the kind that escaped them, Hulot said, with a grave 
 look, "God's thunder, citizens! don't light your pipes
 
 30 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 on the powder barrel. Cheerfulness out of season is as 
 bad as water poured into a sieve. Gerard," continued 
 he, leaning towards his adjutant's ear, "come quietly 
 close to this brigand, and be ready at his first suspicious 
 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 valley, which 
 have been sufficiently described. He seemed to wish to 
 examine them more attentively, and kept walking up and 
 down and without ostensible 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 con- 
 sciousness 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 manoeuvred 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 Erne; choose a place where 
 there are no trees at the road-side, and where the ser- 
 geant can overlook the open country. Let Clef-des-Cceurs 
 be the man: he has his wits about him. It is no laugh- 
 ing matter: I would not give a penny for our skins if we 
 do not take all the advantage we can get." 
 
 \Yhile Captain Merle executed this order with a 
 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 talk- 
 ing at ease. Another gesture bade them get once more
 
 THE AMBUSH. 
 
 under arms. As soon as quiet prevailed, he directed his 
 eyes first to one side of the road and then to the other, 
 listening with anxious attention, as if he hoped to catch 
 
 _ . ~'~ > ,--^r 'some stifled noise, 
 '. -'V^.^:' -' some clatter of 
 
 weapons, or some 
 "_ .J; foot-falls prelim- 
 
 inary to the expected trouble. His black and piercing 
 eye seemed to probe the furthest recesses 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
 
 32 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 the road-way, and after carefully climbing its slight ris- 
 ings, paced their tops slowly; but then he remembered 
 how indispensable his experience was to the safety of his 
 troops, and descended. His countenance darkened: for 
 the chiefs of those days always regretted that they were 
 not able to keep the most dangerous tasks for themselves. 
 The other officers and the privates, noticing the absorp- 
 tion 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 posi- 
 tion 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 con- 
 scripts, under whose feet the gravel gave a dull crunch, 
 distracted vaguely, with its regular pulse, the general 
 anxiety. Only those can comprehend such an indefinite 
 feeling, who, in the grip of some cruel expectation, have 
 during the stilly night felt the heavy beatings of their 
 oun hearts quicken at some sound whose monotonous 
 recurrence seems to distill terror drop by drop. But the
 
 THE AMBUSH. 33 
 
 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 discontinue his precautions. At the same 
 moment Captain 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 inci- 
 dents, eager to see light thrown on the dark side of their 
 military situation by the manoeuvres which might fol- 
 low. 
 
 "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 Sublieutenant 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 activity 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 themselves 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 
 3
 
 34 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 knapsacks behind them and their bayonets 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 perfection 
 the art of speaking the soldier's highly colored 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 
 known 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 com- 
 mandant, 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 veiled. For in war there are situations 
 when the risk of four men's lives causes more alarm than 
 
 * This is a naval rather than a military metaphor; but I do not know how 
 Thomas Atkins would express desccndre la garde. Translator's Note.
 
 THE AMBUSH. 35 
 
 the thousands of slain at a battle of Jemmapes. Soldiers' 
 faces have such various and such rapidly fleeting expres- 
 sions, 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 details as these could not be described 
 without intolerable tediousness. 
 
 Just as the last flash of the four bayonets disappeared 
 Captain Merle returned, having accomplished the com- 
 mandant'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 van-guard was posted; but he himself marched 
 last and backwards so as to note the slightest change at 
 any point of the scene which nature had made so beauti- 
 ful 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 followed the ways and obeyed the signals of 
 the brothers. When he heard this suspicious whistle, 
 the commandant halted, and looked narrowly at Marche-
 
 36 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 a-Terre. He pretended to be deceived by the sheepish 
 air of the Chouan, on purpose to keep him near to him- 
 self, 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 insensibility, 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^vishing to show his pluck. Look you, Gerard, 
 if he had pretended 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. Tranquil 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 Commandant 
 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 
 ot mind. At such moments manhood is put to a last 
 proof. So the commandant, knowing more of the danger
 
 THE AMBUSH. 37 
 
 than his officers, plumed himself all the more on appear- 
 ing 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 
 clapped Gerard's shoulder, and said, "Now that we are 
 quiet, what were you going to say 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 time the 
 cards are with them. While our Directors are squabbling 
 among themselves like horses without oats in a stable, 
 and while their whole administration is going to pieces, 
 they leave the army without supplies. In Italy we are 
 simply lost! Yes, my friends, we have evacuated Mantua 
 in consequence 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 Suwar- 
 row. We have been driven in on the Rhine, 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, com- 
 mandant," said the young adjutant Gerard, in whom a 
 careful education had developed a naturally strong 
 understanding. "Do you mean that the Revolution will
 
 30 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 be arrested in its course? Ah no! we are not only 
 charged with the duty of defending 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
 
 THE AMBUSH. 39 
 
 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 Commandant Hulot; "our pup- 
 pets of Directors have taken good care to quarrel with 
 all the men who could steer the ship of state. Berna- 
 dotte, 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." 
 
 "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 Revolution. How can such 
 weasels know how to command?" 
 
 "I 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 ourselves, and let others spin it." 
 
 "Why, yes! " said the commandant, "we have not 
 changed our coats without its costing us something." 
 
 "Well, then," said Captain Merle, "let us play the part 
 of good patriots still here, and try to stop communica- 
 tions 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 Republic, one and indivisible." 
 
 At this point the owl's hoot, which sounded afar off, 
 interrupted the conversation. The commandant, more
 
 40 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 anxious, scanned Marche-a-Terre anew, but his impassive 
 countenance gave hardly even a sign of life. The con- 
 scripts, brought up by an officer, 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 further, were the soldiers and 
 patriots under the orders of Lieutenant Lebrun. The 
 commandant threw a glance over his array, resting it 
 finally en the picket which he had posted in front. Sat- 
 isfied 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 returned, he thought of 
 waiting for them. 
 
 "Perhaps the bomb 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 distance; 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 foot-path. At the same moment 
 cries, or rather savage howls, surprised the Republicans: 
 a heavy volley coming from the wood at the top of the 
 slope where the Chouan had seated himself, laid seven 
 or eight soldiers lo\v; while Marche-a-Terre, at whom 
 half-a-dozen useless shots were fired, disappeared in the 
 thicket, after climbing the slope like a wildcat. As he 
 did so his sii/>(>ts dropped in the ditch, and they could 
 easily see on his feet the stout hobnailed shoes which 
 were usual lv worn bv the "King's Huntsmen." No
 
 THE AMBUSH. 4! 
 
 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 
 Republican 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 sup- 
 porting 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 appeared 
 than thirty barrels were raised, but, like a figure in a 
 phantasmagoria, he had already disappeared behind the 
 terrible broom tufts. These incidents, 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 junction with the rest of the escort.
 
 42 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "Forward! " cried Hulot. 
 
 The company made its way quickly to the lofty and 
 bare spot where the picket had been posted. There the 
 commandant once more set the company 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 Erne 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 themselves 
 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, the)'' will wait for us at every corner of the 
 wood and kill 'us to the last man before we reach Erne. 
 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 righting." 
 
 "You think there are many of the Chouans, then?" 
 
 "Look for yourself, 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
 
 THE AMBUSH. 43 
 
 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 of Vitre," said the man of Fougeres. 
 "They have started to join the men of Lower Normandy." 
 
 "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 uniforms 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 com- 
 mandant, after looking them over smilingly, took his 
 station a few steps in front, with his two favorite officers, 
 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 
 
 * Gamelle, the joint soup-plate or bowl in which the rations of several French sol- 
 diers were served, and which has something of the traditional sacredness of the 
 Janissary soup-kettle. Translator's Note.
 
 44 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 the requisitionaries, 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 between the two his dozen 
 requisitionaries hastily equipped and under his own im- 
 mediate 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 
 and Merle, and whose business it was to take the Chouans 
 in flank, and prevent them from practicing the manoeuvre 
 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 fight- 
 ing the Republican troops were at their wits' end where 
 to have their enemies. 
 
 These dispositions, which the commandant ordered 
 with the promptitude suited to the circumstances, 
 inspired the soldiers with the same confidence 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 stub- 
 born 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
 
 THE AMBUSH. 45 
 
 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 engage- 
 ments in which the sound of gunshot, scarcely heard at 
 all, is replaced by the clatter of a struggle with the coid 
 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 suc- 
 ceeded in raking their rear with more than one volley. 
 The Blues who composed these wings ought to have 
 held their position and continued 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 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 cool- 
 ness 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 Republicans the requisitionaries de- 
 fended the commandant, who was busied in giving coun- 
 sel and command in all directions, so stoutly that more 
 than once the regulars cried out, "Well done, recruits! " 
 But Hulot, cool and watchful of everything, soon dis- 
 tinguished among the Chouans a man who, surrounded 
 like himself by a few picked followers, seemed to be 
 their leader. He thought it imperative that he should 
 take a good look at the officer; but though again and
 
 46 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 requisitionaries, 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 unluckily quite hidden by a huge 
 flapped hat bearing the white cockade. But the stranger, 
 startled by the boldness of the attack, stepped back- 
 wards, throwing up his hat sharply, and Hulot had the 
 opportunity 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 joining breeches of very 
 coarse duck, completed a costume which revealed a 
 shape of moderate height, but slender and well propor- 
 tioned. Enraged at seeing the Blues so near him, he 
 slouched his hat and made at them; but he was immedi- 
 ately 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 
 tiie 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
 
 THE AMBUSH. 47 
 
 mark, fair hair, and features finely cut enough, but sun- 
 burnt. 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 cer- 
 tain conventional romance in a fight. His hand, care- 
 fully gloved, flourished a sword-blade that flashed in 
 the sun. His bearing displayed at once elegance and 
 strength; and his somewhat deliberate 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 vig- 
 orous Republic 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 hard- 
 ships. 
 
 The young man's air and his not ungraceful affectation 
 did not escape Hulot, who shouted, 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 them- 
 selves on the Blues. 
 
 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 enchant- 
 ment the exertions of the Chouans became so terrible 
 that the Republican soldiers had the greatest trouble 
 in holding their ground without breaking ranks. 
 
 "Had he not been a youngster," said Hulot to himself,
 
 48 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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, chil- 
 dren!" 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 yourselves, 
 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 num- 
 bers, 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 continued 
 their defense at 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 fight ceased for want of 
 lighters, for Blues and Chouans fought with equal bravery 
 and with rage constantly increasing on both sides, when
 
 THE AMBUSH. 49 
 
 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 Gtidin, 
 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 Royalists 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 condition fell into line 
 and showed a stout front, behind which the wounded 
 men and the rest retired to load. Then all 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 by 
 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 rem- 
 nant of the escort, who, on Hulot's repeated orders, had 
 dressed their 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 flinching the fire of the Republicans, who were 
 lucky enough to fill the ditch with dead, though the men 
 4
 
 SO THR 
 
 on the toq of the scrap replied with a volley quit as 
 deadly. At this moment the Fougeres National Guard 
 came up at a run to the battle-field, and its arrival 
 finished the business. The National Guards and some 
 excited regulars were already crossing the foot-path 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 Republican 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 sit- 
 ting on the roadsides shared the enthusiasm, and Hulot 
 squeezed Gerard's hand, saying: "Eh! these are some- 
 thing like fellows! " 
 
 Merle was ordered to bury the dead in a ravine by the 
 roadside; while other soldiers busied themselves with 
 the wounded. Carts and horses were requisitioned from 
 the farms round, and the disabled 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' 
 name? " asked he. 
 
 "The Gars. " 
 
 "Who is that? Marche-a-Terre? "
 
 THE AMBUSH, 51 
 
 "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-devant with the 
 black cravat j he was sent by the tyrant and his allies 
 Pitt and Cobourg?" 
 
 But at these words the Chouan, less well informed than 
 the commandant, raised his head proudly: "He was sent 
 by God and the King! " 
 
 He said the words with an energy which exhausted his 
 small remaining strength. The commandant saw that it 
 was almost impossible to extract 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 
 dispatched 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 dog! " said Clef-des-Cceurs, "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-Cceurs again, "do come and 
 look at this soldier of God with his stomach painted! " 
 
 Hulot and some of the men crowded round the Chouan' s 
 body, now quite naked, and perceived on his breast a
 
 52 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 Lambrequin," no doubt the Chouan's 
 name. "You see that, Clef-des-Cceurs?" said Beau-Pied. 
 "Well, you may guess for a month of Sundays before you 
 find out the use of this accoutrement." 
 
 "What do I know about the Pope's uniforms?" replied 
 Clef-des-Coeurs. 
 
 "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 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 ambulances, made their way- 
 down the side of the hill which faces Maine, anJ 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 inhabitants, 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 attack- 
 ing detachments of such strength. Hulot conjectured
 
 THE AMBUSH. 
 
 53 
 
 that the young Royalist he had seen must be the Gars, 
 the new general sent to France by the Royal P'amily, who, 
 after the fashion usual with the Royalist chiefs, con- 
 cealed 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. H e 
 kept turning back 
 to look at the sum- 
 mit of the Pilgrim 
 which he was leav- 
 ing 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?
 
 54 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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, hitching 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 attacked 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 towards 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 who had occupied it afresh. 
 
 "Quick march!" cried Hulot to his men; "stir your 
 stumps, and wake up Shanks his 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 communi- 
 cation with Mayenne has been cut again by the King's 
 subjects." 
 
 But the problem which curled Commafidant Hulot' s
 
 THE AMBUSH. 55 
 
 moustache 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 were 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 towards the Couesnon. Two 
 or three leaders of the "King's Huntsmen" joined 
 Marche-a-Terre, while, a pace or two away, the young 
 nobleman, seated on a granite boulder, 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 Republicans were following across the Pilgrim 
 valley. His eyes, small, black, and piercing, seemed try- 
 ing to discover what was passing where the road began 
 to climb again on the horizon of the valley. 
 
 "The Blues will intercept the mail!" said, savagely, 
 one of the chiefs who was nearest Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 "In the name of Saint Anne of Auray, " said another, 
 "why did you make us fight? To save your 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 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
 
 56 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 Blues were on the road. To save his bacon," continued 
 the speaker, turning to the others, "he bled us, and we 
 shall lose twenty thousand 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 con- 
 fession 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 explanation 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 find 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 of the throne and altar, were all 
 assassins of Louis XVI., and all robbers as well. 
 
 "What! " cried the young man, angrily, "you are linger- 
 ing 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 Repub- 
 lic and not the mail that we make war on. Hencefor- 
 ward, 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 it
 
 
 THE AMBUSH. 
 
 57 
 
 was easy to see that the chief's new-born authority, always 
 difficult to establish amongst such undisciplined 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, madame?" said he, "they are lying
 
 58 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 in wait for the mail from Mayenne, with ihe intention of 
 plundering it, when we have just fought a skirmish to 
 deliver the Gars of Fougeres, with heavy loss, but with- 
 out having been able to destroy the Blues! " 
 
 "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 high- 
 way?" 
 
 "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?' Remember 
 what a Chouan is: besides," added she, louder, "is not 
 the action just? have not the Blues taken all the Church's 
 q;oods, and all our own?" 
 
 A second approving murmur, very different from the 
 irrowl with which the Chouans had answered the mar- 
 ']tiis. greeted these words. 
 
 The young man's brow darkened, and, taking the lady 
 aside, he said to her, with the sprightly vexation of a 
 well-bred man. "Are those persons coming to the Vivetiere 
 on the appointed day?"
 
 THE AMBUSH. 59 
 
 "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, madame, 
 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 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 him 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 contribution necessary for 
 their equipment, their food, and their powder, they 
 would once more yield you implicit 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."
 
 60 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 And he made off swiftly, the young lady listening to 
 his footfalls with obvious vexation. When the rustle of 
 the dry leaves gradually died away, she remained in per- 
 plexity 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 regular 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 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 disturbed 
 times, the parts of heroines or of criminals. The Royal- 
 ist 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 suffered the pain of situa- 
 tions forbidden to the sex, more bitterly than this lady, 
 as, sitting on her roadside boulder, she was forced to ac- 
 cord admiration 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
 
 THE AMBUSH. 6l 
 
 Chouan onslaught had left the little town of Ernee a few 
 moments before the skirmish begun. Nothing 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 
 compan)' had obtained under Louis XIV. for the exclu- 
 sive right of serving passenger traffic all over the king- 
 dom, and when he established the new enterprise of the 
 so-called ti/rgotines, the old coaches of Messieurs de 
 Yousges, Chanteclaire, and the widow Lacombe were ban- 
 ished to the provinces. One of these wretched vehicles 
 served the traffic between Mayenne and Fougeres. Some 
 feather-headed persons had baptized it antiphrastically a 
 turgotine, either in imitation of Paris or in ridicule of an 
 innovating minister. It was a ramshackle cabriolet on 
 two very high wheels, and in its recesses two pretty 
 stout persons would have had difficulty in ensconcing 
 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 pre- 
 sented an insoluble riddle to travelers. Two leathern 
 curtains, difficult to draw despite their length of service, 
 were intended 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 position between his 
 two-legged and his four-legged victims. The whole 
 
 * August, 1827, when Balzac, twenty-eight years old, and twenty-eight years after 
 date, wrote The Chounns at Fougeres itself. Translator's .Vote.
 
 69 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 equipage bore a fantastic likeness to a decrepit old man 
 who has lived through any number of catarrhs and apo- 
 plexies, and from whom death seems yet to hold his 
 hand. As it traveled, it alternately groaned and creaked, 
 lurching by turns forwards and backwards 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 Erne, 
 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 Chouans have shown 
 themselves hereabouts?" said the driver. "The Erne 
 people have just told me that Commandant 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 hun- 
 dred crowns on you, and if you were known for a good 
 patriot, you would not take things so quietly." 
 
 "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 appar- 
 ently 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 ecclesiastical status. But 
 though fat and short, he showed no lack of agility when- 
 ever 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
 
 THI AMBUIK, . 63 
 
 Saint Robespierre's soul! you shall have a warm recep- 
 tion, 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 mentioned, 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 Abb Gudin, consid- 
 ering the countenances of the patriot and Coupiau, per- 
 ceived that they were equally undisturbed 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. 
 
 "I am neither one nor the other," replied Coupiau. "I 
 am a postilion; and what is more, I am a Breton there- 
 fore I fear neither the Blues nor the gentlemen." 
 
 "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 vernacu- 
 larly. But there was in the interior of the coach a third
 
 64 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 passenger, who during this altercation observed the 
 deepest silence, neither the driver, nor the patriot, nor 
 even Gudin paying the least attention to such a dummy. 
 Indeed, he was one of those unsociable and impractica- 
 ble travelers who journey like a calf carried unresist- 
 ingly, 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 expres- 
 sions 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 fighting, 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. 
 
 "Let us put up the coach," said the patriot, "at 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
 
 THE AMBUSH. 65 
 
 away from all eyes, behind a fagot stack. But the sup- 
 posed priest seized an opportunity 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 some- 
 what 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 Breton'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 coun- 
 selor's place in some parliament or other." 
 
 "A parliament! " cried Gudin, scornfully. "Good-bye, 
 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 suc- 
 ceeded in muddling the driver's brains; but he started 
 up joyfully when the innkeeper, after learning the result 
 5
 
 66 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 of the struggle, announced that the Blues had got the 
 better. He set off once more 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 was just 
 leaving for 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 turgotine, 
 recognized it easily. 
 
 "Well! " said Hulot, "why did we not meet it?" They 
 looked at each other silently. "Another puzzle! " 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 turgotine soon reached the 
 plateau, and the Chouans, who had hid 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, pointing 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
 
 THE AMBUSH. 67 
 
 laughter, and shouted "Pille-Miche! Pille-Miche! Pille- 
 Miche! " 
 
 In the midst of the hilarity which Pille-Miche him- 
 self, as it were, echoed, Coupiau climbed shamefacedly 
 from his box. But when the famous Cibot, nicknamed 
 Pille-Miche, helped his neighbor to get down, a respect- 
 ful murmur was raised. ' 'Tis Abb 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, seeing the young lady, the 
 Abb6 Gudin went to talk to her a few paces apart. 
 Marche-a-Terre, who had promptly opened the box of the 
 cabriolet, discovered 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 take this with a safe conscience, Monsieur 
 Gudin?" said she, feeling in need of some approval to 
 support her. 
 
 "Why, of course, madame ! Did not the Church for- 
 merly approve the confiscation of the Protestants' goods? 
 Much more should she approve it in the case of the Rev- 
 olutionists who renounce God, destroy chapels, and per- 
 secute 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 rny goods to the defense of
 
 68 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 God and the King. My nephew has gone off with the 
 Blues." 
 
 Meanwhile, Coupiau was bewailing his fate, and declar- 
 ing that he was a ruined man. 
 
 "Come with us," said Marche-a-Terre; "you shall have 
 yout 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 M&rche-a-Terre. 
 
 He gave the word, and a volley riddled the turgotine. 
 At this sudden discharge there came from the old coach 
 so lamentable a howl that the Chouans, naturally super- 
 stitious, started back with fright. But Marche-a-Terre 
 had caught sight of the pallid face of the silent pas- 
 senger 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 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 must 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
 
 THE AMBUSH. 69 
 
 nearing rapidly from the Pilgrim 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 forward again. "Here 
 is a letter from your mother which I found among those 
 waiting for me at the Vivetiere. " He looked by tuVns 
 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 sus- 
 picions. " 
 
 "It is my poor mother's money!" cried the lad}', after 
 opening the letter, the first lines of which drew the ex- 
 clamation 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 clutching 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 
 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 countenance, restored the tithe 
 which he had just accepted, and then followed the chief, 
 who was making his way to the by-path by 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 Mortagne, " 
 she said, in a low voice. "I know that the Blues are 
 going to send almost immediately a great sum in cash to 
 Alenfon to defray the expenses of preparing for war. If
 
 7O THE CHOUANS. 
 
 I give up to-day's booty to our comrades, it is on condi- 
 tion 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." 
 
 "Madame," 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 ourselves, for the Republic 
 will try to fight us underhand, 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 Republic does me the 
 honor of thinking me more dangerous than all the Ven- 
 deans 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, madame?" answered he, 
 and turned towards her his forehead, which she kissed. 
 
 "Then," said the abb6, "we have more to fear from 
 Fouche's police than from the battalions of mobiles, 
 and the Anti-Chouans?" 
 
 "Exactly, your Reverence." 
 
 "Aha! " said the lady, "Fouch is going to send women 
 against you, is he? I shall be ready for them," she added, 
 in a voice 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 moment one of those scenes which, for some time 
 to come, became not uncommon on the highways. On the 
 outskirts of the little village of the Pilgrim, Pille-Miche
 
 THE AMBUSH. 
 
 and Marche-a-Terre had once more stopped the coach at 
 a spot where the road dipped. Coupiau had left his box 
 '\ "^ *rf&^ after a slight resistance; and 
 
 the silent passenger, ex- 
 tracted from his hiding-place 
 by the two Chouans, was on 
 his knees in a broom thicket. 
 
 "Who are you?" asked 
 k Marche-a-Terre, in a sinister 
 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 Coupiau, "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
 
 72 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 gun- 
 shot. Who are you?" he added, after a brief interval. 
 
 "I am d'Orgemont, of Fougeres. " 
 
 "Aha!" cried the Chouans. 
 
 "/ 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 estates 
 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, "I am a ruined 
 man. The forced loan of one hundred millions levied by 
 this devilish Republic, which assesses me at terrible 
 rates, has drained me dry." 
 
 "And pray, how much did the Republic ask of you?" 
 
 "A thousand crowns, dear sir," said the banker, in a 
 lamentable tone, hoping to be let off something. 
 
 "If the Republic borrows such large sums from you, 
 and forces you to pay them, you must see that your in-
 
 THE AMBUSH. 73 
 
 terest 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'Orgemont. 
 
 "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. 
 "Remember 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 towards 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 backwards, 
 but all trace of his new friends had disappeared. 
 
 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
 
 74 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 the march of the Republican force, made their way to 
 Mayenne. There the commandant 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 reports as to the insurrection. 
 There was complete revolt at every point where, in the 
 last war, the Chouans and Vendeans had established the 
 principal centers of their outbreak. In Brittany, the 
 Royalists had seized Pontorson, so as to open communi- 
 cations with the sea. They had taken the little town of 
 Saint James, between Pontorson and Fougeres, and seemed 
 disposed to make it for the time their place of arms, a 
 headquarters of their magazines and of their operations, 
 from which without danger they could correspond both 
 with Normandy and Morbihan. The inferior leaders 
 were scouring these districts with the view of exciting 
 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 direc- 
 tion of four famous leaders, the Abb Vernal, the Compte 
 de Fontaine, M. de Chatillon, and M. Suzannet. The 
 Chevalier de Valois, the Marquis d'Esgrignon, and the 
 Troisvilles acted, it was said, as their agents in the 
 department 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 nickname given 
 by the Chouans to the Marquis de Montauran as soon as 
 he had landed. 
 
 The information sent to the Government by Hulot
 
 THE AMBUSH. 75 
 
 turned out correct in every particular. The authority of 
 the chief sent from abroad had been at once acknowl- 
 edged. Indeed, the marquis was acquiring sufficient 
 influence over the Chouans to enable him to give them a 
 glimmering of the true objects of the war, and to per- 
 suade them that the excesses of which they had been 
 guilty were tarnishing the noble cause to which they 
 devoted themselves. The bold temper, the courage, the 
 coolness, the ability of this young lord revived the 
 hopes of the Republic's enemies, and 'administered so 
 lively an impulse to the gloomy fanaticism of the dis- 
 trict, that even lukewarm partisans labored to bring about 
 results decisive in favor of the stricken monarchy. 
 Meanwhile, 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 i8th Brumaire, and the military command- 
 ers in the West were not slow to understand the silence 
 of the ministers. Nevertheless, these commanders were 
 only the more impatient 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 
 appointed 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 general, trembled with hope,
 
 76 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 expecta- 
 tions, 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, invented, 
 and which produced in those days of prodigious patriot- 
 ism 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: 
 
 "DWELLERS IN THE WEST: 
 
 "For the second time an impious war has set your 
 departments in a flame. 
 
 "The authors of these troubles are traitors who have 
 sold themselves to the English, or brigands who seek in 
 civil disorder nothing but occasion 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 
 who have been seduced by the artifices of these men, and 
 these citizens deserve enlightenment and the communica- 
 tion of the truth. 
 
 "Some unjust laws have been decreed and put in exe- 
 cution; 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
 
 THE AMBUSH. 77 
 
 worship having been decreed by the Constitution, the 
 law of the nth Prairial, year III., which grants to all 
 citizens the use of edifices intended for religious wor- 
 ship, 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 sovereignty of the 
 people." 
 
 "Quite paternal, is it not?" said Hulot, after this con- 
 sular allocution had been publicly read; "yet, you will 
 see, not one Royalist brigand will be converted 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 authority in the departments of Orne and 
 Mayenne. Soon a hitherto unknown activity set all the 
 springs of administration working. A circular from the 
 Minister of War and the Minister of General Police 
 announced that vigorous measures, the execution of 
 which was entrusted to the heads of the military, had 
 been taken to stifle the insurrection at its source. But 
 the Chouans and the Vendeans had already profited by 
 the sluggishness of the Republic to raise the country and 
 to gain complete possession of it. Accordingly, a new 
 consular proclamation was launched, addressed this time 
 to the troops:
 
 78 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "SOLDIERS: 
 
 "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 gratitude of the nation awaits you! To deserve 
 it you must brave the inclemency of the seasons, ice, 
 snow, the bitter cold of night; you must surprise your 
 enemies at break of day, and put the wretches, the 
 scandal of France, to the sword ! 
 
 "Let your campaign be brief and successful; give no 
 mercy to the bandits, but observe the strictest disci- 
 pline. 
 
 "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 bandits, arrest them! Let them find nowhere any 
 shelter from the pursuing 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," 
 -aid Gerard, who was beginning to dread what might 
 come of the i8th Brumaire. 
 
 "Odds sentries and sentry-boxes!" said Merle. "What 
 docs that matter, since he is a soldier?" 
 
 A few paces off, some of the rank and file were cluster-
 
 THE AMBUSH. 
 
 79 
 
 ing round the. procla- 
 mation which was 
 stuck on the wall. 
 Now, as not a man of 
 them could read, they 
 gazed at it, some in-
 
 So THE CHOUANS. 
 
 differently, others curiously, while two or three scanned 
 the passers-by for a citizen who looked learned. 
 
 "Come, Clef-des-Coeurs, " said Beau-Pied mockingly 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-Cceurs, pointing to a 
 rough cut at the head of the proclamation, where for 
 some days past a compass had replaced the level of 
 T 793- "It means that we fellows have got to step out. 
 They have stuck a compass* open on it for an em- 
 blem. " 
 
 "My boy, don't play the learned man; it is not 'em- 
 blem,' 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 'emblem,' and 
 not 'problem?'" said Clef-des-Cceurs 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 Con- 
 sul (a fine commission!) and that we shall get greatcoats 
 and boots !" 
 
 * This refers to the French idiom, ouvrir le cotnpas. meaning "Stir the stumps," 
 "Step out." Translator's Note.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHft's. 
 
 ^TOWARDS 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 to- 
 gether at Mayenne by orders from headquarters, an ex- 
 press from Alencon delivered to him certain dispatches, 
 during the reading of which very decided vexation showed 
 itself on his face. 
 
 "Well, then, to business!" cried he, somewhat ill-tem- 
 peredly, thrusting the papers in the crown of his hat. 
 "Two companies are to set out with me and march 
 towards Mortagne. The Chouans are about there. You 
 will come with me," said he to Merle and Gerard. "May 
 they make a noble of me if I understand a word of my 
 dispatches! I dare 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 expression 
 (or rather for which, as mentioned before, we have sub- 
 stituted it), it always pointed to bad weather; and its 
 various intonations made up, as it were, a series of degrees 
 which acted as a thermometer of their chief's temper to 
 the demi-brigade. Indeed, the old soldier's frankness 
 had made the interpretation so easy that the sorriest 
 6 81
 
 82 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 epaulettes when he put on his cocked hat, and Hulot 
 jerked it back with such rage that the curls were all dis- 
 ordered. Yet, as he stood motionless, with clenched 
 fists, his arms folded on his breast, and his moustache 
 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, ac- 
 companied by his two friends, to whom he did not ad- 
 dress a word. Merle and Gerard looked at each other 
 several times without 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 himself, relics of the famous
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHE'S. 83 
 
 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 Alen9on 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 foot- 
 paths at the edge of the road are shut in by ditches, the 
 earth of which, constantly turned up towards the fields, 
 produces 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 har- 
 vest, the Chouans used to hide behind its dark-green 
 tufts. These slopes and their ajoncs, which tell the trav- 
 eler that he is drawing near Brittany, made this part of 
 the road at that time as hazardous as it is still beauti- 
 ful. 
 
 The dangers which were likely to be met in the journey 
 from Mortagne to Alenon, and from Alen9on to May- 
 enne, were the cause of Hulot' s expedition; 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 garrison of Mortagne) which had escorted this 
 wretched vehicle to the limits of their own appointed
 
 84 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 district, where Hulot had come to relieve them, were 
 already on their way home, and appeared afar off like 
 black dots. One cf 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 van- 
 guard, suddenly 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 dodgings in others. When I saw 
 Danton with his mistresses, 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 attend- 
 ing to his business. I would bet the left side of my 
 moustache that he knows nothing of the absurd work we 
 are made to do here." 
 
 "Upon my word, commandant," answered Merle, laugh- 
 ing, "I caught just a glimpse of the young lady hidden
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. #5 
 
 in the coach, and it is my opinion that it is no shame 
 for any man to feel, as I do, a longing to approach that 
 carriage and exchange a few words with the travel- 
 ers. " 
 
 "Beware, Merle," said Gerard; "the dames are accom- 
 panied 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 permission of 
 the commandant, I will run the risk. That woman has 
 eyes like stars, and one may well venture everything to 
 gaze into them." 
 
 "Our comrade is caught," said Gerard to the command- 
 ant; "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 lag- 
 ging steps that he was manoeuvring to gradually reach 
 the coach, "what good spirits he has! He is the only
 
 86 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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," remarked 
 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 differ- 
 ence." 
 
 The carriage, towards which the officer was making his 
 
 1 1.,,,;!, 
 
 way, contained two women, one of whom appeared to be 
 the servant of the other. 
 
 A thin, dried-up little man galloped sometimes before, 
 sometimes behind the carriage, but although he seemed 
 to accompany the two privileged travelers, no one saw him 
 address a word to them. This silence, a mark of con- 
 tempt, or respect, the numerous pieces of luggage, and 
 the band-boxes of the one whom the commandant called
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 87 
 
 a princess all, even to the costume of the attendant 
 cavalier, again roused Hulot's bile. The costume of 
 this unknown presented an exact picture of the fashion 
 which at that time called forth the caricatures of 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 em- 
 ployed to designate them. An immense cravat formed 
 round his neck such innumerable folds that the little 
 head, emerging from a labyrinth of muslin, almost justi- 
 fied Captain Merle's kitchen simile. The stranger wore 
 tight breeches, and boots a la Suwarrow; a huge white 
 and blue cameo was stuck, as a pin, in his 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 forehead. 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 insignificant details, which formed a mass of dis 
 parities with no ensemble, the absurd contrast of his 
 yellow breeches, his red waistcoat, his cinnamon-brown 
 coat, a faithful portrait will be 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 touchstone of elegance 
 to show that nothing can be too absurd for fashion to 
 hallow it. The rider appeared full 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
 
 88 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 did the captain approach the carriage than the dandy 
 seemed to guess his purpose, and facilitated it by check- 
 ing 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 Revolution 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 officer! will you have the kindness to tell us at 
 what point of the road we are?" 
 
 A question from an unknown traveler, and that trav- 
 eler a woman, always has a singular charm, and her least 
 word seems to promise an adventure; but if the lady 
 appears to ask protection, relying on her weakness and 
 her ignorance of facts, where is the man who is not 
 slightly inclined to build a castle in the air, with a 
 happy ending for himself? So the words, "Monsieur 
 l'orficier," and the ceremonious form of the question, 
 excited a strange disturbance in the captain's heart. He 
 tried to see what the fair traveler was like, and was 
 completely baffled, a jealous veil hiding her features 
 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 Alen9on, madame, " 
 said he. 
 
 "Alen^on, already?" And the unknown lady threw her- 
 self, or let herself fall back in the carriage, without 
 further reply. 
 
 "Alen9on?" 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
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfc'S 89 
 
 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 brill- 
 iant tints which distinguish the women of Valognes, 
 Bayeux, and the district around Alen9on. The glances 
 of her blue eyes did not speak wit, but a resolute tem- 
 per, mingled with tenderness. She wore a gown of com- 
 mon 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 concen- 
 trated, 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 
 listener; 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 took time to dress yourself. You are 
 a pretty figure! If we are going farther than Alenfon, 
 we really must make a fresh toilette there." 
 
 "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 
 reproach?" 
 
 "Oh! I saw through your little device. Innocent and 
 simple as you used to be, you have learned a few tricks
 
 go THL CHOUANS. 
 
 in my scnool. You have already taken a dislike to 
 direct questioning, and you are right, child; of all 
 known manners of extracting information, 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 Gov- 
 ernment 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 con- 
 tempt contempt which even extended to the gesture 
 with which she pointed to the rider. "Listen, Fran- 
 cine," she continued; "do you remember 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 this change? I have a
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. gj 
 
 right to ask you to let me see a little of your heart. It 
 is mine before it is anyone'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 expect 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 pleas- 
 ure; 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?"
 
 Q2 THE CHOUANS- 
 
 "Ah! cruel girl, you will say nothing? Holy Virgin! " 
 cried Francine, lifting her eyes sorrowfully 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 when you know that you are doing 
 it?" 
 
 "What would you have? I catch myself thinking 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 1 ever reproach you with what you have 
 done?" cried Francine. "Evil itself is charming in you. 
 Yes; Saint Anne of Auray herself, to whom I pray so 
 hard for you, would give you pardon for all. Besides, 
 have I not followed you on this journe) r without the least 
 knowledge whither you are going?" and she kissed her 
 mistress' hands affectionately. 
 
 "But," said Marie, "you can leave me if your con- 
 science 
 
 "Come, madame, do not talk like that," said Francine, 
 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 enterprise 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, shameful farce as it is, a mixture of 
 danger and of romance which tempted me. Besides, I
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S 93 
 
 did not wish to leave this earth 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 
 would never have made me take a part in this tragedy 
 for tragedy as well as farce it is. And now," she con- 
 tinued with a gesture of disgust, "if they changed their 
 minds and counter-ordered the plan, I would throw my- 
 self into the Sarthe this moment, and it would not be a 
 suicide; for I have never yet lived." 
 
 ''Oh! Holy Virgin of Auray! pardon her!" 
 "What are you afraid of? you know that the dull alter- 
 nations of domestic life leave my passions cold. That 
 is ill in a woman; but my soul has gained the habit of a 
 higher kind of emotion, able to support stronger trials. 
 I might have been like you, a gentle creature. Why did 
 I rise above or sink below 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 im- 
 petuous and ungoverned character of her mistress. She 
 alone was acquainted with the strangenesses of her en- 
 thusiastic soul, with the real feelings of the woman who, 
 up to this time, had seen life float before her like an in 
 tangible 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 
 multitude of unfulfilled desires, weary of fighting with-
 
 94 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 prospect of death to a life bereft 
 of hope or even of suffering. Never 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, 
 like an earthly providence, kept a watch over this 
 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 expia- 
 tion, she regarded as the accomplishment of a heavenly 
 mission. 
 
 "There is Alengon steeple," said the rider, drawing 
 near the carriage. 
 
 "I see it," answered the young lady dryly. 
 
 "Very well," quoth he, retiring with signs of obedi- 
 ence not the less absolute for his disappointment. 
 
 "Faster! faster!" said the lady to the postilion; "there 
 is nothing to fear now. Trot or gallop if you can; are 
 we not in Alenfon 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 inni 
 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 Corentin, who 
 was trying to make his horse gallop so as to catch the 
 carriage up. "She has your general's commission in her 
 sleeve."
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 95 
 
 "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 in 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 Made- 
 moiselle de Verneuil. She is a ci-devant. As if I did 
 not know it ! they all played that game before the Rev- 
 olution. You could become a demi-brigadier then in two 
 crotchets and 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. Nobody in Alen9on 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 travelers, 
 to evade the general curiosity, slipped into the kitchen, 
 the invariable ante-chamber 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 "
 
 96 THE CHOUANS 
 
 "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 star- 
 ing at her. 
 
 "What are we to do, wife?" said the innkeeper. "Who 
 the devil would have thought that we should have com- 
 pany 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 gentlefolk, I will 
 propose that the)' should join the person upstairs, 
 eh?" 
 
 But when the host looked for his new guest he only 
 found Francine, to whom he said in a low tone, and tak- 
 ing her aside to the back of the kitchen, which looked 
 towards the yard, so as to be out of earshot: "If the 
 ladies would like, as I doubt not, to eat in 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 him- 
 self 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-
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 97 
 
 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 seeing the speaker, she 
 caught a word or two of the sentences which he had whis- 
 pered, and remained thunderstruck as she heard the 
 harsh tones of the Breton's voice. While all besides 
 were in consternation, she darted towards the little man; 
 but he, whose movements had the celerity of a wild 
 animal'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. Before 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 impor- 
 tance to some friend about the carriage. In spite of the 
 goatskins, and thanks to this gesture, which revealed his 
 face, Francine was able to recognize by his enormous 
 whip and his gait crawling, though agile enough at need 
 the Chouan nicknamed 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 clev- 
 erest 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 
 7
 
 98 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 darkness 
 indicated Marche-a-Terre's position, returned towards 
 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 suspected 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 
 seldom roasted the feet of those who had given informa- 
 tion 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 curi- 
 osity 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 char- 
 acter 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. 
 
 "Well, 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
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 99 
 
 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 satiric tone. "My fine 
 fellow, that seems to me an innkeeper's joke, and a bad 
 one. But if it is this young citizeness 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 towards his 
 plump spouse, and said in her ear, "I call you to witness, 
 that if any harm happens, 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 fecole Polytechnique. At a glance Mile, de 
 Verneuil could distinguish under the sober 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 senti-
 
 IOO THE CHOUANS. 
 
 ments and the habit of command. But the most unmis- 
 takable symptoms of his talents were a chin of the Bona- 
 parte 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 irresistibly winning grace. 
 
 "The young man looks, for a Republican, remarkably 
 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 gracefully 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 manoeuvring 
 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-Jcvanl. What do you want with her?" 
 
 The stranger, who was humming a Republican song, 
 lifted his head haughtily towards Corentin. The two 
 young men glared at each other for a moment like two 
 gamecocks on the point of fighting; and the glance was 
 tin; seed of an eternal and mutual hatred. Corentin' s 
 green e\ es announced spite and treachery as clearly as
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. IOI 
 
 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 obtain it. The motto of the one should have 
 been "Gain the day!" of the other, "Share the booty!" 
 
 "Is Citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr here?" said a peasant 
 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 disap- 
 peared. 
 
 "You come from Paris, no doubt, citizen," said Coren- 
 tin, coming towards the stranger with a certain easiness 
 of manner, and with an air of suppleness and concilia- 
 tion 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 artil- 
 lery?" 
 
 "No, citizen; in the navy." 
 
 "Ah! " said Corentin carelessly, "then you are going to 
 Brest?" 
 
 But the young sailor turned abruptly on his heel with- 
 out 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
 
 102 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 Republic may 
 well be shy of a country where they make the 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 Bor- 
 deaux, white and red too. And be sure there is a good 
 fire upstairs. These good folk seem to be quite behind 
 the times 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 ) 7 ou 
 have got lemons at hand. And as for you, Mrs. Land- 
 lady, 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 Corentin confi- 
 dentially 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 host- 
 ess' ear, "is a spy of Fouche's. 'Police' is written 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 towards whom the sailor ran, with 
 every mark of outward respect, entered the inn kitchen.
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfc's. 103 
 
 "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 Save- 
 nay," said his mother sharply to him; "she had gone to 
 Le Mans to rescue her brother the Prince of Loudon. " 
 
 "You are mistaken, madame," said Corentin gently, but 
 laying a stress on the word madame; "there are two Dem- 
 oiselles de Verneuil. Great houses always have several 
 branches. " 
 
 The strange lady, surprised at this familiar address, 
 recoiled a step or two as if to survey this unexpected 
 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 existence of Mile, de Verneuil. At 
 the same time, Corentin, who had been privately study- 
 ing the lady, denied her the pleasures of maternity, while 
 granting 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 condition, at- 
 tracted his admiration, while her luxuriant black hair, 
 parted in bands on her forehead, set off the freshness of 
 a face that showed mental power. Some faint wrinkles 
 on the forehead, far from proclaiming age, betrayed the 
 passions of youth, and if the piercing eyes were a little 
 dimmed, the affection 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 Grccque,
 
 104 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 which still ruled Parisian toilettes. Now, Corentin was 
 one of those people who are characteristically inclined to 
 the constant suspicion of ill rather than good, and he im- 
 mediately 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 liv- 
 ing?" 
 
 "She has as certain an existence in flesh and blood, 
 madamc, as the Citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr. " 
 
 The answer had a touch of profound irony, which the 
 lady alone understood; and anybody else would have been 
 put out of countenance by it. Her son directed a sudden 
 and steady gaze at Corentin, who pulled out his watch 
 coolly, without appearing to dream of the anxiety which 
 his answer produced. But the lady, disquieted and de- 
 sirous of knowing at once whether the phrase meant mis- 
 chief, 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, madame? you were in the coach which the brig-
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCH'S. 105 
 
 ands 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 pas- 
 sengers, had perished. 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 falsity of 
 some bit of political news. 
 
 "Alas! madame, " 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 further!" 
 
 "Is Mile, de Verneuil young and pretty?" asked the 
 lady, struck by a sudden thought and addressing the 
 hostess. But as she spoke the host cut short the conver- 
 sation, which was almost painfully interesting to the 
 three speakers, by announcing that breakfast was ready. 
 The young sailor offered his hand to his mother with an 
 affectation of familiarity. 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 Ver- 
 neuil, and if she accepts mine host's proposal, make 
 yourself at home." 
 
 Although these words were spoken in a cavalier fash- 
 ion, and not very obligingly, Corentin went upstairs. 
 
 The young man pressed the lady's hand hard; 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 making me play! "
 
 106 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 The three found themselves in a pretty large room, 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. There- 
 fore Corentin could see that the host had, as the vernac- 
 ular 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 fellow 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 ficole Polytech- 
 nique, guessing that she might be making objections, 
 left the room humming the song, "Veillons au salut de 
 P empire, " and went towards Mile, de Verneuil' s cham- 
 ber, stimulated by 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 Corentin, 
 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 Gua, "I 
 am the pope! I have got hold of some Chouans ; let us 
 make sure of what their quality is." 
 
 The door soon opened, and the young sailor entered, 
 leading by the hand Mile, de Verneuil, whom he ushered
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHE'S. 107 
 
 to the table with an air self -satisfied, but full of cour- 
 tesy. The hour which had passed away had not been 
 time lost in the devil's service. With Francine's assist- 
 ance, Mile, de Verneuil had arrayed herself for battle in 
 a traveling 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 toilette 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 willowy 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 thousand little innocent seeming 
 tricks by which a woman sets off and exhibits for admira- 
 tion the beauties of her face and the graceful carriage of 
 her head. Her air and her toilette matched so well, and 
 made her look so much younger, that Madame du Gua 
 thought she might be going too far in giving her twenty 
 years. So coquettish a toilette, 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 languid inclination of the head, 
 hardly turning towards him, and seemed to drop his hand 
 in a fashion so easy and careless, that it put him com- 
 pletely out of countenance. The strangers could hardly 
 attribute this reserve either to distrust or to coquetry; it
 
 108 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 seemed rather a natural or assumed indifference, while 
 the innocent air of the traveler's face made it impene- 
 trable. Nor did she let any determination towards con- 
 quest appear; the pretty, seductive manner which had 
 already deceived the young sailor's 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: "Madame, 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 affection. Nay, is 
 it not all that we have left?" 
 
 Madame du Gua replied to this last phrase, pronounced 
 in a low voice, with a half-courtesy, rather stiff in man- 
 ner, and betraying her disappointment at meeting so 
 pretty a woman, Then, leaning towards her son's ear, 
 "Ho!" said she, " 'stormy times,' 'devotion,' 'madame,' 
 and 'servant!' She cannot be Mile, de Verneuil; she 
 must be some girl sent by Fouch. " 
 
 The guests were about to take their places, when Mile, 
 de Verneuil's eyes fell on Corentin. He was still 
 minutely scanning the two strangers, who appealed un- 
 comfortable 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 magnanimous enough to 
 appoint a guardian over me. Although 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 safc-ty here; you may leave me as I am."
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 
 
 109 
 
 And she darted at him a steady glance of contempt. 
 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 respectful style. 
 
 "Citizeness, " said he, "it will always be a happiness 
 to me to obey you. Beauty is the only queen to whose 
 service a true Republican may willingly submit." 
 
 As she saw him leave the room, Mile, de Verneuil's 
 eyes gleamed with joy so unaffected, and she directed 
 towards Francine a meaning smile expressing so much 
 satisfaction, that Madame du Gua, though her jealousy 
 had made her watchful, felt inclined to discard the sus- 
 picions with which Mile, de Verneuil's extreme beauty 
 had inspired her. "Perhaps she is really Mile, de 
 Verneuil," whispered 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 mistrust of 
 the sailor, whose face lost its stern look. He bent on 
 Mile, de Verneuil glances which rather showed an im- 
 moderate passion for women in general than the respect- 
 ful 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 himself, endeavored in his vexation to affect 
 indifference 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 incompatibles showed considerable 
 coolness one to another, producing even a certain awk- 
 wardness and constraint, destructive of the pleasure
 
 110 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 community of 
 nature, and such lively desire for the indulgence of 
 sensibility, that they are always able to break the ice 
 on such occasions. The two fair guests, suddenly and as 
 though by common consent, began gently to rally their 
 solitary cavalier, and to vie with each other in jests and 
 little attentions towards him; their agreement in so 
 doing putting 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 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. 
 
 "Madame," 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 sad- 
 ness lies in the vividness of my enjoyment. ' 
 
 "Compliments of this sort," said she, laughing, "smack 
 rather of the court than of the Ecole Polytechnique. " 
 
 "Yet he has but expressed a very natural feeling, 
 mademoiselle," said Madame du Gua, who had her rea- 
 sons for wishing to keep on terms with the stranger. 
 
 "Well, then, laugh a little," said Mile, de Verneuil, 
 with a smile, to the young man. "What do you look like 
 \\hcn you weep, if what you are pleased to call happi- 
 ness makes you look so solemn?" 
 
 The smile, accompanied as it was by a glance of provo-
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. Ill 
 
 cation, 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 Verneuil, 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 drooping, 
 they exchanged their real thoughts. But they were as 
 quick to obscure as to communicate this light, which, as 
 it lightened their hearts, also disturbed their composure. 
 As though ashamed of having said so much in a single 
 glance, they dared not look again at each other. Mile, 
 de Verneuii, anxious to alter the stranger's opinion of 
 her, shut herself up in cool politeness, and even seemed 
 impatient for the end of the meal. 
 
 "You must have suffered much in prison, mademoi- 
 selle?" said Madame du Gua. 
 
 "Alas! madame, 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 sus- 
 picion 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 relations 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.
 
 112 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "Oh! madame, 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 dis- 
 posed. Do they not say that he is going to suspend the 
 laws against emigrants?" 
 
 "Yes, madame," said she, with perhaps too much eager- 
 ness; "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 expression of 
 enmity or the reverse on her face. Its delicate covering 
 of bright skin told no tales, and an unconquerable curios- 
 ity 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, madame?" 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle," replied the young man with an 
 air as if to say, "What then?" 
 
 "Well, madame," continued Mile, de Verneuil, "since 
 your son is in the Republic's service 
 
 She pronounced these words with an air of outward 
 indifference; but fixing on the two strangers 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. 
 vSince we have already become as it were fellow-travelers, 
 come with me to Mayenne." 
 
 Mother and son hesitated, ,and seemed to consult each 
 other.
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 113 
 
 "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 conveyance; 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 Repub- 
 lican 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 without 
 scruple. Above all," added she, iaying 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; "/can see no danger for anyone." 
 
 "Is she who speaks the same woman who just now 
 seemed to share my desires in a look?" said the young 
 man to himself. "\Vhat 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 sinister warning. 
 
 "What is that?" said Mile, de Verncuil. "Our jour- 
 ney 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. 
 8
 
 IT4 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 liberty which the 
 Republic leaves us. If madame was alone, I should 
 insist 
 
 A soldier's heavy tread sounded in the corridor, and 
 Commandant Hulot soon entered with a sour counte- 
 nance. 
 
 "Ah! colonel, come here!" said Mile, de Verneuil^ 
 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? Mademoi- 
 selle, you are eating nothing," said the young sailor, 
 busying himself with his guests, to Francine. 
 
 But Hulot's surprise and Mile, de Verneuil' s attention 
 were so unmistakably serious,, that willful misunder- 
 standing of them would have been dangerous. So the 
 young man went on abruptly, "What is the matter, com- 
 mandant? 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 fecole Polytechnique. 1
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 1 15 
 
 "Ah! yes; from the barrack where they try to hatch 
 soldiers in dormitories," answered the commandant, 
 whose hatred for officers who had passed through this 
 scientific seminary was ungovernable. "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? " 
 
 "Du Gua Saint-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 command- 
 ant and Mile, de Verneuil's countenance. 
 
 "Pray, does a young monkey like you want to make a 
 fool of me? Your papers at once, or off with you! " 
 
 "There! there! my excellent sir, I am not a nincom- 
 poop. 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."
 
 Il6 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 At this moment, hearing the clash of arms and the 
 measured tread of soldiers in the street, Hulot drew near 
 the window with an air of satisfaction which made Mile, 
 de Verneuil shudder. This symptom of interest encour- 
 aged the young man, whose face had become cold and 
 proud. Dipping in his 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 in 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 office. I am not fond of music." 
 
 "Why do you take him there?" asked Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil, 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 soldier's 
 tone than at his words, and most of all at the humilia- 
 tion to which she was subjected before a man who had 
 taken a fancy to her, started up, and dropped at once 
 the modest, ingtnue 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 his lady mother. Not a word: 
 I will have it so. What!" she went on, seeing that
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 117 
 
 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 ironically. 
 
 "Are you joking, colonel?" cried Mile, de Verneuil. 
 
 "Come, my fine fellow," said the commandant, nod- 
 ding to the sailor, "come along! " 
 
 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 dig- 
 nified gesture of protection. 
 
 "What a beautiful head! " whispered he to his mother, 
 who bent her brows. 
 
 Annoyance and a mixture of irritated but mastered 
 feelings shed indeed fresh beauties over the fair Paris- 
 ian'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 towards Hulot an open letter. 
 
 "Read that! " she said to him with a sneer. 
 
 And she turned towards 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 emo- 
 tions. By a single look, Madame du Gua on her side 
 showed that, not without reason, she set down this gen- 
 erous conduct of Mile, de Vernetiil's much more to love
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 than to charit)'. The fair traveler at first blushed, and 
 dropped her eyelids modestly, as she divined the mean- 
 ing 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 minis- 
 
 tUII 
 
 terial countersign, 
 
 and commanding all "^ 
 
 authorities 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. I am not good at obeying where 
 pretty girls command. My resignation shall be sent in 
 to the First Consul to-night, and you will have some-
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 119 
 
 body else than Hulot to do your bidding. Where I can- 
 not understand I stand still ; especially when it is my 
 business to understand." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, but it was soon broken 
 by the fair Parisian, who stepped up to the command- 
 ant, 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 clum- 
 sily enough a kiss on this remarkable young woman's 
 hand. "As for you, my fine fellow," he added, shaking 
 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 office 
 with you if you like." 
 
 "And will you bring your invisible whistler, Marche- 
 a-Terre, with you?" 
 
 "Who is Marche-a-Terre? " said the sailor, with every 
 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 supposed that 
 the soldiers whom you had ordered up to arrest me, no 
 doubt were letting 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, which was made almost childish by his care- 
 fully curled fair hair, the commandant hovered between 
 different suspicions. Then his glance fell on Madame du 
 Gua, who was trying to interpret the exchange of looks
 
 120 THE CHOUAN5. 
 
 between her son and Mile, de Verneuil, and he asked her 
 abruptly: 
 
 "Your age, citizeness?" 
 
 "Ah, sir officer! the laws of our Republic are becom- 
 ing 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 you are Chouans in dis- 
 guise! God's thunder! I will have the whole inn sur- 
 rounded 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 commandant. He 
 rushed into the corridor luckily enough, for it pre- 
 vented 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 Chouans should risk themselves 
 in the very center of Alen9on, he came back crestfallen. 
 
 "I forgive him, but he shall dearly aby 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. He 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 himself. 
 
 "For whom did you take my son?" asked Madame du 
 Gua. 
 
 "For the Gars, the chief sent to the Chouans and the
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfc's. 121 
 
 Vendeans by the London Cabinet the man whom 
 they call the Marquis de Montauran. " 
 
 The commandant still scrutinized attentively the faces 
 of these two suspicious persons, who gazed at each other 
 with the peculiar looks which are natural 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!" And then fol- 
 lows the sly, jeering laugh of a fool who thinks himself 
 triumphant. 
 
 The sudden alteration in manner of Mile, de Verneuil, 
 who seemed struck dumb at hearing the name of the 
 Royalist general, was lost on all except Francine, who 
 alone knew the scarcely distinguishable 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 said 
 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 Repub- 
 lic, 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 on a single human 
 being. But with equal suddenness 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
 
 132 THE CHOUAN8, 
 
 actor. The commandant abruptly left the room, but 
 Mile, de Verneuil followed him, stopped him in the 
 passage, and asked him in a grave tone: 
 
 "Have you, then, really strong reasons for suspecting 
 this young man of being the Gars?" 
 
 "God's thunder! mademoiselle, the fellow who travels 
 with you came to warn me that the passengers in the 
 mail had been assassinated by the Chouans, which I knew 
 before. But what I did not know was the name of the 
 dead travelers. It was Du Gua Saint-Cyr. ' 
 
 "Oh! if Corentin is at the bottom of it," said she, with 
 a contemptuous gesture, "I am surprised at nothing." 
 
 The commandant retired without daring to look at 
 Mile, de Verneuil, whose perilous beauty already made 
 his heart beat. "Had I 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 young man's eyes riveted on the door 
 by which Mile, de Verneuil had left the room, Madame 
 du Gua whispered to him, "What! always T:he same? 
 Women will certainly be your ruin. A doll like that 
 makes you forget everything! Why did you allow her to 
 breakfast with us? What sort of a person is a daughter 
 of the house of Verneuil who accepts invitations from 
 strangers, is escorted by Blues, and disarms them with 
 a letter which she carries like a billet-doux in her 
 bosom? She is one of the loose women by whose aid 
 Fouche hopes to seize you, and the' letter she showed 
 was given to her in order to command the services of the 
 Blues against yourself!" 
 
 "But, madame, " said the young man, in a tone so 
 sharp that it cut the lady to the heart and blanched her 
 cheeks, "her generosity gives the lie to your theory. 
 Pray remember that we are associated by nothing save
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 123 , 
 
 the King's business. After you have had Charette at 
 your feet, is there another man in the world for you? 
 Have you another purpose in life than to avenge 
 him? " 
 
 The lady stood whelmed in thought like a man who 
 from the beach sees the shipwreck of his fortune and 
 covets it only the more ardently. But as Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil reentered, the young sailor exchanged with her a 
 smile and a glance instinct with gentle raillery. Doubt- 
 ful as the future might be, short-lived as might be their 
 intimacy, hope told none the less her flattering tale. 
 Swift as it was, the glance could not escape the shrewd- 
 ness of Madame du Gua, who understood it well. Her 
 brow clouded lightly but immediately, and her face could 
 not hide her jealous thoughts. Francine kept her gaze 
 on this lady; she saw her eyes flash, her cheeks flush; 
 she thought she could discern the countenance of one 
 inspired by some hellish fancy, mastered by some terri- 
 ble revulsion of thought. But lightning is not swifter, 
 nor death more sudden, than was the flight of this expres- 
 sion; and Madame du Gua recovered her cheerfulness of 
 look with such self-command that Francine thought she 
 must have been under a delusion. Nevertheless, recogniz- 
 ing 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 towards the young officer, 
 casting on him a passionate and intoxicating glance } 
 drawing him towards herself with both hands, and turn- 
 ing 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?"
 
 I2 4 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "Yes, I am, mademoiselle." 
 
 "But his mother and he were killed the day before 
 yesterday !" 
 
 "I am extremely sorry," said he, laughing; "but how- 
 
 ever 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."
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHE'S. 125 
 
 "I thought I had saved an emigrant; but I like you 
 better as a Republican." 
 
 Yet, no sooner had these words, as if by thoughtless- 
 ness, escaped her lips, than she became confused; she 
 blushed to her very eyes, and her whole bearing showed 
 a deliciously naive emotion. She dropped the officer'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 freedom, authorized though it might seem to be by 
 their passing adventures of travel, resumed a conventional 
 behavior, bowed to her two fellow-travelers, and, disap- 
 pearing with Francine, sought their apartment. As they 
 reached it, Francine entwined her fingers, turned the 
 palms of her hands upwards with a twist of the arms, 
 and said, gazing at her mistress: 
 
 "Ah! 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. 
 
 "Oh! 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 nothing 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, straightforward 
 peasant girl, in a lowered tone, her face dashed with 
 sadness. 
 
 "Can you ask such a question?" said Mile, de Verneuil. 
 "But teli me, Francine," she added, assuming an air half 
 serious and half comic, "is he so very hard to please?"
 
 126 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "Yes, but will he love you always?" replied Francine, 
 with a smile. 
 
 Both girls looked at each other for a time surprised, 
 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 remained 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. 
 
 "Ah ! 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 con- 
 tinued, "that is your answer, is it? I understand. I 
 will wait for your secret, or guess it." 
 
 Francine was right. The conversation was interrupted 
 by three taps at the door; and Captain Merle, on hear- 
 ing the "Come in! " which Mile, 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 resig- 
 nation of the chief of your demi-brigade? that is what 
 they call your regiment, is it not?" 
 
 "My superior officer is Adjutant-Major Gerard, by 
 v/hose orders I come. "
 
 A NOTION OP POUCHfi'S. 127 
 
 "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 nothing 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 regu- 
 lar 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 up." 
 
 "One would think she was an officer of ten years' 
 standing," said Merle to himself, as he went out. "Hulot 
 is wrong. The girl is not one of those who draw their 
 rents from down feathers. Odds cartridges! If Cap- 
 tain 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 cap- 
 tain, 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,
 
 !28 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 Vir- 
 gin. Very soon 
 she perceived 
 Madame du Gua 
 making her way 
 towards 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 ob- 
 served towards 
 her an attitude of 
 the deepest re- 
 spect a singular 
 circumstance, 
 which roused 
 Francine's curi- 
 osity 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 be- 
 hind the stable door. By stepping on tiptoe, holding 
 her breath, and avoiding the slightest noise, she suc- 
 ceeded in posting herself close to Marche-a-Terre
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. I2Q 
 
 without exciting his attention. "And if," said the strange 
 lady to the Chouan, "after all these inquiries, 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 dropping 
 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! " (godaine'], said he, after a pause. This odd 
 word, godain, or godame, is part of the patois of the dis- 
 trict, 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 towards Fran- 
 cine, as if to make sure of the weight of a thick gold chain 
 which surrounded 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 
 surprise. But she made up for the harshness 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, in his awe at Francine's finery, and she, in her desire to play 
 the lady, have used vous, which the original italicizes. Both adopt the familiar tu 
 henceforth. But the second person singular is so awkward in ordinary English, rtiat 
 it seems better adjusted, with this warning, to the common use. Translator's Note.
 
 130 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 fascination 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 kill 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 happens to her, if a 
 hair of her head is injured, we have looked our last at 
 one another here for time and for eternity ! I shall be 
 in Paradise then, and you in hell!" 
 
 No demoniac just 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 savage tenderness, then struck by 
 a fanatical sense of duty as imperious as love itself, 
 turned to ferocity, as he perceived the masterful air of 
 the innocent girl who had once been his love. But 
 Francine interpreted 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 Chouanning, you
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 131 
 
 are prowling along the highways like a mad animal try- 
 ing to bite. Oh, Pierre ! if you were sensible you would 
 come with me. This pretty young lady (who, I should 
 tell you, was brought up at our house at home), has 
 taken care of me. I have two hundred good livres a 
 year. Mademoiselle 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 Aura) 7 ! Pierre, is this all you have to 
 say to me after seven years' parting? How you have 
 changed! " 
 
 "I love you still, and always! " answered the Chouan 
 roughly. 
 
 "No," she whispered, "the King comes before me." 
 
 "If you look at me like that," he said, "I must go." 
 
 "Good-bye ! then, " she said sadly. 
 
 "Good-bye ! " repeated Marche-a-Terre. He seized Fran- 
 cine's hand, squeezed it, kissed it, crossed himself, and 
 plunged into the stable like a dog that has just stolen a bone.
 
 132 THE CHOOANS. 
 
 "Pille-Miche, said he to his comrade, "I cannot see 
 my way. Have you got your snuff-mull?" 
 
 "Oh! c. J bleu! . . . what a fine chain!" answered 
 Pille-Miche, groping in a pocket under his goatskin. 
 Then he held out to Marche-a-Terre one of the little 
 conical horn boxes in which Bretons put the finely pow- 
 dered 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 
 impalpable 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 sleep- 
 ing under the mangers and in the straw lifted their heads, 
 saw Marche-a-Terre standing, 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 
 read}- to start. Mile, de Verneuil and her two fellow- 
 travelers had already got in, and the Breton girl shud- 
 dered 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.
 
 A NOTION OK FOUCHfi's. 133 
 
 The sun had already dispelled the gray mists of an 
 autumn morning, and its rays gave to the melancholy 
 fields a certain lively air of holiday youth. It is the wont 
 of lovers 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 landscape 
 which, shifting rapidly, flitted past them. Entertaining 
 no doubt of admiration, she seemed willfully to refuse 
 opportunity for it; but her apparent 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 feel- 
 ings 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 yet 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 agitation. We are not 
 prone to quarrel 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 
 tedium of travel. Therefore, congratulating himself on 
 being able to satisfy the hunger of his rising passion 
 without its being possible for the strange lady either to 
 avoid his eyes or be offended at their persistence, the 
 young officer studied to his heart's content, and as if he
 
 134 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 had been examining a picture, the plire and dazzling 
 lines of her face. Now the day brought out the pink 
 transparence of the nostrils and the double curve which 
 formed a junction between the nose and the upper lip. 
 Now a paler sunbeam played on the tints of the com- 
 plexion pearly-white under the eyes and round the 
 mouth, roseate on the cheeks, creamy towards the 
 temples and on the neck. He admired the contrasts of 
 light and shade produced by the hair which surrounded 
 the face with its raven tresses, giving it a fresh and 
 passing grace; for with woman everything is fugitive. 
 Her beauty of to-day is often not that of yesterday, 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 that make up the whole of love, watched delightedly 
 the successive movements of the eyelids and the ravish- 
 ing play which each breath gave to the bosom. Some- 
 times, his will and his thoughts in unison, he spied a 
 harmony between the expression of the eyes and the 
 faint movements of the lips. Each gesture showed him a 
 new soul, each movement 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 by a 
 smile, his. delight in endeavoring to guess the mysterious 
 lady's secrets was infinite. The whole of her was a trap 
 for sovd 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 compromis- 
 ing; and she accordingly put to Madame du Gua some of 
 the trivial questions which start a conversation, thouhg 
 she could not keep the son out of her talk with the mother. 
 "How, madame," said she, "could you make up your
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 135 
 
 mind to send your son into the navy? is not this a sen- 
 tence of perpetual anxiety on yourself?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle, it is the lot of women I mean of 
 mothers to tremble always for their dearest treasures." 
 
 "Your son is very like you!" 
 
 "Do you think so, mademoiselle?" 
 
 This unconscious endorsement 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 
 Verneuil, laughing. 
 
 "It is a kind of faithfulness, all the same," said Madame 
 du Gua in a tone which was almost sombre. 
 
 But the conversation became livelier, and occupied 
 itself with subjects of no interest to any but the three 
 travelers, for in such a situation persons of intelli- 
 gence are able to give a fresh meaning to mere common- 
 places. But the talk, frivolous as it seemed, which these 
 strangers chose to interchange, hid the desires, the pas- 
 sions, the hopes which animated them. Marie's con- 
 stantly wide-awake subtlety and her aggressive wit 
 taught Madame du Gua that only slander and false deal- 
 ing could give her advantage over a rival as redoubtable 
 in intellect as in beauty. But the travelers now caught 
 up their escort, and their vehicle began to move less
 
 136 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 rapidly. The young sailor saw in front a long stretch of 
 ascent, and suggested to Mile, de Verneuil that she 
 should get out and walk. His good manners and atten- 
 tive politeness apparently had their effect on the fair 
 Parisian, and he felt her consent as a compliment. 
 
 "Is madame of our mind?" asked she of Madame du 
 Gua. "Will she join our walk?" 
 
 "Coquette! " said the lady as she alighted. 
 
 Marie and the stranger walked together, but with an 
 interval between them. The sailor, already a prey to 
 tyrannous desire, was eager to dispel the reserve which 
 she showed towards him, and the nature of which he did 
 not fail to see. He thought 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 the exiled aristocracy. But 
 the lively Parisian girl rallied the young Republican 
 so maliciously, and contrived to insinuate such a con- 
 temptuous expression of reproach for his attempts at 
 frivolity, while showing a marked preference 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 char- 
 acter, and the stranger soon showed that the hopes 
 inspired by his expressive 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 reference to a 
 girl who seemed to amuse herself by contradicting each 
 opinion that he formed of her. Enticed at first by the 
 contemplation of her physical beauty, he felt himself 
 now attracted towards her unknown mind by a curiosity 
 which Marie took pleasure in kindling. The conversa-
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 
 
 137 
 
 tion little by little 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
 
 138 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 walked quicker than she did, and were soon some hun- 
 dred paces ahead. The handsome couple trod the fine 
 gravel of the road, delighted 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 breathing together the autumnal perfume, so rich in 
 vegetable 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 emotion a touch of 
 seriousness which had the air of passion. They began 
 to praise the beauty of the day; then they talked of their 
 strange meeting, of the approaching breach of so pleas- 
 ant an acquaintance, 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 con- 
 fidences, and endeavored to risk a declaration in the style 
 of a man accustomed to the situation. 
 
 "Have you noticed, mademoiselle, " x 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 inexplicable? 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 swiftness 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 
 
 * This, I fear, is what Ralzac's own countrymen would call galimatias. But it is 
 
 what Balzac wrote. Translator's Note.
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 139 
 
 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, "becaase 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 without sparing. " 
 
 "I suppose you wish to purchase the right of 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 I not guessed everything you meant to say 
 to me? You have said too much as it is." 
 
 "Oh! if we understand each other," said he, with 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."
 
 140 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 will 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. Nor am I a woman 
 who is flattered 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." 
 
 "You forget," she rejoined, with a laugh, "attractions 
 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 per- 
 fections, 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,
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHE'S. 14! 
 
 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 theatres, in books, in society, 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 wa 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 emotion, 
 "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 diabolic 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 free- 
 dom of tone and manner, as if he already thoughtless 
 respectfully of her who had delivered him. 
 
 "Oh!" she said. "Happy? No! When I meditate by 
 myself, and feel myself mastered by the social conven- 
 tions which make me artificial, I envy the privileges of 
 men. But when I reflect on all the means which 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 me wretched, and 
 I feel that I 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 aspiration of self-
 
 142 THE CHOUAN9. 
 
 sacrifice which makes woman so fair and noble a thing, 
 only to experience afterwards 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 us look in 
 everything towards a perfection too certainly impossible 
 of attainment? But," she added, with a sigh, and a 
 glance towards heaven, "what ennobles us in our own 
 eyes 
 
 "Is what?" said he. 
 
 "Why," said she, "that we all of us, more or less, 
 maintain the struggle against our fated incompleteness." 
 
 "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 better 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 quickened her steps; the sailor 
 perceived that she wished to avoid a perhaps inoppor- 
 tune 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." 
 
 "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 liis, and covered her face with both hands to veil, 
 it might be a flush, it might be a pallor, which changed her
 
 A NOTION OP FOUCHE'S. 143 
 
 appearance. But she uncovered it almost immediately, 
 and said in a tender tone: 
 
 "You have begun, then, as you would have finished, by 
 deceiving me?" 
 
 "Yes," he said. 
 
 At this answer she turned her back on the bulky vehicle 
 towards 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 walk- 
 ing 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 interest 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 Royal- 
 ist; and I would give you up if my word were not
 
 i 4 4 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 vain, to sound 
 her intention. 
 
 "Let us part at once; I will 
 have it so. Good-bye!" 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, 
 
 :,- .-. -f 
 
 : *<- 
 --^"i*~ 
 
 j -"- 
 
 * 
 
 >^2 
 
 ready to quit the sea, and follow you 
 whithersoever your fancy guides me.
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 145 
 
 If I am fortunate enough to excite your curiosity by 
 anything 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 to me; 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 between pru- 
 dence 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 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. " 
 10
 
 146 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 impor- 
 tance: 
 
 "Marquis of Montauran, " said she with dignity, and 
 yet not quite successfully disguising an agitation 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 my 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-bye, sir! May 
 you be happy! Good-bye!" And she beckoned to Cap- 
 tain Merle, who was just reaching the brow of the hill. 
 
 The young man was not prepared for so sudden an end- 
 ing. 
 
 "Wait!' he cried, with a kind of despair, cleverly 
 enough feigned. The girl's strange whim surprised the 
 stranger so much that, though he would at the moment 
 have laid down his life for her, he devised a most repre- 
 hensible 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 emi- 
 grant, under sentence of death, and I am called the 
 Vicomte de Ban van. Love of my country has brought
 
 A NOTION 01"' FOUCIiL/.S. 147 
 
 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 Consul's wife; but if I do 
 not succeed in this, then I will die on my natal soil, fight- 
 ing 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 credulous 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?" 
 
 "No," 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 in danger?" 
 
 "Why, sir, even if I did not come from Paris, where 
 everyone 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 she, 
 with the air of disdain under which women 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
 
 148 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 me! You see in me an object of passing gallantry, that 
 is all. Did I not understand you at once? Could anyone 
 who has been accustomed to good society make a mis- 
 take, 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 gentle- 
 man 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 dis- 
 missed 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's 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 coxcombry. 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 under- 
 stand 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 Par- 
 don me this lavishness 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 I have
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfc's. 149 
 
 you think Mile, de Verneuil, be she angel or fiend, 
 woman or girl, capable of being caught with common- 
 place gallantries." 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the pretended viscount, whose 
 surprise, though he concealed it, was immense, 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 incon- 
 stant, for fidelity is one of their strong points. I should 
 be loved always, always happy. But I 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 
 enthusiasm 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 dis- 
 dainful glance, which brought hini to his level,
 
 150 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "My own master? Yes, except for my sentence of 
 death." 
 
 "Then," she said, with a voice full of bitter feeling, 
 "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 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 words 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 jour- 
 neyed 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 conversation, had acquired the strength and range 
 of a passion; for each had recognized in the other qual- 
 ities which promised in their eyes yet livelier delights 
 it might be from conflict, it might be from union. Per- 
 chance 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 acci- 
 dents as they pursue their object, precisely because exit 
 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
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 151 
 
 shared, after the conversation of which they were the 
 natural sequel ; and thus they made a sudden and vast 
 stride in intimacy, the sympathy of their souls follow- 
 ing that of their senses. Nevertheless, 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 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 
 veil 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 loye. 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 
 mistress 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
 
 152 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 was sure to make him experience; the girl saw her 
 whole life before her, and delighted in arranging 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 hark 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 loved. And so her eyes exhibited now and 
 then a kind of affright, as she thought of the past 
 conversation 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 Republic. The thought of unshared domin- 
 ion 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, outward existence seemed to her
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 153 
 
 a mere phantasmagoria. 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, slipped by her 
 like the unsubstantial shapes of a dream. Night fell. 
 But Marie traveled on under a starry heaven, wrapped in 
 soft light, along the Fougeres road, without even think- 
 ing 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 bad chosen, and who, as she 
 thought, had chosen her, did not enter her thoughts as 
 possible. Love is the only passion which knows noth- 
 ing of past or future. If at times her thoughts trans- 
 lated 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 birth of passion saw that it grew 
 with terrible rapidity. Francine knew Marie 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 galloping 
 at the top of his speed towards them. He had no sooner 
 caught up 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,
 
 154 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 
 unveiled; 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 perceived, and pointed out to 
 her mistress, some singular figures which seemed to flit 
 like shadows across the trees and amidst the ajoncs 
 which surrounded the fields. But when the carriage 
 came within range of these shadows, a volley of mus- 
 ketry (the balls passing over their heads) told the trav- 
 elers 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 threescore men. Under Gerard's
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 
 
 J 55 
 
 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 with- 
 out 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 walch 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 invoked in my moments of sorrow! 
 Marie, the name that I shall henceforth invoke in my 
 joy, ' and which I can never mention without sacrile- 
 giously mingling religion and love. Yet 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
 
 156 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 at each other, the very excess of their feeling depriving 
 them of the ability to express 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. Moon- 
 light 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 his 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 Gua; 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
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 157 
 
 in which Marie was engaged was interrupted by 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 Royalist 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-Cceurs, "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 ) r oung 
 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 struggle which could not be 
 profitable, and might be dangerous; while Gerard with 
 an order or two reformed 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 thunderstruck. 
 Surprised at this, the Parisian girl got in without 
 accepting the Republican's courtesy. She turned towards 
 her lover, saw his motionless attitude, and was stupefied 
 at the change which the chevalier's mysterious words
 
 158 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 carriage; "we 
 are certainly in the hands of a creature who has entered 
 into a bargain for your life. But since she is fool 
 enough to* fall in love with you, instead of attending to 
 her business, do 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 Verneuil 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. Francine 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 sudden change 
 which her excessive attentions towards Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil infused into her attitude, her voice, and her features, 
 was of a nature to give alarm to a sharp-sighted person. 
 So Mile, de Verneuil instinctively shuddered, asking 
 herself the while, "Why did I shudder? she is his 
 mother;" and then she trembled all over a she sud- 
 denly said to herself, "But is she really his mother?" 
 She saw before her an abyss which was finally illumi- 
 nated by a last glance which she cast at the stranger.
 
 A NOTION OF POUCHfi's. 139 
 
 "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 with trees, became dark, and prevented 
 the silent actors in this drama from questioning each 
 other with their eyes. The sighing oi 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 possible 
 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 appear- 
 ing 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 wavered. But the catas- 
 trophe was only the more thorough. 
 
 "Are you ill, mademoiselle?" he asked. 
 
 The voice without a touch of kindness, the question 
 itself, the look, the gesture, all helped to convince the
 
 l6o THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 find- 
 ing her mighty beauty without might. She knew well 
 enough that at any moment she pleased she could learn 
 the enigma of the situation; but she felt little curi- 
 osity 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 dis- 
 aster, 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 suffering. 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 
 around. 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 atten- 
 tion to them. The travelers journeyed for some time in 
 total silence. 
 
 "Parted already! " thought Mile, de Verneuil to her- 
 self. "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,
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHt's. l6l 
 
 and lo! the horror of desertion is already upon me. I 
 sowed affection and I reap contempt. Is it my fate, then, 
 always 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 published the secret of 
 her love a secret which tortures 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, mademoi- 
 selle." 
 
 "Then, we shall get there soon?" she said, to tempt 
 him to enter on a conversation in which she intended 
 to show the young captain some favor. 
 
 "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 ca;a 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.
 
 1 62 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 escorting some conscripts, who, to 
 save themselves from leaving their country, wanted to 
 kill us on the border line. But Hulot is an ugly cus- 
 tomer, 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 sar- 
 castic 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 young man, who, cool 
 and motionless, continued to regard her with contempt. 
 She saw nothing in him that could betray 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 voice, her nostrils quivering 
 with joy, her head on one side, so as to look at Merle 
 and examine the young noble at the same time, she said 
 to the Republican: 
 
 "The First Consul, captain, is very much concerned 
 about this chief. He is a bold man, they say; only, 
 he has a habit of too giddily undertaking certain enter- 
 prises, especially when women are concerned." 
 
 "That is just what we reckon upon, " said the captain, "to
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 163 
 
 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 com- 
 ing without a halt from Alenfon here. And since mad- 
 emoiselle," said he, turning with forced politeness towards 
 his mistress, "has been so generous as to impart to our 
 journey at once safety and enjoyment, she will perhaps 
 condescend 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 Vivetiere 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, iron- 
 ically 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 Gua. "I was 
 unfortunate enough to be married very young ; my son 
 was born when I was fifteen 
 
 "Surely you mistake, madame; do you not mean 
 thirty? " 
 
 Madame du Gua grew pale, as she had to swallow this 
 insult; she would have given much for vengeance, but 
 found herself obliged to smile, for she was anxious at 
 any price, even that of suffering the most biting epi-
 
 164 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 grams, to find out what the girl's real intentions were, and 
 so she pretended not to have understood. 
 
 "The Chouans have never had a mere cruel leader than 
 the Gars, if we are to believe the reports about him," 
 said she, addressing Francine and her mistress 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 emigrant, 
 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 (/;/<?////), 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-derants 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 corm 
 panies, and to neutralize all the Government's attempts. 
 If \ve burn a Royalist village, he burns two belonging to 
 Republicans. He is carrying on operations over an im- 
 mense area; and thus obliges us to employ a great num- 
 ber 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, inter- 
 rupting 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."
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 165 
 
 Then he plunged his glance into Mile, de Verneuil's 
 soul, and there passed between them one of those scenes 
 without words whose dramatic vivacity 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 scornful 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 mourn- 
 ing 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 towards the officers, and then 
 sharply back towards 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 sus- 
 pected and wished not to suspect so pleasant is it to a 
 woman to remain undecided in a life and death struggle 
 when the word of decision is hers. The young general
 
 1 66 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 wore the calmest of smiles, and endured without flinch- 
 ing 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 knowingly 
 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." 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 Republic which had so 
 often prevailed, and at seeing him grappling with danger 
 and showing the prowess which has such power over 
 women's hearts. So she tried him afresh a score of 
 times, following perhaps 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 Chouans to 
 death?" asked she of Merle. 
 
 "Why, on that of the law of the i4th of last Fructidor, 
 which outlaws the revolted departments and establishes 
 courts-martial in them," replied the Republican. 
 
 "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 towards her. "It was
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 167 
 
 x. 
 
 worth while," added fie aloud, "to live at this time, in 
 order to see girls* playing the executioner, and outvying 
 him in their axe-play." 
 
 She gazed at Montauran ; then, delighted -*.t receiving 
 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. " 
 
 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, contented 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, unwilling to play 
 any more tricks with the future of this comedy of hap- 
 piness, 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 accustomed 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 carriage 
 shortly after left the highway, and made for the Vive- 
 
 * There is no word in which French has a more unfair advantage over its trans- 
 lators than the double sense of fille, which can be used indiflerently in the same 
 breath as simply "girl," and as conveying a gross insult. It may not be an enviable 
 privilege, but it exists. The somewhat similar play on mauvaise tete 'below' is less 
 idiomatic. Translator's Note.
 
 l68 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 tiere along a hollow lane shut in oy 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 
 gardens lay was further protected for a certain distance be- 
 hind the chateau by a wide moat, receiving the overflow of 
 the ponds with which it communicated. It was thus in fact 
 an almost impregnable 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 Ver 
 neuil put her head out, and the sinister colors of the pict- 
 ure which met her eyes almost effaced the thoughts of 
 love and of coquetry with which she had been lulling her- 
 self. The carriage entered a large court-yard, almost 
 square in shape, and inclosed by the steep banks of the 
 ponds. These wild embankments, bathed by waters cov- 
 ered with huge green patches, were unadorned save by 
 leafless trees of aquatic species, whose stunted trunks and 
 huge tufted heads, rising above rushes and brushwood, 
 resembled grotesque statues. These uncomely hedges 
 seemed endowed with life and speech as the frogs left
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfc'S. l5g 
 
 them croaking, and the water-hens, awaked by the noise 
 of the coach, fluttered flapping over the surface of the 
 ponds. The court-yard, surrounded by tall, withered 
 grass, by ajoncs, by dwarf and climbing shrubs, was des- 
 titute 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 abundance, 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 likely 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 sem- 
 blance of a huge spectre. 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 
 crenelated tow&r, its roofs open to the sky, gave it exactly 
 the air of a skeleton; and the very birds 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 orna- 
 mentation, the lack of uniformity in the buildings, were 
 all characteristic of one of those feudal manor-houses 
 whereon Brittany prides herself; and not without rea- 
 son, perhaps, inasmuch as they enrich this Gaelic coun- 
 try with a sort of history in monuments of the shadowy
 
 I7O THE CHOUANS. 
 
 times preceding the general establishment of the mon- 
 archy. Mile, de Verneuil, in whose fancy the word 
 "chateau" always took the shape of a conventional type, 
 was struck by the funereal 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 the 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 
 occupied 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 ooquettishly 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 
 Alenfon and Hulot so far off? You seem to lack mem- 
 ory, an awkward defect for a partisan chief. But from 
 the moment when friends, " she added, with studied inso- 
 lence, "reign in your heart with such omnipotence be 
 content with your friends. There is notuhig compara- 
 ble to the pleasures of friendship. Farewell! I will not 
 set foot within these walls, nor shall the soldiers of the 
 Republic." 
 
 She darted towards the gate with an impulse of scorn 
 and wounded pride, but her action disclosed a nobility
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. ijl 
 
 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 imprudent 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 clinched 
 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 sombre as just 
 now he was confiding 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 momentary 
 eloquence, but on this occasion Mile, de Verneuil gave 
 no precise indication of her meaning, 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 escort
 
 172 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "Ah! you remind me. Shall I and my escort," asked 
 she, with a touch of irony, "will ycur protectors, 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 sincerity 
 and generosity that Mile, de Verneuil could not but feel 
 fully reassured as to the fate of the Republicans. 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 conversation 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 marquis offered his hand to Mile, de 
 Verneuil, and started briskly towards the house as if to 
 rid himself of an unwelcome companion. 
 
 "I am in their way," said the strange lady, remaining 
 motionless where she stood, and gazing at the two recon- 
 ciled lovers as they made their way slowly towards the 
 entrance-stairs, where they halted to talk as soon as they 
 had put a certain distance 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 anyone 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 moonlight 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
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHF/S. 
 
 173 
 
 itself. Madame du Gua 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 towards the Jwo lovers, who at 
 the moment had forgotten everything on earth. Then the 
 strange lady stepped forward with her finger on her lips 
 to insist on complete 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 satisfaction. 
 
 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 stairway, and cried, ""Tis the Gars! 'Tis he! Here 
 he is!" At this cry others ran up, and their presence 
 disturbed the lovers' talk. The Marquis of Montauran 
 advanced hastily towards 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 uniforms faced with red and the flashing 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 bitterly. "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
 
 174 THE CHOUANS, 
 
 in an inn at Alengon. 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 gajlantly presented his hand to Mile, de 
 Verneuil. 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 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 ramshackle 
 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 Vendan 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 all the chiefs, in consequence of a word 
 from Montauran, hastily hiding their maps, their arms,
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 175 
 
 and everything that could excite the suspicions of the 
 Republican officers; while some laid aside broad belts 
 which contained pistols and hangers. The marquis recom- 
 mended 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, endeavor- 
 ing to warm them, allowed Montauran to leave without 
 turning her head, and thus disappointed 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 one who did not turn round more than once to 
 examine the two strangers. 
 
 "You know Montauran," she said, "he fell in love with 
 the girl at first sight; and you can quite understand 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 Alen9on as well, have all 
 warned him of the snare that is being laid for him by 
 throwing some baggage 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 moreover been the subject of another 
 drama than this. But the attitude of inquisitiveness 
 which the company took soon became impertinent and
 
 176 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 almost hostile. Some harsh exclamations reached Fran- 
 cine's ear, and she, after whispering to her mistress, took 
 refuge in the embrasure of a window. Marie herself rose, 
 turned towards the insulting group, and cast on them 
 dignified and even scornful glances. Her beauty, her 
 elegant manners, and her haughtiness, suddenly changed 
 the disposition of her enemies, and gained her a flatter- 
 ing 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 modesty of her demeanor 
 inspired them with respect; no one dared to address her, 
 and she was 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 resemblance to the fancy portraits of them which 
 she had amused herself with drawing. The struggle, 
 great as it really was, shrunk and assumed mean propor- 
 tions 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 distinction in manner, 
 and the few characteristic heads which were notable 
 among them were robbed of grandeur by the formal eti-
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 
 
 177, 
 
 quette 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 
 magnificent simplicity to which she was accustomed 
 in the successful men of the Republic. This noc- 
 turnal assembly, held in the ruined fortalice, under gro- 
 tesque architectural devices which suited the faces well 
 enough, made her smile as she chose to see in it a pict- 
 ure 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 meagre person- 
 alities nothing but tools of his great designs. At this 
 moment the marquis' steps rang in the neighboring room; 
 the conspirators suddenly melted into separate groups, 
 and the whispering ceased. Like school-boys who had 
 been planning some trick during their master's absence, 
 they eagerly feigned good behavior and silence. Mon- 
 tauran entered, and Marie had the happiness of admiring 
 him among these men of whom he was the youngest, 
 the handsomest, the first. As a king does amidst hfs 
 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 at 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' Intimf), who, among all these 
 men assembled by matters of such grave interest, 
 12
 
 178 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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'Intim, 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 we have had, if I found her 
 to l)e one of the wantons 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 
 <^irl he sends against you at a street-corner? He has 
 proportioned her charms to your ability. But if you are 
 blind, your friends must keep their eyes open to watch 
 over you." 
 
 "Madame," answered the Gars, darting an angry glance 
 at her, "take care not to attempt anything against this
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 179 
 
 young person, or against her escort, otherwise nothing 
 shall save you from my vengeance. I will have the 
 young lady treated with the greatest respect, and as one 
 who belongs to me. We have, I believe, some co/inec- 
 tion with the Verneuils. " 
 
 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 Ver- 
 neuil very cavalierly, and had made believe that his pas- 
 sion for her was a mere caprice, he had just, in an 
 impulse of pride, taken a long step forward. After 
 making the lady's cause his, he found his honor con- 
 cerned in her being respectfully treated; so he went 
 from group to group giving assurances, after the fashion 
 of a man dangerous to cross, that the stranger was really 
 Mile, de Verneuil; and forthwith all murmurs were 
 silenced. When Montauran had reestablished a kind of 
 peace in the saloon and had satisfied all exigencies, he 
 drew near his mistress with an eager air, and whispered 
 to her: 
 
 "These people have deprived me of some minutes of 
 happiness. " 
 
 "I am glad to have you near me," answered she, laugh- 
 ing. "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 waistcoat?" 
 
 ' '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 I want to know? Do you call that a question?" 
 "But I cannot tell you without insulting you." 
 "As soon as you allow me to be insulted without
 
 UO THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 deceiving 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. Nevertheless, in my sit- 
 uation, when our allies in the Government 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 par- 
 doned for thinking 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 deceived me, and you dis- 
 believe 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 move- 
 ment: 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 
 \vith 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 "
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHF/S. l8l 
 
 "But without regret, and forever! " said he. 
 
 She reentered the room, and to hide his emotion the 
 marquis continued their conversation: "The 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 
 districts, 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, affrighted. 
 "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 princes' 
 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
 
 i8a 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 gamekeeper of the lady's defunct husband. He com- 
 mands 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 here- 
 abouts. " 
 
 "But she -who is she?"
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 183 
 
 "She, " continued the marquis, "she is the last mistress 
 that Charette had. She has great influence on all these 
 people. " 
 
 "Has she remained faithful to him?" 
 
 But the marquis made no other answer than a slight 
 grimace, expressing doubt. 
 
 "Do you think well of her?" 
 
 "Really, you are very inquisitive." 
 
 "She is my enemy, because she no longer can be my 
 rival," said Mile, de Verneuil, laughing. "I forgive her 
 her past slips; let her forgive me mine. And the officer 
 with the moustaches?" 
 
 "Pardon me if I do not name him. He wants to 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 will be famous." 
 
 "And you have come to take command of people like 
 that? " she said, with horror. "These are the King's defend- 
 ers ! 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 Repub- 
 lic, which threatens all monarchies 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 objection to 
 that. But allow me to think that you are the only noble 
 who does his 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."
 
 184 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "You will always be a Republican," said the marquis, 
 delightfully intoxicated by the glowing tones which con- 
 firmed 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 do 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 forgotten; 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 modesty; 
 "there are two new Vendean chiefs. The first, whom you 
 heard them call Grand-Jacques, is the Comte de Fon-
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 185 
 
 taine; the other is La Billardiere, whom I have pointed 
 out to you already." 
 
 "And do you forget Quiberon, where La Billardiere 
 played a very singular part?" said she, struck by a 
 sudden memory. 
 
 "La Billardiere took on himself a great deal of respon- 
 sibility; 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 indicating a reticence, 
 the mystery of which concerned him personally, "a single 
 instant is enough to destroy an illusion and to unveil 
 secrets on which the life and happiness of many men 
 depend She stopped herself, as if she feared to say 
 too much, 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 gen- 
 tleman. " 
 
 "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, respectfully 
 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 towards the 
 company, saw that there was a flutter among them, left 
 Mile, de Verneuil, and allowed Madame du Gua to come 
 and take his place by her side. This lady wore a mask 
 of laughing perfidy, which even the young chief's bitter
 
 l86 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 smile did not disturb. But at the same moment Fran- 
 cine uttered a cry which she herself promptly checked. 
 Mile, de Verneuil, astonished at seeing her faithful 
 country maid flying towards 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 towards the recess of the 
 window, whither her rival followed her, with the object 
 of removing the suspicions 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 flight, 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 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 regu- 
 lar 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 produced through the branches; but soon 
 a second head showed itself, and then others appeared in
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHft'S. 187 
 
 the distance, the small shrubs on 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 position 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 passing 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 towards 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 with- 
 out 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 carriage, 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 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 of 
 litter before 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
 
 l88 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 Dy the pole and Marche-a- 
 Terre pushed one of the wheels so smartly that Fran- 
 cine 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 passing 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 power over 
 him, and he stood for a moment as if bewitched. Fran- 
 cine 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 expression 
 which Francine had never known him to wear. The 
 Breton led his innocent mistress to the door-step, and 
 there turning her face towards the white blaze of the 
 moon, he answered, staring at her with a terrible look: 
 
 "Yes, Francine, I will tell you, by my damnation!
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHE'S. 
 
 189 
 
 but only when you have sworn on these beads," and he 
 drew an old rosary from underneath the goatskin, "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.
 
 IQO THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 Verneui]?-' 
 
 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 ter- 
 rible 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 savagery 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 carrion! 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 towards him with a caressing movement, and 
 said: "Pierre, what have we to do with all this? 
 Listen to me: I cannot tell how you can understand 
 anything of it, for I understand nothing! But remem- 
 ber that this fair and noble young lady is my benefac- 
 tress, 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 NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. IQI 
 
 and his face darkened. She took hold of his great flap- 
 ping 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 of 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 mistress, 
 "if you can manage to make her stay in the house;" and 
 he added, "Stay you by her there, and observe the deep- 
 est 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! " sfcid 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 they cast 
 mistrustful looks at the banks and the surrounding land- 
 scape. 
 
 "Bah!" said Merle, "we must either enter this old bar- 
 rack with confidence or not go in at all."
 
 IQ2 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "Let us go 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 
 
 3T...."' 
 
 and rye-bread to them. The marquis came to receive 
 the two officers, and conducted them to the saJoon; 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-Coeurs to him. 
 
 "You two are to explore the gardens between you, and
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S 193 
 
 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-Cceurs; and Gerard nodded. 
 
 "Look you, Clef-des-Coeurs, " 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-Coeurs. "Why, 
 can't you, the king of all sly fellows, guess 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 bayonet. 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 imagination 
 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 conversa- 
 tion, for Clef-des-Cceurs found he had no cartridge 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; 
 
 '3
 
 194 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 Francine had seen men 
 moving. All is chance in war. 
 
 As Gerard entered the saloon and bowed to the com- 
 pany, he cast a penetrating glance on the men of whom 
 that company was composed. His suspicions returned 
 upon his mind with greater strength than ever; he sud- 
 denly 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 officers were less anxious. 
 
 The company immediately went into the dining-room, 
 in spite of some casual mention of a somewhat 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 cir- 
 cumstances 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 seriously, 
 carry into the most critical incidents of life. One fact 
 suddenly struck her that the two Republican officers 
 dominated the whole company by the imposing character 
 of their 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
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 195 
 
 uniforms, with the worn red facings, even their epaulettes, 
 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 con- 
 trast between these martial figures and the company in 
 which they were. 
 
 "Ah! there is the nation, there is liberty! " thought she; 
 then, glancing at the Royalists, "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 com- 
 rade who makes a blunder. Gerard, on the other hand, 
 had a commanding presence, grave and cool. He seemed 
 to possess one of those truly Republican souls who at 
 the time thronged the French armies, and, inspiring them 
 with a spirit of devotion as noble as it was unobtrusive, 
 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, towards whom she turned, that she might 
 avenge herself by a fresh feeling of admiration 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 
 restoring a dead monarchy, a religion laid under interdict, 
 princes errant, and privileges out of date, she thought, 
 "He at least looks as far as the other, for, amid the ruins
 
 196 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 where he ensconces himself, he is striving to make a 
 future out of the past." 
 
 Her mind, feeding full on fancies, wavered between the 
 new ruins and the old. Her conscience indeed warned her 
 one man was righting 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 reason- 
 ing 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 Republicans the sign 
 which he made desiring the new-comer to be silent and 
 join the feast. As the two officers studied the counte- 
 nances of their hosts, the suspicions which they had first 
 entertained revived. 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 exaggerated, 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 indis- 
 creetly 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, and 
 they were confined to eye-language. Their situation 
 made it imperative that they should behave warily, for 
 they knew not whether they were masters of the chateau
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHI'.'S. IQ7 
 
 or had fallen into an ambuscade whether Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil was the dupe or the accomplice of this puzzling 
 adventure. But an unforeseen event hastened the catas- 
 trophe before they had had time to estimate its full grav- 
 ity. The new guest was one of those high-complexioned 
 persons, squarely built throughout, who lean back as 
 they walk, who seem to make a commotion in the air 
 around them, and who think that everyone 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, dis- 
 trust good fortune with a great deal of shrewdness, and 
 take extraordinary pains to get themselves 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 equivocal story. He leaned towards his neigh- 
 bor'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 inflict a mortal
 
 ig8 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 wound. The Vendan and Chouan chiefs turned their 
 glances with merciless curiosity on the Marquis of Mon- 
 tauran, 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 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 them at Marie, who was 
 watching the struggle, and received a deadly glance. 
 
 "I would give my life," said he in a low 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 sarcasm. 
 
 "You do not need them at table," said the marquis coldly. 
 
 "No; 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 Pilgrim! " 
 
 * The text has here en rcparaissnnt , "re-appearing." It has not been said that 
 Gerard had left the room, nor could he well have done so. The words are probably 
 an oversight. Translator's Aote.
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 1 99 
 
 The assembly was struck dumb; but at the same 
 moment a volley, discharged with a regularity appall- 
 ing to the officers, crashed out in the court-yard. They 
 darted to the entrance steps, and thence they saw some 
 hundred Chouans 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 
 Chouans 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, repeating 
 the words which the Republican 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 strip- 
 ping the dead with incredible rapidity. "I was right in 
 telling you that your soldiers would not reach the Pil- 
 grim," 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 towards 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, corresponded with the secret 
 wishes of his heart. In his fury he would have anni- 
 hilated France itself, and the murdered Blues, with the 
 two officers who were still alive, though all were inno- 
 cent of the crime for which he was demanding vengeance,
 
 200 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 were in his hands like the cards which a desperate game- 
 ster 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 mystery 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 Gerard in 
 a tone of disdain. 
 
 "Nonsense! " said the marquis. 
 
 "Parricide!" cried the Republican. 
 
 "Regicide!" returned the other. 
 
 "What!" said Merle, merrily enough, "are you seizing 
 the moment of your death to bandy arguments? " 
 
 "You say well," said Gerard, coolly, turning once 
 more towards the marquis. "Sir, if it is your intention 
 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, nred, and the adjutant-major fell like a 
 tree. Marche a-Terre ran forward to share this new 
 boot\' with Pille-Miche, and they wrangled and grumbled 
 lil-i :. tv/o hungry ravens over the still warm corpse. 
 
 ' It you wish to finish your supper, captain, you are
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfc'S. 2OI 
 
 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 marquis, saying in a low tone, as if reproaching 
 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. Mean- 
 while 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 cham- 
 pion, might reasonably 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, with the calmness of 
 smothered fury, "came to carry off the Gars from us. 
 She came to try and give him up to the Republic! " 
 
 "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 trimmings, the corset, 
 the shift, nay, even made the most of this search so as 
 to slake her jealous hatred, and so ardently and cruelly
 
 202 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 mauled the panting breast of her rival that she left on 
 it the bloody traces of her nails, feeling a delight in sub- 
 jecting her to so vile a profanation. As Marie feebly 
 attempted 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 cal- 
 lous 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 creat- 
 ure?" 
 
 "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 Vendan lady, "is an 
 order, signed 'Laplace,' and countersigned 'Dubois. ' " At 
 these names some persons raised their heads in atten- 
 tion. "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 where 
 the ci-devant Marquis de Montauran, brigand-chief, surnamed 
 the Gars, may be found, are to afford succor and help to the 
 citizcness Marie Vcrneuil, and to obey any orders which she 
 may give tliem, 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 Republic employs such
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 
 
 203 
 
 pretty women against us! " 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, mad- 
 emoiselle has resources which must bring her in a plen- 
 teous income! " 
 
 "The Republic must be in very merry mood to send 
 ladies of pleasure to lay traps for us! " cried Abbe Gudin. 
 
 "But, unluckily, mademoiselle looks for pleasures 
 which kill," said Madame du Gua, with an expression of 
 hideous joy, which denoted the end of her jokes. 
 
 "How is it, then, that you are still alive, madame?" 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 
 3'ou. Do with her whatever you like." 
 
 As she spoke the word "whatever," the company shud- 
 dered, for the frightful heads of Pille-Miche and Marche- 
 a-Terre showed themselves behind the marquis, and the 
 meaning of the intended punishment appeared in all its 
 horror. 
 
 Francine remained standing, her hands clasped, her 
 eyes streaming, as if thunderstruck. But Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil, who in the face of danger recovered all her presence 
 of mind, cast a look of disdain at the assembly, repos- 
 sessed herself of the letter which Madame du Gua held, 
 raised her head, and with eyes dry, but flashing fire, 
 darted to the door where stood Merle's sword. Here she
 
 204 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 met the marquis, cold and motionless as a statue. 
 There was no plea in her favor on his face with its fixed 
 and rigid features. Struck to the heart, she felt life 
 become hateful. So, then, the man who had shown her 
 such affection had just listened to the jeers which had been 
 heaped upon her, and had remained an unmoved witness 
 
 +U, 
 
 of the outrage she had suffered when those beauties 
 which a woman keeps as the privilege of love had been 
 subjected to the common gaze. She might perhaps have 
 pardoned Montauran for his contemptuous feelings; she 
 was indignant at having been seen by him in a posture of 
 disgrace. She darted at him a glance full of half-irra- 
 tional hatred, and felt terrible desires of vengeance spring- 
 ing up in her heart. With death dogging her steps, her 
 impotence choked her. As it were a whirlwind of mad- 
 ness rose to her brain, her boiling blood made her see
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 
 
 205 
 
 everything around in the glare of a conflagration; and 
 then, instead of killing herself, she seized the sword, 
 flourished it at the marquis, 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 astonishment, and 
 went forth, shutting the door after him. When he 
 reached the entrance steps he was still holding the girl's 
 wrist and clutching it convulsively, 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 vengeance 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 without 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. Neither of these lofty 
 spirits would bend. The marquis perhaps expected tears ; 
 but the girl's eyes remained proudly dry. He turned 
 brusquely away, leaving Pille-Miche his victim.
 
 206 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "Marquis! " she said, "God will hear me, and I shall 
 pray Him to give you a happy day without a morrow! " 
 
 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 unintelli- 
 gible to the actors in this tragedy; and they all looked at 
 him with surprise, their looks questioning each other. 
 Merle observed the Chouans' astonishment, and still keep- 
 ing 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, Montauran 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, smil- 
 ing: 
 
 "Come, let us excuse him the dessert." 
 
 "You are very severe in your revenge, madame, " said 
 the captain. "You forget my murdered friend, who is 
 waiting for me. I bide tryst." 
 
 "Captain," said the marquis, throwing his glove to
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 307 
 
 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 quarter from me. 
 Clever as you may be, you are not Gerard's equal, and 
 though your head will never make amends to me for his, 
 I must have it, and I will have it." 
 
 "Why was he in such a hurry?" retorted the marquis. 
 
 "Farewell! I could have drunk with my own execu- 
 tioners, 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 alder- 
 men, the doctors, the lawyers, who govern the Repub- 
 lic?" said the Gars coolly. 
 
 "God's death! marquis," answered the Count de Bau- 
 van, "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, during 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 pro- 
 tection. 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
 
 2O8 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 but the far-off laughter of the Chouans, who were drink- 
 ing in the gardens while sharing their booty. He vent- 
 ured 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." 
 
 "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 the waters of the 
 lake, and they recognized feminine outlines whose ele- 
 gance, 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 discus- 
 s-ion. 
 
 "They are more than one! " cried the captain. "Never 
 mind; let us go." 
 
 "You will get yourself killed to no profit," said Fran- 
 cine. 
 
 "I have died once to-day already," answered he, 
 lightly. And both bent their steps towards the dark 
 gate-way behind which the scene was passing. In the 
 midst of the way Francine halted. 
 
 "Xo! I will go no farther!" said she gently. "Pierre 
 told me not to meddle. I know him; and we shall spoil
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 
 
 209 
 
 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 outside 
 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. 
 
 "/won't give you your life. Ave Maria!" 
 
 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, say- 
 ing: "The good thing about these ghosts is that they 
 come alive again with their clothes on." But when he 
 saw, after the captain's gesture of showing the chief's 
 glove, this sacred passport in his hand, he stood dumb- 
 founded. "I would I were not in the skin of my mother's 
 son! " he cried, and vanished 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, Pille-Miche was dragging 
 off his vicitm, just as he would have hauled after him 
 any worthless burden. Marie, with streaming hair and 
 bowed head, turned her eyes towards the lake; but, held 
 14
 
 2IO THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 quietly, 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?" 
 
 "1 will try; but stay you there, and do not budge." 
 
 Marche-a-Terre' s arm was at once released, and Fran- 
 cine, 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 to get 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:
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfe's. 211 
 
 "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 Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil, 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 pris- 
 oner towards 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 car- 
 riage to be?" said Pille-Miche, thinking better of it. 
 
 "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 character. 
 
 "But suppose there is gold in the carriage?" 
 
 * Balzac has put 'some jargon in Pille-Miche's mouth. He is said to have 
 written Les Chouans on the spot; but quicn, itou, etc., are not, I think, Breton, and are 
 suspiciously identical with the words jn the famous /Wo/V-scenes in Molirre's Don 
 Juan. Translator's Note.
 
 212 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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, returned 
 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. 
 
 "O ho! " cried he, "Pille-Miche has struck a foul blow 
 there! He is not sure of living on his annuity!" He 
 tore the glove away, and said to Mile, de Verneuil, who 
 had already taken her place in the coach by Francine' s
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 2 1 5. 
 
 side, "Here! take this glove. If anyone attacks you on 
 the way, cry 'Oh! the 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 nqw?" answered 
 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 wait- 
 ing for a reply. 
 
 The Chouan had no sooner gone than a voice, which 
 seemed to come from the pond, cried in a low tone, 
 "Madame! madame! " 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 himself. 
 
 "Let me get up on your coach-box, or I am a dead man," 
 said he. "That damned glass of cider x that Clef-des- 
 Coeurs 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 discus- 
 sion, which was enlivened by frequent libations of Bor- 
 deaux, became of serious importance towards the end of 
 the meal. At dessert, when a common plan of opera- 
 tions had been arranged, the Royalists drank to the
 
 214 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 health of the Bourbons; and just 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 Repub- 
 Hc. Madame du Gua started; and at the motion, caused 
 by her delight at thinking herself relieved of her rival, 
 the company looked at each 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, M. de Fon- 
 taine. He will bore us to extinction 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 veil 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 sombre 
 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 eight of them amused themselves with 
 tying stones to the corpses of the Blues, and throwing them 
 into the water. This spectacle, added to the various 
 pictures made up by the strange costume 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 Vendean troops some approach to 
 nobility and discipline, that he seized the occasion to 
 say to the Marquis of Montauran :
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHE'S. 
 
 215 
 
 "What do you hope to make of brutes like these?" 
 
 "Nothing much you think, my dear count?" answered 
 the Gars. 
 
 "Will they ever be able to manoeuvre in 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 
 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'Autichamp, Suzan- 
 het, 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 thou- 
 sand men and General Brunei " 
 
 "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 Hedouville, the friend of our 
 friend Barras, takes his place here. Do you understand 
 me?" 
 
 When he heard the marquis speak thus, M. de Fon- 
 taine looked at him with an arch and meaning air, which 
 seemed to reproach with not himself understanding the 
 hidden sense of the words addressed to him. The two 
 gentlemen from this moment understood each other per-
 
 2l6 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 fectly ; but the young chief answered the thoughts thus 
 expressed by 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, say- 
 ing: "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 sacrifice?" 
 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! " 
 
 They parted, the Vendean convinced of the necessity 
 of letting events take their course, and keeping his 
 beliefs in his heart; La Billardiere to return to Eng- 
 land, 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 Verneuil's 
 soul with so many emotions that she dropped exhausted, 
 and as it were dead, in the corner of the carriage, after 
 giving the order to drive to Fougeres. Francine imi- 
 tated her mistress' silence, and the postilion, who was 
 in dread of some new adventure, 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 spa- 
 cious valley of the Couesnon, where our story began, and
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 217 
 
 
 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. Her- 
 self perished with cold, she thought of the poor soldier 
 
 who 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 rev- 
 erie; and besides, since the guard at the gate of Saint 
 Leonard refused to allow unknown persons to enter the
 
 2l8 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 de la Poste. 
 
 "Madame," said the Blue whom she had rescued, "if 
 you ever want a sabre 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, sur- 
 named the Mayen9aise. Excuse my presumption, but I 
 can only offer you a sergeant' s life, since, for the moment, 
 I have nothing else to put at your service." He turned 
 on his heel and went his way, whistling. 
 
 "The lower one goes in society," said Marie bitterly, 
 "the less of ostentation one finds, and the more of gener- 
 ous sentiment: a marquis returns me death for life; a 
 sergeant but there, enough of this! " 
 
 When the beautiful Parisian had bestowed herself in 
 a well -warmed bed, her faithful Francine expected, in 
 vain, her usual affectionate good-night; but her mistress, 
 seeing her uneasy, and still standing, 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, Corentin pre- 
 sented 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 repugnance which 
 two years' acquaintance had not been able to check.
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfc's. 2IQ 
 
 "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 expression, 
 "say nothing to me about this matter till I speak of it 
 myself." 
 
 He walked up and down the room, casting sidelong 
 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 times, the cleverest men. 'I fore- 
 saw your defeat," he went on, after a minute's silence. 
 "If it pleases you to make your headquarters 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 
 Corentin to guess with partial truth the events of the 
 night before. 
 
 "I have hired you a house which has been confiscated, 
 but not sold. They are much behindhand in this country, 
 and nobody dared to buy the place, 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 yu may find them to your taste." 
 
 "What does it matter?" said she. "I could live, with- 
 out minding it, in a cloister or a prison. Nevertheless, 
 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 
 
 * Corentin says ma paole d' honneu, using the lisp which was one of the numer- 
 ous affectations of the incroyables. Translator's Note.
 
 220 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 no doubt 
 slowly expelled her impressions of the day before, and 
 reflection determined her on vengeance. If, now and 
 then, some sombre 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 noth- 
 ing 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. Fran- 
 cine'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 
 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 
 but 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 clays I do not find, stretched at my feet in abject 
 humility, this man who has scorned me if I do not make
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi'S. 221 
 
 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 consult 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 towards his mistress, or, 
 better still, with the obsequiousness of a man of impor- 
 tance 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 
 uncomfortable 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 furniture, which she at 
 once appropriated as if they had been old favorites; 
 traits common enough, but still not to be rejected in 
 painting exceptional characters. She seemed as though 
 she had already been familiar with this abode in 
 dreams, and she subsisted on hatred there as she might 
 have subsisted in the same place on love. 
 
 "At any rate," said she to herself, "I have not excited 
 "n 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 Francine. "Are you 
 in love? Yes! yes! I remember that you are. Ah! it 
 is lucky for me that I have beside me a woman who can 
 enter info my feelings. Well, my poor Francine, does 
 not man seem to you a horrible creature? Eh? He said
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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, / 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 min- 
 ute. "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 countenance 
 was stern. It was Hulot, and Corentin accompanied 
 him. She raised her eyes, and shuddered. 
 
 "Have you come," she said, "to demand account of 
 your friends? They are dead! " 
 
 "I know it," answered Hulot; "but it was not in the 
 Republic's service." 
 
 "It was for my sake, and by my fault," she replied. 
 "You are about to speak to me of the country. Does 
 the country restore life to those who die for her? Does 
 she even avenge them? I shall avenge these! " she 
 cried. The mournful image of the catastrophe of which 
 she had been 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 towards the astonished commandant. 
 
 "In return for these massacred soldiers I will bring to
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfi's. 223 
 
 the axe of your scaffolds a head worth thousands cf 
 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, commandant, I will lure this young noble into 
 my embraces, 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 continued, in a 
 voice whose strange 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 vio- 
 lently as she spoke the last words ; they seemed to echo 
 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 veil 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.
 
 224 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 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
 
 A NOTION OF KOUCHfi'S. 225 
 
 danger," she said, disdainfully dismissing from her 
 presence the tow men, whose sight struck her with 
 shame. 
 
 "What a woman!" said Hulot, as he "went out with 
 Corentin. "^ "What a notion it was of those police fel- 
 lows 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?" rejoined Hulot. 
 
 "That is exactly the reason. Besides," said Corentin, 
 fixing his eyes on the astonished commandant, "I am 
 here to prevent 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 baptism of fire!" 
 
 The massacre at the Vivetiere, and his own eager- 
 ness to avenge his two friends, had been as influential 
 in making Hulot resume command of his demi-brigade 
 as the answer in which a new minister, Berthier, had 
 assured him that his resignation could not be accepted 
 under the circumstances. With the ministerial dis- 
 patch there had come a confidential note, in which, with- 
 out informing him fully of Mile, de Verneuil's mission, 
 the minister wrote that the incident, which lay quite out- 
 15
 
 226 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 side 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 honor- 
 able citizeness such assistance as opportunity afforded." 
 Therefore, as it was reported to him that the Chouan 
 movements indicated a concentration of their forces on 
 Fougeres, 1 Hulot had secretly brought up, by forced 
 marches, two battalions of his demi-brigade to this 
 
 important place. The danger his country ran, his hatred 
 of aristocracy, whose partisans were threatening a great 
 extent of ground, and his private friendship, had com- 
 bined to restore to the old soldier the fire of his youth. 
 "And this is the life I longed to lead!" said Mile, de 
 Verneuil, when she found herself alone with Francine. 
 "I3e the hours as s\vift as they may, they are to me as 
 centuries in thought."
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHfe's. 227 
 
 Suddenly she caught Francine's hand, and in atone like 
 that of the robin which first gives tongue after a storm, 
 slowly uttered these words: "I cannot 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?" 
 
 She drew a long sigh, rose, and then for the first time 
 bent her eyes on the country whic4i was being delivered 
 over to civil war by the cruel nobleman whom, without 
 allies, she designed to attack. Enticed 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 
 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 unexplained but real, which 
 the passions find always at their service, like a flatterer 
 who, amid his falsehoods, sometimes speaks the truth.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 A S the concluding events of this history 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 schistous 
 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 
 towards the same landscape which is enjoyed from the 
 summit of the Pilgrim; and the western commands no 
 view but the winding valley of the Nancon. But ihere is 
 a spot whence it is possible to take in a segment 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 prome- 
 nade, and to which Mile, de Verneuil was making her 
 way, was the precise stage on which 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 side, we may 
 
 228
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 22Q 
 
 compare it to one of those huge towers round which 
 Saracen architects have wound, tier above tier, wide 
 balconies connected with others by spiral staircases. 
 The rock culminates in a Gothic church, whose steeple, 
 smaller spirelets, and buttresses, almost exactly complete 
 the sugar-loaf shape. Before the gate of this church, 
 which is dedicated to Saint Leonard, there is a small, 
 irregularly shaped square, the earth of which is held up 
 by a wall thrown into the form of a balustrade, and com- 
 municating 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 Nan9on 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 towards the great valley, wherein 
 they curve sharply towards the north. These rocks, steep, 
 barren, and bare, seem almost to touch the schists of the 
 promenade; 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.
 
 230 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 Towards the south, at the spot where the town, prop- 
 erly so called, ends and the Faubourg Saint Leonard begins, 
 the rock of Fougeres makes a bend, grows less scarped, 
 diminishes in height, and winds into the great valley, 
 following the course of the river, which it thus pushes 
 close to the hills of 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 Prevalaye butter. 
 
 At the spot where the promenade abuts on the fortifi- 
 cations there rises a tower called the Papegaut's Tower, 
 and on the other side of this square building (on the 
 summit of which is the house where Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil was lodged), there rises sometimes a stretch of 
 wall, sometimes the rock itself, when it happens to pre- 
 sent a sheer face; and the part of the town which is 
 seated on this impregnable 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 Nanfon. 
 There lies the gate of Saint Sulpice, leading to the 
 faubourg of the same name. Then, on a granite tor 
 commanding three valleys where many roads meet, rise 
 the ancient crenelated towers of the feudal castle of 
 Fougeres, one of the hugest of the buildings 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 Nan9on 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 tiie scarped masses of granite on which it rests. 
 
 Thus from the walks to this splendid relic of the
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 231 
 
 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 cur- 
 tains 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 boulders project like ornaments; 
 elsewhere water drips from cracks out of which issue 
 stunted trees. Further off, slabs of granite, at a less 
 sharp angle than the others, support grass which attracts 
 the goats. And everywhere the briars, springing from 
 moist crevices, festoon the black and rugged surface 
 with rosy garlands. At the end of what looks like a 
 huge funnel the little stream winds in its meadow of per- 
 petual greenery, softly disposed like a carpet.
 
 232 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 At the foot of the castle, and amidst some knolls of 
 granite, rises the church dedicated to Saint Sulpice, 
 which gives its name to the suburb on the other side of 
 the Nan$on. 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 hamlet, are picturesquely 
 watered by some affluents of the Nanon, 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 amphitheatre which they front. 
 Finally, the whole of Fougeres, with its suburbs and 
 churches, with the hills of Saint Sulpice themselves, is 
 framed in by the heights of Rille, which form part of 
 the general fringe of the great valley of the Couesnon. 
 
 Such are the most prominent features of this natural 
 panorama, whose main character is that of savage wild- 
 ness, softened here and there by smiling passages, by a 
 happy mixture of the most imposing works of man with 
 the freaks of a soil tormented by unlooked-for contrasts, 
 and distinguished by an unexpectedness which produces 
 surprise, astonishment, 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 clear, limpid, running 
 waters; mountains clothed with the luxuriant vegeta- 
 tion of the district; dark rocks and gay buildings: 
 
 * The French illustrated text has doc ties, a misprint, and nonsense. The older 
 L-ditions read, properly, roches. Translator's Note.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 233 
 
 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 population swarms; and desert spaces, where the 
 granite will not even tolerate the blanched mosses which 
 are wont to cling to stone in short, all the suggestions 
 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 and 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 
 the Nancon, 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 sloping 
 street which skirts the church and leads to the gate of 
 Saint Leonard, towards which Mile, de Verneuil 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 towards 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 Vitrj road. Then she rested them on the
 
 234 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 Nid-au-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 depth of the 
 Nanon 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 Rill. 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 visi- 
 ble as if through a bluish canopy. The garish tints of 
 \iay began to fade; the firmament became pearl-gray in 
 cVlor; the moon threw her mantle of light over the beau- 
 tiful 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 Nan$on 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 Sul- 
 pice. 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 distinguish, despite their goatskin garments, 
 several of the guests at the Vivetiere. The Gars, whose 
 least movements stood out against the soft light of sun-
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 335 
 
 set, was particularly conspicuous. A few paces behind 
 the principal group she saw her formidable foe, Madame 
 du Gua. For an instant Mile, de Verneuil thought she 
 must be dreaming, but her rival's hate soon gave her 
 proof that the dream was alive. Her rapt attention to 
 the marquis' slightest gesture prevented her from observ- 
 ing that Madame du Gua was carefully taking aim at her 
 with a long fowling-piece. Soon a gunshot -woke the 
 echoes of the mountain, and the bullet whistling close 
 to Marie showed her her rival's skill. 
 
 "She leaves her card upon me! " said she to herself, 
 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 her- 
 self on her way to the seat of war, like those pleasant 
 folk who equip themselves with note-books to receive 
 their impressions 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
 
 236 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 servants, 
 and, with the presence of mind which passion some- 
 times 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. Judg- 
 ing from the direction of his telescope, he appeared to 
 be examining with a soldier's careful scrutiny the differ- 
 ent crossings over the Nan9on, 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 Stair- 
 case, arrived at the bottom of the cliff, crossed the 
 Nanon, 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 overtook her at the moment when, hav- 
 ing 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 237 
 
 The exertion which passion had enabled 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 vibrat- 
 ing in the air as though to enable her to take sad meas- 
 ure 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 appearance 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 she had a distinct view of the Papegaut's 
 Tower. The distance which she must travel in order to 
 return to it was nothing; but the road was a precipice. 
 She had a good enough memory of the depths bordering 
 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 adventure. 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 towards 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.
 
 238 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 every- 
 thing, 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, curi- 
 ous 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 them. They rose from the bosom of the 
 earth, which seemed shaken under the feet of a vast multi- 
 tude 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 picture full of yellow, flash- 
 ing eyes. She started briskly backwards and ran to the 
 top of a slope, so as to escape three of the terrible 
 shapes who were coming towards her. 
 
 "Did you see him?" asked one. 
 
 I felt a cold blast as he passed near me," answered 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 belong to
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 239 
 
 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 Verneuil, who 
 fled with terrifying speed, and without their hearing the 
 least noise. 
 
 "He is there!" "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 direction 
 of the house, and saw the indistinct forms of a multi- 
 tude 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 influence was too much for 
 her; and the lightness of her body, which seemed inex- 
 plicable, became a new subject of alarm to herself. 
 These forms, 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 
 difficult} 7 , 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 echoing all over the country. She 
 could see a large range of buildings where some lights 
 ndicated inhabited rooms, and she reached the walls 
 without finding any obstacle. Through the very first
 
 240 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 window to which she bent her steps, she saw Madame 
 dii Gua with the chiefs who had been assembled at the 
 Vivetiere. Losing her self-command, partly at the sight, 
 parti}' 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, melancholy, and close to her. The 
 reflections of the fire, before which he was sitting in a 
 clumsy chair, threw on his face ruddy flickers which 
 gave the whole scene the character of a vision. Trem- 
 bling, but otherwise motionless, the poor girl clung 
 close to the bars, and in the deep silence which pre- 
 vailed she hoped to hear him if he spoke. As she saw 
 him dejected, discouraged, pale, she flattered herself 
 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, cle 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 casement, 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, nothing 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 
 reading once more in letters of fire the words "He 
 despises you!" which were written on the man's fore- 
 head, and which her inner vcice shouted to her, as she 
 went, with trumpet sound. After going she knew not
 
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 24! 
 
 whither, she stopped, feeling a damp air penetrate her 
 being. Frightened at the steps of more persons lhan 
 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 distin- 
 guish 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 dis- 
 covered her retreat ; and her desire to escape them gave her 
 new strength. She could not easily explain to herself, 
 when shortly afterwards she collected 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 inflicted on her. But the cramp became unbear- 
 able before long; for she looked, under a vaulted arch, 
 like a statue of the ciouching Venus stuck by an ama- 
 teur in too narrow a niche. The wall, which was pretty 
 wide and built of granite, formed a partition between 
 the stairway 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 turn- 
 ing under the vaulting without giving 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 endeavors to reach a cer- 
 tain part of the wall by a violent succession of move- 
 ments, 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. 
 16
 
 242 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 Despite the romantic gloom which Mile, de Verneuil's 
 imagination shed upon the vaults as they reechoed the 
 sounds of dolorous supplication, she could not help 
 perceiving the plain fact that she was in an underground 
 kitchen, 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, but 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 Ver- 
 neuil's feelings that she forgot her own terror, her de- 
 spair, and the horrible cramped position of her limbs, 
 which were stiffening from being doubled up. She did 
 all she could to remain 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 recog- 
 nized the cunning Pille-Miche, to whom her rival had 
 delivered her up, and whose face, with the flame flicker- 
 ing 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 properly when he warms himself!"
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 243 
 
 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, 
 Monsieur d'Orgemont! 
 They have all gone to 
 bed upstairs, and Marche- 
 a-Terre is coming after 
 me. He will shut the 
 cellar door." 
 
 As he spoke, Pille- 
 Miche sounded with his 
 
 put his gold. 
 
 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 
 frL.,11. t h e m i ser had 
 
 The search was conducted with such skill
 
 244 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 that d'Orgemont held his breath, as if he feared to have 
 been betrayed by some frightened servant; for, though 
 he had not made a confidant of anyone, his ways of life 
 might have given occasion to shrewd inferences. From 
 time to time Pille-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 
 someone who has hidden a given object, whether they are 
 "warm" or "cold. " D' Orgemont pretended a certain 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 Chouans, 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 Dieu was his private property." 
 
 "Yes! But," said Mene-a-Bien, "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 Abb Gudin says that he 
 will have to wait for two months as a ghost before com- 
 ing back really and truly. We all of us saw him pass 
 before us pale, and cold, and unsubstantial, and smell- 
 ing of the graveyard." 
 
 "And his reverence says, that if the ghost can get hold 
 of anyone, he will carry him off as his mate," added the 
 fourth Chouan. This last speaker's grotesque figure 
 distracted Marche-a-Terre from the religious musings
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 245 
 
 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 neophyte, 
 with some gravity, "what are the consequences of the 
 slightest shortcoming in the duties ordered by our holy 
 religion. Saint Anne of Auray bids us have no mercy 
 for the smallest faults 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 peo- 
 ple 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, ask your pardon, Master Marche-a-Terre, " replied 
 Galope-Chopine, "has it not happened to you more than 
 once to believe that Anti-Chf/my are Cht/ins?" 
 
 "My friend," said Marche-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
 
 246 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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, point- 
 ing to d'Orgemont, who pretended to be asleep; but 
 both Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche himself 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 from Marche-a-Terre, Pille-Miche took off 
 d'Orgemont'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 himself took one 
 of the cords that had bound the fagot and tied the 
 miser's feet to the pot-hook. These combined^ proceed- 
 ings, and their incredible swiftness, made the victim 
 utter cries which became heartrending when Pille-Miche 
 brought the coals together under his legs. 
 
 "My friends! my good friends!" cried d'Orgemont: 
 "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, 1 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.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 2 4 7 
 
 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'Orgemont 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 yet caught the skin; and they poked
 
 248 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 the coals very artistically, so as to make them 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 thousand? A 
 hundred thousand? I offer two hundred 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 lis- 
 tened with undistracted attention to the confession 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 Chouans looked at each other, considering 
 which of them could be trusted to go and unearth 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 preserve her from danger, she 
 boldly cried in a deep-toned voice: "Do you not fear 
 the wrath of God? Untie him, savages!"
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 249 
 
 The 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, drawing her dagger, 
 cut the bonds with which he was 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 sounded 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 reentered the cellar, 
 the heavy door of the hiding-place had already noise- 
 lessly closed. Then the Parisian girl understood the 
 carp-like wrigglings which she had seen the luckless 
 banker make. 
 
 "There, madame!" 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 com- 
 panion heard the Chouans whispering "Ava Sancta 
 Anna Auriaca gratia plena, Dominus tecttm" etc. 
 
 "The fools are praying!" cried d'Orgemont. 
 
 "Are you not afraid," said Mile, de Verneuil inter- 
 rupting her companion, "of discovering our
 
 350 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 
 towards 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
 
 A DA-JT WITHOUT A MORROW 25 1 
 
 followers; she knows well enough that if they were less 
 brutishly ignorant, they would not 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 interest 
 it comes to a good four thousand seven hundred and 
 eighty, besides centimes." 
 
 Their prayer finished, the Chouans rose and went out. 
 
 But old d'Orgemont clutched Mile, de Verneuil's hand, 
 to warn her that there was still danger. 
 
 "No, madame!" 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, madame, 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 skinflint might very 
 well have spent some thousands of livres on making 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
 
 252 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 mortgage as security. But there ! you see how grateful 
 she is. Come, madame, 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 undiscoverable quantity." 
 
 He heaved a hollow sigh which was a characteristic 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'Orge- 
 mont, who seized his deliverer's hand to help her in 
 climbing 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 towards 
 his companion, gazed at her face as he would have scru- 
 tinized, handled, and rehandled 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! leave me here. I ask nothing of you," she said. 
 
 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 closet, four 
 feet square, lighted by a lamp which hung from the 
 vaulting. It was easy to see that the miser had made
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 253 
 
 all his arrangements for spending 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 considerable 
 haste he thrust his hand between the young girl's shawl 
 and the wall, which seemed to have just been re-whit- 
 ened. But the old miser's gesture produced an effect 
 
 quite contrary to that which he intended. Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil 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'Orge- 
 mont imposed silence on her with a terrifying look, but 
 his little china-blue eyes showed as much alarm as his 
 companion's.
 
 254 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 I know not; but look you, these 
 priests have a habit of kneeling from time 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 thenceforward to the 
 young girl. She averted her eyes out of secret reverence 
 for his sorrow; but in spite of his emotion, d'Orgemont 
 repeated, "Don't go near the wall, you will " 
 
 Nor did his eyes take themselves off those of Mile, de 
 Verneuil, as though he hoped thus to prevent her 
 bestowing more particular attention on the side walls of 
 the closet, where the air, half exhausted, 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 perceiving a 
 human being in the midst of his treasures, were legible 
 in every wrinkle; but at the same time his dried-up
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 255 
 
 eyes expressed by their unaccustomed lustre the liberal 
 passion which was caused in him by the dangerous 
 vicinity of his deliveress, 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 think- 
 ing 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 sar- 
 castic glance which at once vexed and pleased him, 
 "money is nothing to me. You would be thrice as rich 
 as you are if all the money I have refused were there." 
 
 "Don't touch the w ! " 
 
 "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 displaced 
 with a finger touch a small colored print of Louis XV.
 
 256 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 on horseback, and suddenly saw beneath her the marquis, 
 who was busily loading a blunderbuss. 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 general's bedroom. D'Orgemont, with extreme 
 precaution, pushed the old print back and looked sternly 
 at the damsel. 
 
 "Speak not a word, if you love your life! You have 
 cast your grappling," whispered he after a pause, "on a 
 pretty vessel enough. Do you know that the Marquis of 
 Montauran has a hundred thousand livres a year in lease 
 holds which have not yet been sold? Now, a consular 
 decree which I have read in the Ille-et-Vilaine Sunday 
 Times* has just put a stop to sequestrations. 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 glances had gained animation as 
 she heard the well-known voice sound once more. Since 
 she had been in her present situation, standing, 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," she 
 was sa} r ing 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." 
 
 * In original "Primidi de 1'Ille-et-Vilaine," Primidi being the first day in each 
 decade of that Republican calendar which was one of the oddest recorded childish- 
 nesses of democracy. Translator's Note.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 257 
 
 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 enough to know that without a 
 general assembly of our party, 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 exam- 
 ination of their countenances, 
 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 aveng- 
 ing herself there. 
 
 "Do you think I am a fool 
 that you preach to me against 
 dancing?" went on Montauran. 
 "Would you not yourself figure 
 in a chaconne with all the good 
 will in the world to get reestabl ished under your new name 
 of Peres de la Foi ? Can you be ignorant that Bretons go 
 straight from the mass to the dance? Can you be igno- 
 rant 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 getting ready now to try so rash a coup de main, my 
 sole reason is that I may throw the weight of our hob- 
 nailed shoes in the scale of this negotiation. Can you
 
 258 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 be ignorant that all the Vendean chiefs, 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 devo- 
 tion. Only, Abbe, if I have dipped my foot in blood, I 
 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 Abb Gudin, "of 
 abbes who take tithes on the highway to maintain the 
 war! " 
 
 "Why should I not say it?" answered the marquis 
 sharply; "I will say more: the heroic age of La Ven- 
 dee 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, mitre on head, at 
 the King's coronation." 
 
 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 cartridges in my pocket, 
 and my life is the King's!" 
 
 "There is another of my debtors," said the rniser 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 will be paid some day. The 
 
 * The plan of roasting the feet of those who were supposed to conceal treasure 
 was common enough; but English has no single word for it like chauffeurs. Trans- 
 lator's Note.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 259 
 
 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 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-bye as they did last time, by setting fire to the 
 house. " 
 
 Some half-hour later (during which time Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil 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 quitted, 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
 
 2&O THE ChOUANS. 
 
 need of a safe resting-place. Mark well what I am 
 going to 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 Bar- 
 bette 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-bye! 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 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 Fou- 
 geres 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 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 chim- 
 ney." Then he took a twelve-pound loaf and a ham, and 
 went back to his hiding-place. 
 
 When Mile, de Verneuil stepped out in the open coun- 
 try 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 burning atmosphere. She 
 tried to find the path which the miser had indicated, but 
 since nionnset the darkness had become so intense that
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 261 
 
 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 pre- 
 sentiment 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, 
 gave 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 surrounding 
 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 floating over the 
 valleys. Soon a crimson disc 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 hilltops showed 
 their outlines in the nascent blaze. Rising with a grace- 
 ful bound, the sun shook himself free from his ribbons 
 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
 
 262 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 valleys, climbing the tallest hills, and burying the fer- 
 tile basin 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, undu- 
 lating 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. Sud- 
 denly 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, grizzled towers, might have succumbed in its 
 sleep, if Hulot had not been on the watch. A battery, 
 concealed on a height lying in the hollow of the ram- 
 parts, replied to the first fire of the Chouans by taking 
 them in flank on the road leading to the castle, which 
 was raked and swept clean by grape-shot. Then a com- 
 pany made a sortie from the Porte Saint Sulpice, took 
 advantage of the Chouans' surprise, formed on the road- 
 way, 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 protected that of the 
 Republican sharp-shooters. However, another party of 
 
 * Balzac wrote "ros&e fleine d'oxyde. " I do not know what he meant by this; for 
 though dew certainly rusts, it cannot rust turf. Translator's Note.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 263 
 
 Chouans, having made themselves 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 
 towards 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 white clouds hid 
 the scene from Mile, de Verneuil, but the wind soon 
 blew away this powder-fog. The Republican commander 
 had already changed the direction of his battery, so as 
 successively to rake the Nan$on 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, and 
 did not cost the Blues a hundred men. The Chouans, 
 beaten crushingly, were already retiring in every direc- 
 tion 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 Fougeres. 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 Mon-
 
 264 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 tauran abandon 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 suddenly changed his tactics, and 
 became the attacker instead of the attacked. At the first 
 movement which disclosed the marquis' intentions, the 
 company posted under the castle walls set to work to 
 cut off the retreat, by seizing the upper passes into the 
 Nan9on Valley. 
 
 Despite her hatred, Mile, de Verneuil could not help 
 taking the side of the men whom her lover commanded; 
 and she turned quickly towards 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 Sulpice where lay the lower exit of 
 the Nancon Valley. Thus the Chouans, shut up in the 
 narrow meadow at the bottom of the gorge, seemed as if 
 they must perish to the last man, so exact had been 
 the foresight of the old Republican leader, and so skill- 
 fully had his measures been taken. But at these two 
 spots the cannon which had served Hulot so well lost
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW 265 
 
 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 Verneuil at once understood the 
 presence of the masses of men she had seen about the 
 country, the meeting of the chiefs at d'Orgemont's 
 house, and all the events of the night; though she could 
 not conceive how she had managed to escape so many 
 dangers. The enterprise, prompted by despair, inter- 
 ested her in so lively a manner that she remained motion- 
 less, 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 surrounded, 
 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 towards 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 dur- 
 ing the fight. Encouraged by this guess, Mile, de Ver-
 
 266 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 neuil hoped to be well received in the house, and to be 
 able to pass some hours there, till it might be 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 heard 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 
 buckwheat, and some ploughing 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 emi- 
 nence which rose above the roof and against which it 
 rested, was not without touches of poetry, for ash- 
 suckers, briars, 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 rotten, a 
 kind of "Breton gateway, the name of which may serve 
 
 Tot-i-his, or "cob," as it is called on the opposite coast of Devonshire, is clay 
 ii with straw. Translator's Note.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 267 
 
 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 
 with brocm instead of straw, and the other half was 
 shingled with slate-shaped pieces of wood, giving 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 neighborhood of the town some 
 conveniences which were completely wanting a league or 
 two further off, it showed well enough the unstable kind 
 of life to which war and feudal customs had so sternly 
 subjected 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 imagine'd, Mile, de Verneuil noticed here and there 
 in the court-yard mud some pieces of granite so arranged 
 as to serve as stepping-stones towards the house a 
 mode of access not devoid 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 specimen opened with a wooden 
 latch worthy of the Golden Age, and the upper part was
 
 268 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 never shut except at night, for this was the only open- 
 ing 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, whin's of an appalling 
 ammoniacal odor issued to meet her from the cottage, 
 and she saw that the cattle had kicked through the inte- 
 rior partition. Thus the inside of the farm for farm it 
 was did not match ill with the outside. Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil was asking 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 make? children's 
 eyes look larger than nature. The boy was perfectly 
 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
 
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 269 
 
 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 granite. The etymology 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 popu- 
 lar in the country: 
 
 "I am God's mother, full of 'graced 
 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 with some utensils, com- 
 pleted, with a few exceptions, the movable property of 
 Galope-Chopine. In front of the casement there was a 
 long chestnut-wood table, with two benches in the same 
 wood, to which such light as came through the glass 
 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 rot- 
 ting the floor, though it was composed of fragments of 
 granite set in red clay, showed that the master of the 
 house well deserved his Chouan nickname (Galope- 
 Chopine, "tosspot"). Mile, de Verneuil lifted her eyes 
 as if to relieve them of 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 ceil- 
 ing. Two huge pickets full of cider stood on the long 
 
 * ^lanteau, "cloak." Translator's .\~nfi'. 
 
 t Words inserted, "rliyti gratia." Translator's Note.
 
 270 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 table. These vessels are a kind of jug of brown earth, 
 the curious pattern of which is found in more than one 
 district of France, and which a Parisian can imagine 
 by fancying the jars in which epicures serve up Brittany 
 butter, with the belly somewhat swollen, 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 with- 
 out waiting for Barbette, when the woman suddenly 
 appeared. 
 
 "Good day, Becaniere! " said she to her, suppressing 
 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 Bar- 
 bette, 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! in the 
 priest's hole. " 
 
 She led her to the head of her own bed and made her 
 go into the alcove. But they were both startled by hear- 
 ing a stranger plashing through the swamp. Barbette 
 had scarcely time to draw a bed-curtain 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 
 Comtc de Bauvan. " 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil shuddered as she recognized the
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 271 
 
 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.
 
 272 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 despair- 
 ingly, "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! ' 
 
 He put his gun gently down by the bed-post 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 con- 
 cealed 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 sensations by 
 the two foes; for she spoke less to her son than to 
 them.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 273 
 
 "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 done. 
 
 "Aristocrat!" said the sly soldier, "don't stir, or 1 
 will demolish you like the Bastile in two jiffies!" 
 
 "Monsieur Beau-Pied," continued Mile, de Verneuil 
 in a coaxing tone, "you will answer to me for this pris- 
 oner. Do what you like with him; but you must get 
 him safe and sound to Fougeres for me." 
 18
 
 274 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "Enough, madame! " 
 
 "Is the road to Fougeres clear now?" 
 
 "It is safe enough, unless the Chouans come alive again." 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil armed herself gayly with the light 
 fowling-piece, smiled sarcastically as she said to her 
 prisoner, "Good-bye, 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 ci-devant paradise 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 winding path which had been 
 laid in the rough granite, she admired the beautiful 
 little valley of the Nanfon, 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, consider- 
 ing the gunshots heard afar off, seemed likely to last 
 throughout 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 
 beaut}', and the eccentricity of the fair Parisian already 
 formed their staple subject of conversation.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 275 
 
 Francine, a prey to terrible anxiety, had sat up for her 
 mistress the whole night, and when she saw her she was 
 about to speak, but was silenced by a friendly gesture. 
 
 "I am not dead, child," said Marie. "Ah! 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 toilette before all." 
 And Francine was not a little surprised to hear her mis- 
 tress 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 elabo- 
 rate 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 
 window, whence the eye fell on a magnificent pano- 
 rama; 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 appearance, 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 Fran- 
 cine to send to the commandant and ask for her pris 
 oner. 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
 
 276 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 give the air that soft influ- 
 ence which is so powerful on the human frame, and 
 which often smooths the way to conquests which women 
 wish to gain without apparently inviting them. A few 
 moments 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! 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 indispensable 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 daylight, and you see," added she, with 
 a smile, "if you are not quick, my toilette will miss its 
 effect." 
 
 "But, mademoiselle " said the commandant in sur- 
 prise.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 277 
 
 "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 platoon 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, fol- 
 lowed by the Comte de Bauvan. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil pretended to be caught unawares by 
 her guests, and showed some confusion at being seen by 
 the count in so careless an attitude. 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
 
 278 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 her voice, 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 Royalist and the Republican had taken 
 their seats, she bent a look of severity on the count. 
 He knew women 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 pres- 
 ence 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 his mind to 
 feign for Mile, de Verneuil became a violent fancy 
 which the dangerous girl took pleasure in stimulat- 
 ing. 
 
 "Count," she said, "you are my prisoner, and I have 
 the right to dispose 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 impos- 
 sible. " 
 
 These words, full of bitter irony, were hissed out (as 
 Sully says, speaking of the Duchess of Beaufort) from so
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW, 879 
 
 riarp a beak that the nobleman in his surprise merely 
 ized at his ferocious adversary. 
 "Come," she went on mockingly, "not to contradict 
 jou, 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 " 
 
 "Ah! " 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 axe, 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. 
 
 "Now I might let you go to execution," said Marie, 
 unmoved in appearance by the deliberate accusation of 
 the count, who sat stupefied at the real or feigned indif- 
 ference which she showed towards 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
 
 280 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 exclamation of surprise, and 
 looked with a puzzled air at Marie, who suddenly com- 
 
 pleted the memory -to which she had appealed by lean- 
 ing against the chimney-piece in a child's attitude of 
 innocent simplicity. The count dropped on one knee. 
 
 "Mademoiselle! " he cried, "I implore you to grant me 
 pardon, however unworthy I may be of it." 
 
 '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 Vivetiere. But these
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 2 8l 
 
 secrets are above your understanding. Know only, 
 count," added she, gravely, "that the Duke de Ver- 
 neuil'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 overawed her prisoner and made 
 the whole comedy much less clear to Hulot. The com- 
 mandant put his hand to his moustache 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. 
 Francine, 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 complaisant ingenuity with which she 
 indulged him in repartees, that he ended by think- 
 ing to himself that he had never been more agreeable, 
 and, his youth restored by the notion, he tried to com- 
 municate to this alluring person the good opinion which 
 he had of himself. The malicious girl took delight 
 in trying 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 feelings, she showed
 
 282 THE CHOUANS, 
 
 a. coldness which charmed the count, and helped sensi- 
 bly to increase his impromptu 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, motion- 
 less and solemn as the god Terminus. His want of 
 breeding incapacitated him entirely for this style of con- 
 versation. He had, indeed, a shrewd suspicion that the 
 two speakers must be very droll people, but his intelli- 
 gence could soar no higher than the attempt to under- 
 stand them so far as to be sure that they were not plot- 
 ting against the Republic under cover of ambiguous 
 language. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the count, "Montaman is well- 
 born, well-bred, and a pretty fellow enoguh; 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 mischievous tricks, he is a man to 
 deal dagger-blows. He can love fiercely, but he will never 
 acquire the perfect flower of manners by which Lauzun. 
 Adhemar, Coigny, and so many others were distin- 
 guished. He does not possess the pleasing talent of say- 
 ing 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 not 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 383 
 
 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 honors of the meal with a 
 politeness and tact which could only have been acquired 
 by a court education and in the polished life of the 
 court. 
 
 "You had better go," said she to Hulot, as they 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 every- 
 thing he thinks, and sees everything through my eyes." 
 
 "And afterwards?" asked the commandant, as if de- 
 manding 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 reentered the room, "I have just 
 begged your freedom; but nothing for nothing! " 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 gratitude. But Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil was not a girl to mistake the two; and there- 
 fore, smiling all the while, so as to give some hope to 
 this new lover, but stepping 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."
 
 284 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "True; those who carry treasures should be mistrust- 
 ful." 
 
 "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 moment I appear there to 
 the moment I leave. I 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 scath- 
 less 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, Bauvan, only women can detect 
 women. I know that if you sa)' a word I may be mur- 
 dered on the road. Yesterday certain bullets gave me
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 285 
 
 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 
 toilette. 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 something that 
 compromises neither her dignity nor 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 himself out of 
 all danger, "count on me in life and in death. Though 
 the gratitude I owe you is almost equal to that which I 
 owe my mother, it will be very difficult for me to feel 
 towards you only respect." 
 
 He darted up the path, and when she had seen him
 
 THE CHOUAN8. 
 
 gain the crags 
 of Saint Sul- 
 pice, Marie 
 nodded her 
 head with a 
 satisfied air, 
 and whis- 
 pered to her- 
 self, "The fat 
 fellow has 
 given me 
 more than his 
 life for his 
 life. I could 
 make him my 
 creature a t 
 very small ex- 
 pense. Creat- 
 ure or crea- 
 tor, that is 
 all the differ- 
 ence 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 she and Hulot were not alone "and 
 he shall fall under your guns," she whispered to the 
 commandant. He stepped back a pace, and gazed,
 
 A DAV WITHOUT A MORROW. 287 
 
 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 basei^ps, 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. "it is five 
 leagues off. Would you like me to go with you?" 
 
 "You are very busy," said she to him, "with a subject 
 of which I never think with yourself! " 
 
 The contempt which Marie showed for Corentin 
 pleased Hulot particularly, and he made his grimace as 
 she vanished towards Saint Leonard's. Corentin fol- 
 lowed her with his eyes, showing in his countenance a 
 silent consciousness of the fated superiority which, as 
 he thought, he could exercise over this charming creat- 
 ure, by governing the passions 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 comprehend- 
 ing her mistress' objects, rummaged the band-boxes, and 
 proposed a Greek costume everything at that time 
 obeyed the Greek influence. The dress which Marie 
 settled upon would travel in a box easy to carry. 
 
 "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 dress you? " 
 
 "Where did you put the glove which I gave you back 
 this morning?"
 
 288 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 Coreniin; but no the wretch would follow us. 
 Send to the c^imandant 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 depart- 
 ure, she set herself to attempt the imitation of the owl's 
 hoot, and succeeded in counterfeiting Marche-a-Terre's 
 signal so as to deceive anybody. As midnight 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, walk- 
 ing 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 catch- 
 ing a cold is for women an important matter; but let 
 them feel passion in their hearts, and their body becomes 
 as it were of bronze. It might have taken even a dar- 
 ing man a long time to resolve on the undertaking, yet 
 it had scarcely showed its first aspect to Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil when its dangers became attractions for her. 
 
 "You are going without commending yourself to 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 289 
 
 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 large 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 Ver- 
 neuil whistled the owl's hoot; at once the rusty door- 
 hinges creaked sharply in answer, and Galope-Chopine, 
 who had hastily risen, showed his sombre 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. There- 
 fore, my dear Galope-Chopine, get us two donkeys to 
 ride, and be ready to bear us company. Time is pre- 
 cious, 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 in this strange country, ignorance 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 bench 
 of polished chestnut-wood, and went to seek two donkeys.
 
 2QO THE CHOUANS. 
 
 The deep blue light which the outlandish candle cast 
 was not strong enough to master the fantastic play of 
 the moonbeams that varied with 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 countenance 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 effects of this night-piece; but Marie, 
 not. anxious to enter into talk with Barbette, who was 
 sitting up in bed like a spectre, 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" was 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 forwards or backwards, 
 upwards or downwards. At the moment the moonlight 
 enveloped the valley of the Couesnon as with luminous 
 fog, and sure 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 counte- 
 nance was scarcely visible under the broad hat which
 
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 2QI 
 
 the peasants still keep as a vestige of old time, feeling 
 pride at having gained, in spite of their serfdom, the 
 sometime decoration of lordly heads. This nocrurnal 
 procession, guarded by a guide whose dress, attitude, 
 and general appearance had something patriarchal, 
 resembled the scene of the Flight into Egypt, which we. 
 owe to the sombre 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
 
 2Q2 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 so charming, but which must be 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 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 gener- 
 ally 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, begin- 
 ning 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 tchalier. 
 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 tchalier extends a 
 little; beyond the pivot, so as to be able to carry a heavy
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 293 
 
 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 also 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 tchalicr 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 rest, walled in like a fortress, and 
 like it possessing ramparts. The gate, easy to defend, 
 gives the assailant the least easy of all conquests; for 
 the Breton peasant thinks that he fertilizes his fallows 
 by allowing them to grow huge broom bushes 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
 
 294 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 
 lie 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 sti- 
 fling disorder by means of police and diplomacy rather 
 than by the useless use 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 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 work- 
 ings 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 evi- 
 dence of which exalts them. The crowd looks for 
 them amongst 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 295 
 
 reflections and her hopes 
 gave her energy enough 
 to bear the unwonted 
 fatigues of her journey. 
 At the end of each prop- 
 erty Galope-Chopine was 
 obliged to make the two 
 travelers dismount and 
 to help them to climb 
 the difficult stiles; while, 
 when the rotes came to 
 
 an end, they had to 
 get into the saddle 
 .- . again and venture 
 into the muddy lanes, 
 which already gave 
 tokens of the ap- 
 proach of winter. The joint action of
 
 296 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 the great trees, of the hollow ways, and of the field 
 inclosures, kept up in the lower grounds a dampness 
 which often wrapped the travelers as in a cloak of ice. 
 After toilsome exertions 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 voy- 
 agers from the inclemency of the sky, and the manifold 
 difficulties which they had at first to surmount disap- 
 peared. 
 
 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 beasts into a path diverging from that which 
 would lead the travelers to Saint James; and he turned 
 a deaf ear to the representations of Mile, de Verneuil, 
 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 between 
 them enormous roots crawled, like great snakes, in 
 search of distant nourishment for immemorial 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 whitish 
 patches of moss, veiled the crags and the entrance of 
 
 * The text has pierrc, which is nonsense. Lierre is certissima. eniendatio.- 
 
 '''ranslator's Xote.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 297 
 
 some deep caves. When the three travelers had gone 
 some steps in a narrow path a most surprising spectacle 
 presented itself to Mile, de Verneuil's eyes, and ex- 
 plained to her Galope-Chopine's obstinacy. 
 
 A semi-circular basin, wholly composed of masses of 
 granite, formed an amphitheatre 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 coloring 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 early ages of Chris- 
 tianity. 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 con- 
 trasted with natural surroundings of fantastic strange- 
 ness; these Chouans at once armed and unarmed, cruel and 
 devout, childlike and manly the whole scene, in short, 
 was unlike anything that she had before seen or imag- 
 ined. She remembered well enough that in her child- 
 hood she had admired the pomp of the Roman Church,
 
 298 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 reflec- 
 tions 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. But 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 Ver- 
 neuil came up. With no small alarm she recognized in 
 the celebrant the Abb6 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, how- 
 ever, 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 Abb Gudin mounting a 
 mass of granite which served him as pulpit. He began 
 his sermon in these terms: 
 
 "/// the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the 
 Holy Ghost!" 
 
 At which words the whole congregation piously made 
 ihe sign of the cross. 
 
 "My dear brethren," the abb went on in a loud 
 voice, "let us first pray for the dead Jean Cochegrue,
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW- 299 
 
 Nicolas Laferte, Joseph Brouet, Francois Parquoi, Sul- 
 pice Coupiau 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-increas- 
 ing strength, for the old Jesuit did not forget that energy 
 of delivery was the most powerful of arguments to per- 
 suade 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 
 Mahound!* 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 
 rectors; they have murdered the King and the Queen; they 
 would fain take all the parishioners of Brittany 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 confession, 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 Republic of 
 the damned has sold the goods of God and the seigneurs 
 by auction; it has shared the price among its Blues, and 
 now, in order to feast on money as it has feasted on blood, 
 
 Mahumttisches. Translator's Note.
 
 30O THE CHOUANS. 
 
 it has just resolved to take three livres on each crown of 
 six 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 sal- 
 vation which is at stake: you will save your souls by 
 fighting 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, madame, 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 absolution of their sins if they will not serve 
 God. You shall bless their guns, and those gars who 
 are sinless shall not miss the Blues, because their guns 
 are holy.' And she disappeared, leaving a smell of 
 incense 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 miracle 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. Therefore, dear 
 brethren, if you would save your souls, and show your- 
 selves champions of your lord the King, you must obey
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 301 
 
 the orders of him whom the King has sent, and whom 
 we call the Gars. Then shall you no more be like 
 the followers of Mahound, and men will find you with 
 all the gars of all Brittany, under the banner of God. 
 You can take back out of the Blues' pockets all the 
 money they have stolen; for if, while you fight, your 
 fields be not sown, the Lord and the King make over to 
 you the spoils of your enemies. Shall it be said, 
 Christian brethren, that the gars of Marignay are be- 
 hind 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 here- 
 tics, with folded arms, while so many Bretons 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 Mac- 
 cabees; 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 
 themselves 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 obstreperous 
 lungs and by a variety of gesticulations which made the 
 speaker perspire, had in appearance little effect. The 
 peasants, standing motionless, 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 abb had cast over the crowd. He had, 
 like all great actors, swayed his whole auditory as one 
 nun by appealing to their interests and their passions.
 
 3 2 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 prostituted his priesthood to political pur- 
 poses; buf 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 ploughshare. As she saw no 
 being before her who could enter into her feelings, she 
 turned to Francine, and was not a little surprised to see
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 303 
 
 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 Mahumttisehet" 
 
 "Oh, mademoiselle!" replied the Breton girl, "look 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 such scenes as now began. The peasants nearest to 
 the altar advanced one by one and knelt down, present- 
 ing 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 
 Vcni Creator, wJiile the celebrant enveloped the murder- 
 ous 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, speechless till then, 
 broke out in a manner at once terrible and touching. 
 
 Do mine, salvum fac re gem! 
 
 Such was the prayer which the preacher thundered 
 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 rcgcm, which the peasants 
 translated without difficulty, 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
 
 304 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 con- 
 tentedly, "my gun may miss if I fire at birds now, but at 
 Blues, never! " 
 
 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 Chouans 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, making for Saint James, and which pro-
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 305 
 
 tected her, as a matter of course, from all danger from the 
 moment when Galope-Chopine, with lucky indiscretion, 
 told the leader that the pretty garce 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 wit- 
 nessed a singular military spectacle, to which she paid 
 little attention, fearing to be recognized by some of her 
 enemies, and hastening her steps owing to this fear. 
 Five or six thousand peasants were encamped in a field. 
 Their costumes, which pretty closely resembled those of 
 the requisitionaries at the Pilgrim, had nothing in the 
 least warlike about them; and their tumultuous assembly 
 was like that at a great fair. It was even needful to 
 look somewhat narrowly in order to discover that these 
 Bretons were armed, for their goatskins, differently 
 arranged as they were, almost hid their guns, and their 
 most visible weapon was the scythe with which some sup- 
 plied the place of the guns which were to be served out 
 to them. Some ate and drank; some fought or loudly 
 wrangled; but 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. 
 Further off, two other officers seemed to be trying to 
 instruct some Chouans, more intelligent than the rest, in 
 the management of two cannon which appeared to con- 
 stitute 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 rectors aroused in the camp, Mile, de Ver- 
 
 20
 
 306 THE CHOUAN8. 
 
 neuil was able to cross it and enter the town without 
 danger. She betook herself to an inn of modest appear- 
 ance, 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 
 band-box containing her mistress' clothes, he remained 
 standing in an indescribable attitude of expectancy and 
 irresolution. At another time Mile, de Verneuil might 
 have amused herself with the spectacle of a Breton peas- 
 ant 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 with- 
 out 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 sur- 
 rounded? How are we to get away? And who will pro- 
 tect us here?" 
 
 "Have you not got a protector?" said Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil, with a low, mocking whistle, after the manner of 
 Marche-a-Terre, whose ways she tried to imitate. 
 
 Francine blushed, and smiled rather sadly at her mis- 
 tress' merriment. 
 
 "But where is your protector?" she said. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil drew her dagger with a brusque move- 
 ment, 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 307 
 
 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 indicated 
 that the strange girl was perfectly unconcerned, as she 
 made her toilette; and anyone overhearing 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 lengthen- 
 ing as they fell to one side, had the graceful sweep of a 
 Greek tunic. This passion-provoking garment of pagan 
 priestesses lessened the indelicacy of the costume which 
 the fashion of the day permitted to women in dressing, 
 and, to reduce it still further, Marie threw a gauze veil 
 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 masterpieces of the Greek chisel. When 
 she had by a smile signified her approbation of this 
 coiffure, whose least detail set off the beauties of her 
 face, she placed on it the holly wreath which she had 
 arranged, and the numerous scarlet berries of which hap- 
 pily reproduced in her hair the shade of her tunic. As
 
 308 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 she twisted some of the leaves so as to make fantastic 
 contrast between their two sides, Mile, de Verneuil con- 
 templated the whole of her toilette 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 beau- 
 ties which her rival had so unworthily violated. Fran- 
 cine could not make up her mind to quit her mistress, 
 and when she saw her ready to start, she devised pre- 
 texts for accompanying 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 spreading 
 gravel over them had been taken) for her to wear, and of 
 the gauze veil 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. Francine made no further attempt to keep her 
 mistress back; but having put the last touches to a toi- 
 lette 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 Mon- 
 tauran's apartment while Marie made her way to the 
 ball. The young marquis was finishing his toilette, and 
 putting on the broad red ribbon which was to indicate
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 309 
 
 him as the most prominent personage in the assembly, 
 when the Abb Gudin entered with a troubled air. 
 
 "My lord marquis," said he, "pray come quickly. You 
 alone can calm the storm which has arisen, I 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 disturb- 
 ance, for brawls of this kind are always 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, abb6, 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 sup- 
 port, and I trust you will do me the justice to believe 
 that the reestablishment of our altars in France, the 
 restoration of the King to the throne of his fathers, are 
 far more powerful stimulants of my humble efforts than 
 that bishopric of Rennes which you 
 
 The abb dared not finish, for a bitter smile had come 
 .upon the marquis' face. But the young leader imme- 
 diately 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?"
 
 31O THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 the Catholic 
 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 of the people 
 who is at first hampered by the restraints of prejudice in 
 the presence of a grand seigneur, but who knows no 
 limits when he tas once crossed the barrier which sepa- 
 rates 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 for 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 Gun, in a mocking tone. 
 
 But the smuggler had broached, however brutally, too 
 important a subject, and these bold spirits, as calcu- 
 lating as they were ambitious, had been already too long 
 in doubt as to what they might hope from the King, for 
 mere disdain on the young chief's part to close the inci- 
 dent. The young and fiery Chevalier du Vissard started
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. ^H 
 
 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?" 
 
 "No, marquis; Charette made me colonel. The rank 
 I have mentioned is my incontestable right; and there- 
 fore I do not speak for myself at this moment, but for 
 all my bold brethren in arms whose services have need 
 of recognition. For the present your signature and your 
 promise will content 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, pensions 
 for their widows, the restoration of the estates which 
 have been so wrongfully confiscated? I doubt it. There- 
 fore, 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 Vendan or Chouan 
 because he is old, and because the blade he has drawn for 
 
 * As nearly as possible brigadier-general, except that this latter is, as a rule, 
 local and temporary. Translator's Note.
 
 312 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 the good cause beats against legs wizened by suffering. 
 Can you say we are wrong?" 
 
 "You speak admirably well, M. du Vissard, " answered 
 the marquis, "but a little prematurely." 
 
 "Hark you, marquis," whispered the Count de Bauvan, 
 "Rifoe'l has, by my faith! said very pretty things. For 
 your part, you are sure of always having 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 gentleman 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 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 a 
 more or less ingenious fashion, of the extravagant price 
 which hs 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 Gunic, "do 
 you want nothing?" 
 
 "Faith! marquis, these gentlemen have left me noth- 
 ing but the crown of France, but perhaps I could put up 
 with that! " 
 
 "Why, gentlemen! " said the Abb Gudin, in his 
 thundering voice, "remember that if you are so eager, 
 you will spoil all in the day of victory. Will not the 
 
 * L'ltrdre by itself usually means the Saint Esprit. Translator's Note.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 313 
 
 King be forced to make concessions to the Revolution- 
 aries 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 entering 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, how- 
 ever just they may be." And as he spoke he made his 
 way towards the door as if to welcome some nobles from 
 the neighboring country of whom he had caught sight. 
 But the bold smuggler barred his way, though with a sub- 
 missive and respectful air. 
 
 "No! no! my lord marquis, excuse me, but the Jac- 
 obins taught us too well in 1793 that the man who 
 reaps 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 marquis 
 saw that the old guerilla's boldness and resolute air 
 were not displeasing to any of the spectators of the dis- 
 pute. 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 atti- 
 tude, and the compassion for himself which the marquis 
 read in his eyes, made Montauran scrutinize this gener- 
 ous-minded servant, in whom he recognized Major 
 Brigatit. The chief walked quickly up to him. 
 
 "And YOU," he sairl, "what is your demand?"
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 Bret.on's horny hand, and said 
 to Madame du Gua, near whom he was standing, "Madame, 
 I may fail in my enterprise before 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 lie pointed to the chiefs who were waiting, not 
 without impatience, for the young marquis to comply
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 315 
 
 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 in 
 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 an 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 entrusted 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 yourselves of my duty, and perhaps I 
 shall be able to do it." 
 
 He disappeared, and came back promptly, holding 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 to me. They authorize me 
 to govern the provinces of Brittany, Normandy, 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 assembly, 
 and the Chouans came nearer to the marquis, respect- 
 fully encircling him, with their eyes bent on the King's 
 signature. But the young chief, who was standing 
 before the chimney-piece, suddenly threw the letter in 
 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
 
 316 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 be devoured. Gentlemen, you are at liberty 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 Roi, and 
 if at first the other chiefs hesitated for a moment to echo 
 it, they were soon carried away by the marquis' noble con- 
 duct, begged him to forget what had happened, and 
 assured him that, letters patent or none, he should 
 always be their chief. 
 
 "Let us go and dance! " cried the Comte de Bauvan, 
 "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 afterwards." 
 
 "That is very true," whispered Major Brigaut to the 
 faithful Baron du Guenic. "Saving your reverence, 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 assembled. But the 
 marquis vainly endeavored to shake off the gloomy expres- 
 sion which had changed his looks. The chiefs could not 
 fail to perceive the unfavorable impression which the 
 scene had produced on a man whose loyalty was still 
 associated with the fair illusions of youth; and they 
 were ashamed. 
 
 Stil 1, a riotous joy broke out in the meeting, composed, 
 as it was, of the most distinguished persons in the Roy- 
 alist party, who, in the depths of a revolted province, 
 had never been able to appreciate the events of the Revo- 
 lution justly, and naturally took the most doubtful hopes 
 for realities. The bold operations which Montauran had 
 undertaken, his name, his fortune, his ability, made all 
 men pluck up their courage, and brought about that most
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 317 
 
 dangerous of all intoxications, the intoxication politic, 
 which can never be cooled but by torrents of blood, almost 
 always shed in vain. To all the company the Revolution 
 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 property 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 
 Bonaparte 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 understood, they talked among them- 
 selves, 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 
 addressing 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 sadness; and she went 
 rapidly up to him. 
 
 "I hope you are not disordered by the very ordinary 
 inconvenience which these clowns here have caused you?" 
 she said to him. 
 
 But she received no answer; for the marquis, absorbed 
 in reverie, thought he heard certain of the considera- 
 tions which Marie had prophetically laid before him 
 amidst these very chiefs at the Vivetiere, to induce him 
 to throw up the struggle of king against people. But
 
 31 8 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 useless- 
 ness of the efforts she had made to distract 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 Marquis of 
 Montauran while I thought him a hero. Now, I have for 
 him nothing but friendship mingled with sorrow, when 
 I see him cut off from glory by the wandering heart of 
 an opera girl! " 
 
 "As far as love goes," said the marquis in a sarcastic 
 tone, "you judge me ill. If I loved the girl, madame, 
 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 with 
 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,
 
 A BAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 319 
 
 cannot understand to-day how he felt his heart beat a 
 moment for the baggage* who called herself Mile, de 
 Verneuil you remember?" 
 
 Baggage, madame?" repeated the count, in a reproach- 
 ful tone. "It is the duty of the author of a wrong to 
 redress it, and I give ^ou my word of honor that she is 
 really the Duke de Verneuil's daughter." 
 
 "Count," said the marquis, in a voice of deep emotion, 
 "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 respect,' and, usher- 
 ing her through the inquisitive crowd to the marquis and 
 Madame du Gua, answered 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, cast- 
 ing haughty glances over the company, 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 looking 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 condescending 
 nod, but, with womanly instinct, Madame du Gua showed 
 no vexation, and promptly assumed a smiling and 
 friendly air. Mile, de Verneuil's singular dress and her 
 great beauty drew for a moment a murmur of admira- 
 tion from the company; and when the marquis arid 
 Madame du Gua turned their eyes to the guests of the 
 
 * Here is the old difficulty of fille. No word used in modern English meets it. 
 Translator's Note.
 
 320 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 Viveticre, 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. 
 
 "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, 
 madame, 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 misconduct towards 
 you, and I was looking for an opportunity which might 
 allow me to set it right." 
 
 "As for your misconduct,' madame, I pardon you with- 
 out difficulty that towards myself. But I take to heart the 
 death of the Blues whom you murdered. Perhaps, too, 
 I might complain of the weighty character of your dis- 
 patches; 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 insolent grace. 
 The marquis had remained motionless, 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, "I am ready 
 to give you every satisfaction that you can desire." 
 
 And they moved towards the next room. Even those 
 guests who had least inkling of the meaning of the
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 321 
 
 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, clenching her 
 lips in a kind of fury, "what service have I had the 
 honor of doing you to deserve this gratitude?" 
 
 "Did you not enlighten me on the true character of the 
 Marquis of Montauran, madame? How calmly the odious 
 man let me perish! I give him up to you with the 
 greatest pleasure." 
 
 "Then, what have you come to seek here?" said Madame 
 du Gua sharply. 
 
 "The esteem and the reputation of which you robbed me 
 at the Vivetiere, madame. As for anything else, do not 
 disturb yourself. Even if the marquis came back to me, 
 you know that a renewal of love is never love." 
 
 Madame du Gua thereupon took Mile, de Verneuil's 
 hand with the ostentatious endearment of gesture which 
 women, especially in men's company, like to display 
 towards one another. 
 
 "Well, dear child, I am delighted to find you so rea- 
 sonable. 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 dangerous 
 mission in order to earn the hand of Mile. d'Uxelles, 
 an alliance in which his majesty has promised him full 
 support. " 
 
 "What, really?" 
 
 And Mile, de Verneuil added no word to this sarcastic
 
 3 22 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 
 towards her with a respectful 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 toilettes recalled the 
 fashions of the exiled court, and who wore powdered or 
 frizzled hair, seemed absurd in comparison with the 
 costume, at once rich, elegant, and severe, which the 
 actual fashion allowed Mile, de Verneuil to wear, and
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 323 
 
 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 dress whose chief grace consisted in the 
 shape that it displayed. 
 
 At this moment the marquis and the count reentered 
 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 outward 
 air of indifference, the impatience with which she 
 expected the contest certain to break out sooner or later 
 between the two lovers. Although Montauran was talk- 
 ing to the count and two other persons, he could neverthe- 
 less hear the remarks of the dancers of both sexes, who, 
 according to the change of the figures, were brought from 
 time to time into the place of Mile, de Verneuil and 
 her neighbors. 
 
 "O, yes; certainly, madame, " 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 so 
 well !" 
 
 "Really, I am quite ashamed, for her sake, to see how 
 perfectly she 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 ambassadress 
 from the First Consul?" asked a third. 
 
 "What a joke! " replied the gentleman.
 
 324 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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, 
 "You see what they think of her! " 
 
 "Madame," 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 marquis could overhear her 
 voice in its most caressing tones. 
 
 "The First Consul sends us very dangerous ambassa- 
 dors," 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 embarrass- 
 ment 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 per- 
 ceived. And then she bent her head in one of the 
 coquettish attitudes in which her exquisitely propor- 
 tioned neck allowed her to indulge, forgetting no possi- 
 ble movement which could show the rare perfection of her
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 325 
 
 form. Enticing as Hope, she was as fugitive as Mem- 
 ory; and to see her thus was to desire the possession of 
 her at any ccst. She knew this well, and her conscious- 
 ness of beauty shed an inexpressible charm over her face. 
 Montauran felt a whirlwind of love, of rage, of madness, 
 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 protegee 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 glum 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 determined to 
 make him pay dearly for a kind word or two, that he 
 might know their value thereby obeying an instinct 
 which all women follow in one degree or another. The 
 dance finished, all the gentlemen of the Vivetiere party 
 surrounded Marie, each begging pardon for his error with 
 compliments 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
 
 326 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 known in its minutest details to the whole company, 
 thanks to the pains taken by Madame du Gua, who 
 hoped, by thus publicly connecting Mile, de Verneuil 
 and the marquis, to throw another stumbling-block in 
 the way of their reunion. Hence the sundered lovers were 
 the object of general attention. Montauran dared not 
 enter 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 neigh- 
 boring 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 tor- 
 menting 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 337 
 
 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 followed 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 mad- 
 dest actions of the last Duke of Lorraine, "give me leave 
 to speak to you for the time only during which I can hold 
 this live coal in my hand." He stooped to the hearth, 
 picked up a brand, and grasped it hard. Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil'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 extremes. 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 extinguish 
 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! "
 
 328 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 mistress' 
 gentle violence, in order to prolong the keen pleasure 
 which he felt in being closely pressed by her tiny, caress- 
 ing fingers. But she at last succeeded 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 
 quickly 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 movement. But she could 
 not very easily understand their conversation from what 
 she saw of their 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 marquis 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 show- 
 ing 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 329 
 
 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 follow- 
 ing 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? I 
 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 access 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 bitter 
 smile. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," answered the young man, "your doubts 
 justify mine." 
 
 "Sir! let us quit this room! " cried Mile, de Verneuil, 
 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 mar- 
 quis, 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 crudest 
 uncertainty whether your love is sincere or not?" 
 
 "But how can I tell if you are not pushing your ven- 
 geance 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
 
 330 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 knew well the power of her eyes when they were drowned 
 in tears. 
 
 "Well, then," said he, no longer master of himself, 
 "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 affec- 
 tion, 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 list- 
 ening 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 towards 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 your- 
 self 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 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, before they vanish. Let 
 us go back; come and dance with me." 
 
 They returned together to the ball-room, and although
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 331 
 
 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 mur- 
 derer 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," continued 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 mar- 
 quis 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 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 perceive 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 Leon- 
 ard's, and at the same moment Marie said to herself, 
 "Death is near! " 
 
 At the first rising ground the same thought occurred 
 to each of the lovers. They alighted from the carriage
 
 332 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 and climbed the hill on foot, as though in remembrance 
 of their first meeting. When Marie had taken the mar- 
 quis' 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 alto- 
 gether. 
 
 "You must come no further," 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 boulder 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 Verneuil, 
 but his natural daughter only. My mother, who was of 
 the house of Casteran, and who took the veil to escape 
 the sufferings which her family were preparing 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 333 
 
 committed, had himself forgotten his child. Neverthe- 
 less, the duke received me with pleasure, and acknowl- 
 edged me because I was beautiful; perhaps, 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 
 committing 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 Verneuil 
 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 recom- 
 mended by its ingenious observations, or by a neatly- 
 turned contempt 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 resistance to this torrent. I had 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 perpetual 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,
 
 334 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 ''the Duke de Verneuil, died after formally acknowl- 
 edging me, and making in my favor a will which con- 
 siderably diminished the fortune of my brother, his legit- 
 imate 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 household had developed my vanity, 
 and my father, by 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's, the Marshal-Duke 
 de Lenoncourt, who was seventy years old, offered to be 
 my guardian; I accepted, and a few days after the begin- 
 ning of the hateful lawsuit, I found myself once more in 
 a splendid establishment, where I enjoyed all the advan- 
 tages which my brother's cruelty had refused me over 
 my father's coffin. Every evening the marshal spenf 
 some hours with me, and the old man spoke all the 
 time nothing but words of gentle consolation. 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 even- 
 ing I learned that the whole town thought me the poor 
 old man's mistress. It was demonstrated to me that it 
 was out of my power to regain the reputation for inno- 
 cence 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 discovery on the 
 very eve of the day fixed for my marriage with him (for 
 I had insisted on bearing his name, the only reparation
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 335 
 
 he could make me) he fled to Coblentz. I was insult- 
 ingly 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 himself; 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 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, whp 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 fbr the price of three 
 hundred thousand francs. I saw you, sir, and I recog- 
 nized 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 senti- 
 ment. I thought I was loved, and in the hope of a new 
 beginning of life I let myself drift. But all things, 
 myself perhaps included, betrayed my past excesses; for
 
 336 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 you must have had your suspicions of a woman so full of 
 passion as I am. Alas! can anyone 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 myself once more sixteen. 
 Was I not in Alenon, 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 a 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 reproba- 
 tion, "know it well that I am but a creature without 
 honor, unworthy of you. From this moment I take up 
 my part of wanton once more, weary of playing that of 
 a woman to whom you had restored 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 another 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 cour- 
 age to revive her evil nature of vice and infamy, in order 
 to set an eternal barrier between you and herself. To 
 you I sacrifice honor and fortune; my pride in this sacri- 
 fice 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 337 
 
 return to Paris, where your name shall be to me as 
 another self, and the splendid distinction 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 towards Fougeres, as if she feared that the mar- 
 quis would follow to the town, where death awaited him. 
 
 "Well, Francine, 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." 
 
 "What did he look like, then, when he met you?" 
 
 "Do you think he even saw me? Oh, Marie, he loves 
 you! " 
 
 "Ah, yes," ahswered 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 
 
 22
 
 338 THE CHOUANS. ' 
 
 and radiant beauty whose first cause lies either in the 
 absence of all passion or in the intoxication of happi- 
 ness. 
 
 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 smiling air. 
 
 "Well," said she to the commandant, whose anxious 
 face expressed considerable inquisitiveness, "the fox has 
 come back within range of 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 Verneuil threw a scornful look at Corentin. 
 
 "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 malicious look, "would you never forgive 
 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 enthusiasm. But 
 then he looked steadily at her and said, his face darken- 
 ing: 
 
 "You forget my two friends and my sixty-three men!" 
 
 "All! commandant," she said, with all the naivetJ of 
 passion, "that was not his fault. He was duped by a
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 339 
 
 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 bitterness, 
 "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 folk 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 diplomatist, that you let yourself 
 be routed at regular intervals by that girl." 
 
 "It is very natural, citizen commandant," answered 
 Corentin thoughtfully, "that you should not have known 
 what to make of all she said to us. You military gen- 
 tlemen do not perceive that there are more ways of mak- 
 ing war than one. To make cunning use of the passions 
 of men and women, as though they were springs worked 
 upon for the 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 sen- 
 timents like catch-springs, to be watched over for amuse-
 
 340 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 merit 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 operations 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 skir- 
 mishing, and I shall procure you before long the pleas- 
 ure of a tete-a-tete with the brigand chief." 
 
 "How so?" said Hulot, stepping back to get a better 
 view of thi$ 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 sufficient 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 irresolution. 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 Republic'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 generous soldier, as 
 he fathomed the depth of the intrigue and the working
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 341 
 
 of the engines employed by Fouche\ And so Hulot made 
 up his mind to thwart Corentin in every point not abso- 
 lutely hurtful to the success and the objects of the gov- 
 ernment, 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 employ soldiers on 
 very different business." 
 
 Corentin on his side looked coolly at the soldier (whose 
 face had now betrayed his thoughts), and his eyes recov- 
 ered the sardonic expression which showed the superior 
 intelligence of this subaltern Machiavel. 
 
 "Give three yards of blue cloth to brutes of this kind," 
 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 Coren- 
 tin'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
 
 342 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 morning of the next day, giving heed to the least noise, 
 and severely scrutinizing every passer-by. The day then 
 beginning was a market-day. Although in these unfort- 
 unate times the peasants were with difficulty induced to 
 risk themselves in the town, Corentin saw a man of a 
 gloomy countenance, dressed in a goatskin, and carrying 
 on his arm a small round flat basket, who was making 
 his way towards Mile, de Verneuil's house, after casting 
 round him glances indifferent enough. Corentin went 
 down-stairs, intending to wait for the peasant when he 
 came out; but suddenly 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 hid 
 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 Nor- 
 mans. 
 
 "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 mis- 
 trust; but a gesture from Mile, de Verneuil reassured 
 him. 
 
 "Madame," said he, "towards 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 Samoy- 
 cde could have understood the full meaning 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 Verneuil's start and her looks
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 343 
 
 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 but- 
 ter and Breton butter. You want Gibarry butter, 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 showing two little 
 pats of butter of Barbette's making. "You must pay a 
 fair price, good lady. Come, let us say another sou! " 
 
 His hollow voice showed not the least anxiety, and his 
 green eyes, shaded by thick, grizzly eyebrows, bore with- 
 out 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 busi- 
 ness, 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 charge, 
 which, owing to his avarice, was a true one. He con- 
 tented 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 tightened 
 lips which Mile, de Verneuil's smile hid but ill, nor her
 
 344 . THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 catch- 
 ing 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? /want some butter. " 
 
 "Good gentleman," answered the Chouan, "all Fou- 
 geres knows where I live. I am, as you may say 
 
 "Corentin!" cried Mile, de Verneuil, interrupting 
 Galope-Chopine' s answer, "you are very forward to pay 
 me visits at this hour, and to catch me like this, scarcely 
 dressed. Let the peasant alone. He does not under- 
 stand your tricks any more than I understand their object. 
 Go, good fellow." 
 
 Galope-Chopine hesitated for a moment before going. 
 His irresolution, whether it were real or feigned, as of a 
 poor wretch who did not know which of the two to obey, 
 had already begun to impose on Corentin, when the 
 Chouan, at a commanding signal from the young lady, 
 departed with heavy steps. Mile, de Verneuil and Co- 
 rentin 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 
 expression 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 struggle 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 towards which she was hastening, she drew from 
 her love strength to shake off the icy chill of her pre- 
 sentiments.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 345 
 
 "Corentin!" she said, merrily enough, "I hope you 
 will be good enough to allow me to finish my toilette." 
 
 "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 discovered your 
 affection for the Marquis of Montauran. 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 posi- 
 tion, the honors of which will please you. Who can 
 love you better, who can make you more completely 
 mistress of himself than the man who has already loved 
 you for five years? Although I 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), I will give you the meas- 
 ure 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 sincerity. 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 attrib- 
 ute 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 submission and devotion, for, as 
 you know, I have long sought to make you happy after my
 
 346 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 own fashion, but you have never chosen to reward me in 
 any way. " 
 
 "I have endured your company," she said haughtily. 
 
 "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," answered he 
 boldly, "I had nothing but your good fortune in view. 
 For my own part, whether I win 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 belong to the Clichy Club. Any incident 
 which put me in communication with the princes would 
 decide me to abandon the interests of a Republic 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 i8th Brumaire only to stand on better 
 terms with the Bourbons in treating with them concern- 
 ing France, for he is a fellow with his wits about him, 
 and with foresight enough. But men of policy must 
 anticipate him on his own road. A scruple about betray- 
 ing France is but one more of those which we men 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 Robespierre 
 and for Danton 
 
 "Whom you basely deserted," said she. 
 
 "Nonsense! " answered Corentin. "He is dead; think
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 347 
 
 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. Remember 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 quickly 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?" 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil had never heard a voice so gentl> 
 affectionate. Corentin seemed to speak in entire good 
 faith and full trust. The poor girl's heart was so sus- 
 ceptible to generous impressions that she was on the 
 point of yielding her secret to the serpent who was wind- 
 ing his coils round her. But she bethought her that 
 there was no proot of the sincerity of this artful language, 
 and so she had no scruple in duping him who was act- 
 ing the spy on her. 
 
 "Well, Corentin," said she, "you have guessed 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 Fougeres. Had he wished to 
 use violence towards you, you would not be here." 
 
 "Corentin, your heart is seared. You can calculate 
 scientifically on the course of human life in general, 
 and yet not on those of a single passion. Perhaps this 
 is the reason of the constant repulsion I feel for you. 
 But since you are so perspicacious, try to guess why a man 
 from whom I parted roughly the clay before yesterday is
 
 3-J.H THE CHOUANS. 
 
 impatiently expecting me to-day on the Mayenne road, in 
 a house at Florigny, towards 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 pierc- 
 ing glances which quest for the soul. Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil's naivett was so well feigned that she deceived the 
 spy, and he answered with artificial good-nature: 
 
 "Would you like me to accompany you at a distance? 
 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! " 
 
 The faint smile which appeared on Corentin's pale 
 countenance acquainted Mile, 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 devoid 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, leading 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 
 finding happiness, and by the desire of extricating her 
 lover from his threatened fate. Meanwhile Corentin
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 349 
 
 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 brave veteran had 
 indeed made a sacrifice, the merit of which can hardly 
 be put sufficiently high. His pigtail and his moustaches 
 were shaved, and his hair, arranged' like a priest's, had a 
 dash of powder. 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, whose 
 dress might have deceived the eyes of the most experi- 
 enced 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 
 goodness 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 skir- 
 mishes 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 apprecia- 
 tion of the benefits of the Revolution which existed in 
 the towns, to party fidelity, and to a certain love of war, 
 characteristic of the race. Hulot was struck with 
 admiration as he went through the ranks asking infor- 
 mation from Gudin, on whom he had bestowed all the 
 friendly feeling which had formerly been allotted to
 
 35O THE CHOUANS. 
 
 Merle and Gerard. A considerable number of the towns- 
 men were spectators of the preparations for the expedi- 
 tion, and were able to compare the bearing of their 
 noisy comrades with that 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 appear- 
 ance. 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! I am not a Fougeres man," replied Corentin. 
 
 "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 Pil- 
 grim. 
 
 "Are you going after the Marquis of Montauran?" 
 asknl Corentin of the commandant. 
 
 "Rather, ' answered Hulot roughly.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 351 
 
 "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 certainly 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 suburb 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, waiting for Corentin, whose air of mystery had 
 excited his curiosity. Francine herself told the wary 
 spy of the departure of Mile, de Verneuil; 'all his suspi- 
 cions at once became certainties, and he went forth to 
 gain new light on this deservedly questionable absence. 
 Learning from the guard at the Porte Saint Leonard that 
 the fair stranger had passed by the Nid-aux-Crocs, Coren- 
 tin ran to the walks, and, as ill-luck would have it, 
 reached them just in time to perceive all Marie's move- 
 ments. 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 direc- 
 tion of her journey. 
 
 "Ah! " cried he, "you ought to be making for Flo- 
 rigny, and you are going down towards the valley of 
 Gibarry! 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
 
 352 THL CHOCANS. 
 
 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 appear; and Hulot, 
 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 neighbor- 
 hood between the Antrain and the Vitr6 roads have not 
 come back yet, and so we shall find in the country rein- 
 forcements which will be useful, for the Gars is not fool 
 enough to tisk 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 avenge the murders 
 at the Vivetiere. God's thunder! how he runs! " added 
 he, looking at Gudin, who vanished as if by magic. 
 "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 commandant bade the 
 young man pick out a dozen of his fellow-townsmen who 
 had most experience in the difficult business of counter 
 feiting the Chouans, and ordered him to make his way 
 by Saint Leonard'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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 353 
 
 of the force, and left by the Porte Saint Sulpice, mean- 
 ing to gain the crest of the hills where he, according to 
 his plans, expected to meet Beau-Pied and his men. 
 With these he intended to strengthen a cordon of sen- 
 tries whose business was to watch the rocks from the 
 Faubourg Saint Sulpice 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 
 Nancon 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 Coren- 
 tin saw them, under the skillful orders of the comman- 
 dant, drawing up a line of perambulating 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 moving lines who were about to track down the 
 Gars across the hills and fields. 
 
 "He is cunning, the old watch-dog! " cried Corentin, 
 as he lost sight of the last flashes of the gun barrels 
 amid the ajoncs. "The Gars' goose is cooked! If Marie 
 
 * The word used, dibusquant, is the technical sporting term for a wolf reaving 
 its lair. Translator's Note.
 
 354 THK CHOUANS. 
 
 had betrayed this d d marquis, she and I should have 
 been united by the firmest of all ties, that of disgrace. 
 But all the same, she shall be mine! " 
 
 The twelve young men of Fougeres, led by Sub-lieuten- 
 ant 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 towards the right, 
 so as to beat the ground on each side of the road. 
 Gudin darted briskly towards 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 chestnut trees which crowned the 
 hedge of the field. Despite the white gleam which 
 lighted up the country, and despite their own sharp eye- 
 sight, 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 Jove! we shan'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 mockery, eight deep voices 
 cried " Qui virc?" and eight gunshots followed. The 
 balls whistled round the counter-Chouans, of whom one 
 received a wound in the arm, and another fell. The five 
 men of Fougeres who remained unhurt answered with a 
 volley, shouting, "Friends!" Then they rushed upon their
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 355 
 
 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 fought first, and asked questions 
 afterwards. " 
 
 The eight soldiers stood astounded as they recognized 
 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 amus- 
 ing 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 were 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 uniform. 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-Chopine's house,
 
 356 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 which Beau-Pied had just pointed 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 agility, 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 working 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 a/ones 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 naturally 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 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.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 357 
 
 "Oh! to get to the Gars you must go back the way you 
 came," answered the woman, after casting 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 roughly. 
 "Saint Anne of Auray! Have you seen the Gars pass?" 
 
 "I do not know what you mean," said the woman, bend- 
 ing 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 Hulot. 
 
 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
 
 358 THK CHOUANS. 
 
 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 uni- 
 forms 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 sentinel to warn the Gars, for 
 you know he is coming to our house to-day," added she 
 with piide. 
 
 "Thanks, good woman," answered Hulot. "Forward, 
 men! By God's thunder!" added he, speaking 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 imprecation, Galope-Cho- 
 pine's wife turned pale. She looked at the gaiters and 
 goatskins of the Fougeres youth, sat down on the ground, 
 clasped her child in her arms, and said: 
 
 "The Holy Virgin of Auray and the blessed Saint
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 359 
 
 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! " 
 she to the little boy, who disappeared 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 ris- 
 ing from the half-shattered chimney of the wretched 
 dwelling, her heart underwent one of those violent pal- 
 pitations, 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 
 to be a beacon at once to the friends and enemies of the 
 young chief. Never had she felt such overpowering 
 emotion. 
 
 "Oh!" she said to herself with a sort of despair, "I 
 love him too much! It may be I shall lose command 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 Ver- 
 neuil threw into it an all-embracing glance. The mar- 
 quis 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 doorstep, and saw him 
 departing by the path which went to the right of his
 
 360 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 hut, and the entrance of which was guarded by a large 
 rotten tree, which served as an tchalier, though one 
 almost in ruins. Thence she could perceive a range of 
 fields, the bars of which showed like a vista of gates, for 
 the trees and hedges, stripped bare, allowed full view 
 of the least details of the landscape. When Galope- 
 Chopine's broad hat had suddenly disappeared, Mile, de 
 Verneuil turned to the left to look for the church of 
 Fougeres, but the outhouse hid it from her wholly. Then 
 she cast her eyes on the Couesnon Valley, lying before 
 t'lem like a huge sheet of muslin, whose whiteness dulled 
 yet further a sky gra) ? -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 pro- 
 found that Mile, de Verneuil felt oppressed by sur- 
 roundings which added to her mental anguish a kind of 
 physical sadness. There was ill-fortune in the air. 
 At last, at the point where a little curtain of wood termi- 
 nated the vista of echaliers, she saw a young man leap- 
 ing the barriers like a squirrel, and running with aston- 
 ishing 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 unrecog- 
 nizable. Marie retired hurriedly into the cabin, in obe- 
 dience to one of those instinctive resolves 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 36 
 
 other, or even to move. / / ; 
 One hope united their .' /' 
 thoughts, one doubt i 
 parted them. It was J 7~-~--- 
 anguish and rapture "7 
 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 Fougeres 
 your life is in danger; and I love you too well not to 
 depart this evening. Therefore seek me no more."
 
 362 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 / 
 not courage enough to give you up for your own sake?" 
 
 "What! You gave yourself to a horrible creature 
 whom you did not love, and you will not grant happi- 
 ness to a man who adores you, whose whole 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 con- 
 tempt which I may incur fall on your head. Were it 
 not for this fear I might 
 
 "But if I fear nothing?" 
 
 "Who will guarantee me that? I am mistrustful; 
 and in my situation, who would not be so? If the love 
 that \ve inspire be not lasting, at least it should be com- 
 plete, 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 before? 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 principles, all
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 363 
 
 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? Suppose I would have you send 
 your submission to the First Consul, so that you might 
 he able to follow me to Paris? Suppose I insisted that 
 we should go 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 trans- 
 formed 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 ycu. Is it because 
 I foresee unheard-of and incessant delights with you? Is 
 it because I seem to recognize in your soul that precious 
 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 Alphonse?" 
 
 "Ah! you think you are paying me a great compliment 
 in offering 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 become of me? No, no ! a mistress is 
 the only woman who is certain of the affection which a 
 man shows her; she has no need to seek such pitiful
 
 364 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 allies as duty, law, society, the interests of children; 
 and if her power lasts, she finds in it solace and happi- 
 ness which make the greatest vexations of life endurable. 
 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 must not marry her in a mere gust of pas- 
 sion. 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 morn- 
 ing you see smoke on the rocks of Saint Sulpice, 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?" 
 
 He answered not, but looked at her. Her eyes fell; 
 but he read on the passionate countenance of his mis- 
 tress a madness equal to his own, and he held out his 
 arms to her. A kind of frenzy seized Marie. She was on 
 the point of falling in languishment 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 outside. 
 She tore herself from his arms as if suddenly waked
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 365 
 
 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 
 afterwards! " 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, 
 wnich the soldier perfectly well understood. 
 
 The poor fellow turned on his heel, pretending to have 
 seen nothing, and Mile, de Verneuil suddenly reentered 
 the room, begging the young chief to observe the deep- 
 est 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 
 towards the series of tchaliers, 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. Fora 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."
 
 3 66 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 As she heard these words, to her sub! ime, she placed 
 herself, full of happiness, in front of the door, while the 
 marquis cocked his blunderbuss. After carefully calcu- 
 lating the distance between the cottage door and the great 
 tree-trunk, the Gars 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 incredible 
 speed. 
 
 "Fire! fire! A thousand devils! are you 
 Frenchmen? Fire, dogs! " cried Hulot in a 
 voice of thunder. 
 
 As he shouted these words from the top of the knoll, 
 his men and Gudin's delivered a general volley, luckily 
 ill-aimed. The marquis had already reached the barrier 
 at the end of the first field ; but just as he passed into 
 the second he WHS nearly caught by Gudin, who had 
 rushed furiously after him. Hearing this formidable 
 enemy a few steps behind, the Gars redoubled his speed. 
 Nevertheless, Gudin and he reached the bar almost at
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 367 
 
 the same moment; but Montauran hurled his blunder- 
 buss with such address at Gudin's head, that he hit him 
 and stopped his career for a moment. It is impossible 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 Gars 
 and Gudin had reached, almost together, the curtain, 
 whitened 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 killing 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 himself weaponless, retired 
 from apple-tree 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 sit- 
 ting 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 rampart, 
 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.
 
 368 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 Before the Blues had had time to collect their ideas, the 
 Chouans had intrenched themselves 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 com- 
 mandant with some soldiers went slowly towards the little 
 wood to look for Gudin, the Fougerese staid behind to 
 strip the dead Chouans and dispatch the living for in 
 this hideous war neither party made prisoners. The mar- 
 quis once in safety, Chouans and Blues alike recognized 
 the strength of their respective positions and the useless- 
 ness of continuing the strife. Both therefore thought 
 only of withdrawing. 
 
 "If I lose this young fellow," cried Hulot, scanning 
 the wood carefully, "I will never make another friend." 
 
 "Ah! " 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 pock- 
 ets of a Chouan whom he was stripping. 
 
 "Yes; but he has a capital pair of shoes," answered a 
 soldier, making as though to take them. 
 
 "You shall have them if they fall to your share," 
 replied one of the Fougerese, plucking them from the 
 dead man's feet, and throwing them on the pile of goods 
 already heaped together.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 369 
 
 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 attempt to come up 
 with the Gars had been equally dangerous and 'futile, he 
 found a score of his soldiers 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 visi- 
 ble, "all right about the money; but those shoes, com- 
 mandant?" added he, indicating with his musket-butt the 
 pair of hobnails, "those shoes would fit me like a glove." 
 
 "So, you want English shoes on your feet?" answered 
 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 com- 
 rades 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 towards 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, 
 24
 
 37 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 and the wound which the gunshot had made, than he 
 uttered a stifled cry, and said, "Let us march, comman- 
 dant! " 
 
 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 hid 
 me under his cassock." 
 
 "The foolish fellow!" said the National Guards 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 followed it at some interval. 
 
 As night fell, terrible anxiety came upon Galope- 
 Chopine'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, 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 
 the 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 371 
 
 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 with- 
 out being able to speak to him. For a moment the little 
 boy's eyes rested on the two nails which served as sup- 
 ports 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 earthenware a sort of soup composed of milk, 
 cakes cut up small, and boiled chestnuts. 
 
 "They fought in the field that belongs to the Berau- 
 diere, " 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 amongst 
 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. He 
 found his mother sitting on a stool at the fireside, and 
 busy spinning hemp. He shook his head to Barbette, 
 who hardly dared believe in any good news; and then, 
 ten o'clock having struck from Saint Leonard's, the 
 child went to bed, after muttering a prayer to the Holy 
 Virgin of Auray. At daybreak, Barbette, who had not 
 
 * The table and bench (see below) have been previously described as of chestnut . 
 It is fair to say that noyer, though specifically = "walnut," is etymologically any nut 
 tree Translator's Note.
 
 372 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 promised a 
 fine candle, the Gars is safe 1 Do not forget that we owe 
 the saint three candles now. " 
 
 Then Galope-Chopine seized a pitcher and drained the 
 whole of its contents without drawing breath. When 1m 
 wife had served up his soup and had relieved 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 ourselves knew it." 
 
 The woman grew pale. "The counter-Chouans per- 
 suaded me that they were gars of Saint George," said 
 she, trembling; "and it was I who told them where the 
 Gars was. " 
 
 Galope-Chopine' 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; 
 "Uarhette! 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." 
 
 "I'ut did he tell Marche-a-Terre?" 
 Tille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre were at Florigny."
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 373 
 
 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 fur- 
 rowed 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 running 
 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 dis- 
 charged the commissions with which the marquis had 
 entrusted him. When he learned that Marche-a-Terre 
 and Pille-Miche had not appeared, 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 barriers, and little by little he saw, 
 through a fog which was pretty thick, angular shapes, 
 looking like uncertain shadows.
 
 374 THE CHOUANS, 
 
 '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 dark faces, 
 resembling, under their great, shabby hats, the figures that 
 engravers put into landscapes. 
 
 "Good day, Galope-Chopine !" said Marche-a-Terre 
 gravely. 
 
 "Good day, Master Marche-a-Terre," humbly replied 
 Barbette's husband. "Will you come in and drink a 
 pitcher or two? There is cold cake and fresh-made 
 batter. " 
 
 "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 yellow 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 seri- 
 ous 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 375 
 
 shed its ruddy glow over them. At the same moment, 
 Galope-Chopine, who had finished filling his guests' jugs 
 a second time, set these before 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 Galcpe-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. 
 
 "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 wood-work 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 nothing. 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 explanations, 
 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'
 
 376 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 grasp, Galope-Chopine lost all his fortitude, fell on his 
 knees, and raised despairing hands towards his two exe- 
 cutioners. 
 
 "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 confessing? You 
 have the right to take my life, but not to make me for- 
 feit 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 con- 
 science. 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 regularly from the cask 
 made him cast a mechanical 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 manner 
 of acknowledging his transgressions; but despite the 
 length and details of the crimes, he came 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. mv good friends, I am no traitor!"
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 377 
 
 "Go to, cousin; 'tis well! Get up: you can arrange 
 all that with the good God at one time or another." 
 
 "But let me say one little good-bye 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 smoth- 
 ered shrieks, which ceased at the moment that the heavy 
 thud of the axe 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 hang- 
 ing 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 Captain* 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, her 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." 
 
 *This famous folk-song has been Englished by Mr. Swinburne in "May Janet,' 1 
 and I think by others. It might have been wiser to borrow 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 neighbor prose. If the third stanza does not seem 
 clear, I can only say that no one can be very sure what On iui tcnda.it les voiles Dans 
 tout le regiment does mean. Translator's Note.
 
 378 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 The tune grew slowly indistinct as the two Chouans 
 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; 
 Come, for we must no longer stay. 
 
 "Captain brave, take thou no care, 
 Not 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 her and flings her into the sea. 
 
 "But wiser, I trow, was the captain stout; 
 He swims, and fetches his lady out. 
 
 "Come to the 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. 
 
 "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 rough- 
 ness. "You are fatherless and motherless now!" 
 
 The child rubbed his shoulder as he cried, saw the 
 head nailed on the door, and his innocent countenance 
 speechlessly kept the nervous twitch which tears give to 
 the features. He opened his eyes wide and gazed long 
 at his father's head, with a stolid and passionless expres- 
 sion, till his face, brutalized by ignorance, 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 towards the
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 379 
 
 house. As Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre were stretch- 
 ing Galope-Chopine on the bench, one of his shoes had 
 fallen off 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 think- 
 ing of that which was full of blood 
 shed by the Chuins and kill the 
 Chains !" 
 
 As she spoke, she shook her head with so 
 spasmodic 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 J do! Ha! they have taken my hus- 

 
 380 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 band's bead; 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 towards Fougeres 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, point- 
 ing savagely to the fire. 
 
 At the same mordent as that at which Galope-Chopine's 
 widow and his son with the bloody foot were watching the 
 edclying of the smoke with a gloomy air of vengeance 
 and curiosity, Mile, de Verneuil had her eyes fixed on 
 the same rock, endeavoring, but in vain, to discover the 
 marquis" promised signal. The fog, which had grad- 
 ually thickened, buried the whole country under a veil 
 whose tints of gray hid even those parts of the landscape 
 which were nearest to the town. She looked by turns, 
 with an anxiety which did not lack sweetness, 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 naked branches of the trees, on which some belated 
 leaves still hunt;. But Marie's soul w r as too delightfully 
 agitated for her to see any evil omens in the spectacle,
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A .MORROW 381 
 
 out of harmony, as it was, with the joy on which she was 
 banqueting in anticipation. During the last two days 
 h~r ideas had altered strangely. The ferocity, the dis- 
 orderly bursts of her passion, had slowly undergone the 
 influence of that epuable warmth which true love com- 
 municates 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 returning to 
 those conventions of society which sanction happiness, 
 and which she had herself only abandoned in despair. A 
 mere moment of love seemed to her a futility. And 
 then she saw herself suddenly 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 fortunate and 
 slighted, woke afresh, and showed her all me advantages 
 of a high position. Born, as she had been, to be "her 
 ladyship," would not the effect of marrying Mon- -ft 
 tauran 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, 
 motherhood, 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 sati- 
 ety 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? Fran-
 
 382 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 cine! 'tis no more a dream! This night I shall be Mar- 
 quise de Montauran! What have I done to deserve such 
 complete happiness? Oh! I 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, disarranged 
 a hundred times the successful arrangements 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 ask- 
 ing herself, with remains of mistrust, whether the marquis 
 was not deceiving her, and then she concluded that such 
 trickery would be inexplicable, since he exposed 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 con- 
 traction of the forehead, of an attitude of displeasure, of 
 I'u-p, or of disdain, she was still seeking some woman's 
 wile to test the young chief's heart up to the very last 
 moment.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 383 
 
 "You are right, Francine! " she said. "I would, like 
 you, that the marriage were over. This day is the last 
 of my days of cloud it is big either with my death or 
 with our happiness. This fog is hateful," she added, 
 locking over towards 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 intercepting the light, so as to 
 produce in the apartment a voluptuous clear-obscure. 
 
 "Francine," said she, "take these toys which encumber 
 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 establish connection 
 between this old-world decoration and the furniture and 
 accessories of the boudoir, either by harmony of colors 
 or by attractive 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, which 
 stood by the wall parallel to that where the fireplace 
 was, she put, on two little gilt tables, great Dresden 
 vases full of foliage and flowers which exhaled the sweet- 
 est perfumes. She shivered more than once as she 
 arranged the sweeping drapery of green damask that over- 
 hung the bed, and as she studied the curving lines of the
 
 384 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 provoca- 
 tive that ofttimes in the midst of such provision of de- 
 light a woman forgets all her doubts, as Mile, de Ver- 
 neuil 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 pa}' 
 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 herself, as Mile, de Verneuil 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 insensibly stamps all things 
 with a love-breathing look. In the center of this volup- 
 tuous atmosphere, things become for her living beings, 
 witnesses; and already she transforms them into accom- 
 plices 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 agitated, 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 Yer- 
 nc-iiil lifted the curtains 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.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 385 
 
 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 
 vhich she had breathed a soul and a voice, and asked 
 herself whether it would all be in vain. The thought 
 recalled her to her arrangements. 
 
 "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, accom- 
 panying 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. 
 
 "Why, fools that we all are! is not a lover always our 
 greatest adornment?" 
 
 Francine left her lying languidly on the ottoman, and 
 withdrew step by step, guessing that whether she were 
 loved or not, her mistress would never give up Mon- 
 tauran. 
 
 "Are you sure of what you are telling me, old woman?" 
 said Hulot to Barbette, who had recognized 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 towards 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. 
 25
 
 386 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 quick- 
 ly, 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 
 Chums, 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 and 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 tower," and she 
 pointed to one of the castle turrets, "but the Chuins 
 would find the way to come and kill me." 
 
 She kissed her boy with an expression of gloomy sor- 
 row, gazed at him, shed a tear or two, gazed at him once 
 more, and disappeared. 
 
 "Commandant," said Corentin, "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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 387 
 
 surround Mile, de Verneuil's house at this moment 
 would be to set her against us; and you, I, your counter- 
 Chouans, 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 order 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 corporal with four men, and 
 
 "And," said Corentin, interrupting the eager soldier, 
 "what if the young man is not the marquis? if the mar- 
 quis does not enter by the gate? if he is already with 
 Mile, de Verneuil? if if ?" 
 
 And with this Corentin looked at the commandant with 
 an air of superiority which was so humiliating that the 
 old warrior cried out, "A thousand 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 I 
 puzzle my brains in order to stain my own uniform!" 
 
 "Commandant, letters signed by three ministers bid 
 you obey Mile, de Verneuil."
 
 388 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 her- 
 self the very hour and minute of the ci-devanf s arrival. 
 Perhaps, indeed, she will not be at ease till she has seen 
 you posting your sentinels and surrounding her house." 
 
 "The devil has turned man! " said the old demi- 
 brigadier sorrowfully to himself, as he saw Corentin 
 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 mar- 
 tial. 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 Mar- 
 seillaise. 
 
 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 contradictory thoughts 
 often show their victims that a stormy and passionate 
 life may be held between four walls, without leaving the 
 couch on which existence is then passed. In presence 
 of the catastrophe 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 agi- 
 tated 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.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 389 
 
 "Little traitress! " said the head-agent of police, "will 
 the fancy take you to deceive me again? Ah, Marie, 
 Marie! You are playing a very dangerous game in leav- 
 ing me out of it, and arranging your coups without con- 
 sulting 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 intentionally 
 chose this house for the safer commission of your mur- 
 ders 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 Govern- 
 ment; 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 forwards; but she stopped suddenly 
 as she saw Corentin lift the window curtain and begin 
 to smile as he requested her to come close to him. 
 
 "Do you see that pillar of smoke?" 1 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 departure 
 and the weeds that they are burning there?" asked she. 
 
 "Why is your voice so changed in tone?" answered 
 Corentin. "Poor lirtle girl!" he added gently, "I know 
 all. The marquis is coming to-day to Fougeres, and it 
 is not with the intention of giving him up to us that 
 you have arranged this boudoir, these flowers, these wax- 
 lights, in so luxurious a fashion."
 
 39 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil grew pale as she saw the marquis' 
 death written in the eyes of this tiger with a human coun- 
 tenance; and the passion which she felt for her lover rose 
 near madness. Every hair of her 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 creat- 
 ure 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 impunity." 
 
 "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 ^a/ce.'d at each other without speaking.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 39! 
 
 "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 con- 
 trary 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 want 
 proofs of my good faith; but I am keeping them for the 
 minute when you shall have given me some proofs of yours. " 
 
 "Good-bye, 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 hun- 
 dred thousand francs, the prospect 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. " 
 
 Corentin 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 bitterness of which was still disguised. 
 
 "Montauran," said Marie, with a smile of compassion, 
 "could himself offer you much more than that for his 
 ransom ; so prove to me that you have the means of hold- 
 ing 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 \>e you who are applying to me for a device?"
 
 392 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 marquis 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. "Do 
 not deceive me, and you will bless me this evening." 
 
 "I believe you, Corentin!" cried Mile, ds Verneuil, 
 quite touched. 
 
 She bowed farewell to him with a gentle inclination of 
 her head, and he on his side smiled with amiability, 
 mingled with surprise, as he saw the expression of tender 
 melancholy on her face.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 393 
 
 "What a charming creature! " cried Corentin to him- 
 self 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 her- 
 self at my feet! Oh, yes! the marquis shall perish; 
 and if I cannot obtain the girl except by plunging her 
 into the mire, I 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 moment'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 towards midday, was regaining all its 
 force by degrees, and became so thick 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 himself, 
 as he went slowly home. "It is impossible to see any- 
 thing 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 promenade across the most dangerous 
 crags. 
 
 1 'Tis I," said a childish voice simply. 
 
 "Ah! the little boy Redfoot. Don'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'/"
 
 394 
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "Yes. " 
 
 "You like big sous, and you want to kill the Gars? I 
 will take care of you. Come, Marie," said Corentin to 
 himself after a pause, "you shall give him up to us your- 
 self! She is too excitable to judge calmly of the blow I 
 am going to deal her; and besides, 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 marquis 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 t,o aid me, might search 
 long without meeting him." 
 
 After having devised no small number of the idle proj- 
 ects which are so easy to carry out by the fireside, Mile, 
 de Yerneuil cried, "When I see him, 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, perhaps, 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.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 395 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil 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 cor- 
 poral. The Republican, after making a military salute 
 to Mile, de Verneuil, presented to her some letters writ- 
 ten on not very clean paper. The soldier, receiving no 
 answer from the young lady, withdrew, observing, 
 "Madame, '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 Vive- 
 tiere. To-night you will lose your wager with the 
 count, and I shall triumph over the Republic in the per- 
 son 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, for La Vendee is submit- 
 ting. There is nothing more to do in France; and, of 
 course, we shall return together to England. But to- 
 morrow for serious business!' " 
 
 The note dropped from her hands ; she closed her eyes, 
 kept the deepest silence, and remained leaning back, 
 her head resting on a cushion. After a long pause, she
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 raised her eyes to the clock, which marked the hour of 
 four. 
 
 "And monsieur keeps me waiting! " she said with sav- 
 age 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 beautiful?" 
 
 "You are very pale." 
 
 "Look! " went on Mile, de Verneuil, "look at this per- 
 fumed chamber, these flowers, these lights, this intoxi- 
 cating vapor! Might not all this give a foretaste 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. 
 Why, 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 
 vengeance to his offense, and he shall die despairing! I 
 thought he had some greatness in his soul; but doubt- 
 less 'tis a lackey'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 com- 
 passion 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 lis he whom I have 
 C'xaltccl so hit^h! To the scaffold! To the scaffold! 
 Ah! I would 1 could see him guillotined! And am I
 
 A KAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 397 
 
 after all so very cruel? He will die covered with kisses 
 and caresses which will have been worth to him twenty 
 years of life ! " 
 
 "Marie," said Francine, with an angelic sweetness, "be 
 your lover's victim, as so many others are; but do not 
 make yourself either his mistress or his executioner. 
 Keep his image at 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, on whom you never 
 think, will reward us for having followed our vocation 
 on earth our vocation to love and to suffer!" 
 
 "Kitten! " answered Mile, de Verneuil, patting Fran- 
 cine' s hand. "Your voice is very sweet and very seduc- 
 tive. Reason is attractive indeed in your shape. I 
 would I could obey you." 
 
 "You pardon him? You would not give him up?" 
 
 "Silence! Speak to me no more of that man. Com- 
 pared 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 inextinguishable thirst 
 of vengeance. Her gait, slow and measured, announced 
 a certain irrevocableness of resolve. A prey to thought, 
 devouring the insult, and too proud to confess the least 
 of her torments, 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! "
 
 398 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 play- 
 ing before the door, "Which way did the lady who has 
 just come out go?" 
 
 Galope-Chopine's son made a step or two with Coren- 
 tin to show him the steep street which led to the Por f e 
 Saint Leonard. "That way," said he, without hesitation, 
 obeying the instinct of vengeance with which his mother 
 had inspired his heart. 
 
 At the same moment four men in disguise entered 
 Mile, de Verneuil's house without 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 arrn. 
 "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 reconnoitring party 
 outside Saint Leonard's Gate, and soon she caught 
 Hulot's deep voice in the midst of the noise. 
 
 "God's thunder!" cried he, "I never saw darker weather
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 399 
 
 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 Ver- 
 neuil, pressing his arm hard. "This fog is good to 
 cover vengeance as well as perfidy. Commandant," added 
 she, in a low voice, "the question is how to concert meas- 
 ures with me so that the Gars cannot escape to-day." 
 
 "Is he at your house?" asked Hulot, in a voice the 
 emotion of which showed 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 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 surround 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 win- 
 dow of my room is twenty feet above the ground, despair 
 sometimes lends men strength to cover the most danger- 
 ous distances. Listen! I shall probably send this gen- 
 tleman 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 Fou- 
 gerese started from the midst of the force which had 
 come back with Hulot, and which had remained drawn 
 up at some distance. 
 
 "Listen, my boy," said the old soldier to him in a low
 
 4OO THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 yourself, and kill him if 
 YOU can, so that I may not have to shoot him by form of 
 law. You shall be lieutenant 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-iferant 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?" whispered 
 Corentin to Mile, de Verneuil. She answered him not, 
 but watched with a kind of satisfaction the departure of 
 the men who, under the sub-lieutenant'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 com- 
 mandant. "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 suddenly
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 40! 
 
 sprung towards her house, whither he followed 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 on 
 your shroud! " 
 
 But then, unable to make up his mind to lose sight of 
 the fateful abode, he directed his steps to the prome- 
 nade, 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, perceiving anything which gave suspi- 
 cion that the marquis had crossed the triple line of 
 watchful lurkers who beset the three accessible sides of 
 the Papegaut's Tower. A score of times Corentin had 
 gone from the promenade to the guard-house ; as often 
 his expectation had been deceived, and his youthful emis- 
 sary 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 darkr.ess the spot where the tragedy devised by 
 26
 
 4O2 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 direc- 
 tion of the glens which edged the precipice, he mechan- 
 ically scrutinized 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 Nan9on, by the mournful peals from 
 the belfry at intervals, by the heavy steps of the senti- 
 nels, 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 Nanon 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 where 
 was his comrade, into whose ear he whispered, so low 
 that the Chouans who followed them could not catch a
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 403 
 
 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, halting, 
 still flat on his stomach; and the whole body imitated 
 his movement, so exhausted were the Chouans by the 
 difficulties which the scarped rock offered to their prog- 
 ress. "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 triangular 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 examined 
 the whole place rightly this morning, we shall find at the 
 foot of the Papegaut's Tower, between 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 graciously 
 change the blood which is going to flow into good 
 cider, the men of Fotigeres 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
 
 404 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 from file to file to the very last Chouan who hung in the 
 air, clinging to the briars of the schist. Indeed, Coren- 
 tin's ear was too well trained not to have heard the rustle 
 of some bushes which the Chouans had pulled about, 
 and the slight noise 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 
 continual 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 perceive 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 communicat- 
 ing 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 deuce take you, my good woman!" said he in a 
 low tone: "if you had met anyone but me, you would 
 have been likely to get a bullet through your head! 
 But \vhence 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.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 405 
 
 As silence was becoming dangerous, the stranger 
 replied, in a tone which showed great fright, "Oh! good 
 man, I be coming back from the vei///e."* 
 
 'Tis the marquis' pretended mother," thought Coren- 
 tin. "Let us see what she is going to do." 
 
 "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 Papegaut's 
 Tower, he followed her afar off with devilish cunning. 
 During this fatal meeting the Chouans had very clev- 
 erly 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 on 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 dress- 
 ing-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 Nan9on, 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 
 
 * There is, I believe, more than one local name for this ( = "evening party, half 
 for work and half for amusement"; in English dialects. But the only one known to 
 literary English is "wake," which has too special and lugubrious a meaning. 
 Translator' s S~ote.
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 Corentin; 
 "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, we 
 shall have some fighting." 
 
 When Hulot arrived on the promenade, Corentin 
 showed him in the gloom the strange position occupied 
 by the Chouans. "They must have eluded or stifled the 
 sentinels I 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 lieu- 
 tenant 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 preci- 
 pice like stones, without breaking a limb." 
 
 The cracked bell of the belfry was sounding two when 
 the commandant came back to the promenade, after taking 
 the strictest military precautions for getting hold of the 
 Chouans commanded by Marche-a-Terre. By this time, 
 all the guards having been doubled, Mile, de Verneuil's 
 house had become the center of a small army. The 
 commandant found Corentin plunged in contemplation 
 of the window which shone above the Papegaut's Tower. 
 
 "Citizen," said Hulot to him, "I think the ci-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, com- 
 mandant, there is a man for you! Let us advance! "
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 407 
 
 "God's thunder!" cried Hulot, who had his own rea- 
 sons 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 com- 
 mandant's wrath, said coolly, "You will please to obey 
 me. Here is an order in regular form, signed by the Min- 
 ister 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 
 civil war that we are stifling, and the greatness of the 
 result excuses the meanness of the means." 
 
 "I take the liberty, citizen, of bidding you go and 
 you understand me? Enough! Put your left foot fore- 
 most, 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 moment 
 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 cor- 
 poral who was near him, "run and tell the lieutenant 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
 
 408 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 lucidity which ideas 
 then acquire, the delicacy of the over-excited senses, 
 produce the strangest and the most unexpected effects. 
 When they find themselves 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 escap- 
 ing her vengeance, just as, but the moment before, she 
 had made every preparation 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 own conduct, and decided, with a kind of horror, that 
 what she had just committed was a crime. In her first 
 moment of distress she sprang towards the door-step, and 
 stood there motionless for an instant, endeavoring to 
 reflect, but unable to bring any reasoning process to a 
 conclusion. She was so absolutely uncertain what she had 
 just done, that she asked herself why she was standing 
 in the vestibule of her own house, 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
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 409 
 
 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 the third. "She does not see 
 us." 
 
 At her own chamber door Mile, de Verneuil perceived 
 the sweet and joyful face of Francine, who whispered in 
 her ear, "He is there, Marie!" 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil roused herself, was able to collect 
 her thoughts, looked at the child whose hand she held, 
 and answered Francine: "Lock this little boy up some- 
 where, 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 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 outlined an incomplete smile, 
 the expression of which was one of terror rather than of 
 delight. She stepped slowly towards the young man, 
 and pointed with her finger towards the clock.
 
 410 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "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 feelings, 
 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 caressing 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?" continued 
 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! O, 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 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.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 41! 
 
 "Do not touch me!" she cried, starting back with a 
 movement of horror. 
 
 "She is mad!" said the marquis despairingly to him- 
 self. 
 
 "Yes! she repeated, "mad! but not mad enough yet to 
 be your plaything! What would I not pardon to pas- 
 sion? 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 astonish- 
 ment 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! " 
 
 Then, 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 horri- 
 ble. 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, amidst her sobs, say, "You 
 love me still?"
 
 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 "You doubt it?" he answered, in a tone almost melan- 
 choly. 
 
 She disengaged herself sharply from his arms, 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 sar- 
 casm 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 arrayed 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 
 Guenic, the two witnesses chosen by Montauran. 
 
 "Will you again refuse me?" whispered the marquis 
 to her. 
 
 At this spectacle she made one step back so as to 
 regain her chamber, fell on her knees, stretched her 
 hands towards the marquis, and cried: "Oh, forgive me! 
 forgive ! forgive! " 
 
 Her voice sank, her head fell back, her eyes closed, 
 and she remained as if lifeless in the arms of the mar- 
 quis and of Francine. When she opened her eyes again 
 she met those of the young chief, full of loving kind- 
 ness. 
 
 "Patience, Marie! This storm is the last," said he. 
 
 "The last!" she repeated. 
 
 Francine and the marquis looked at each other in 
 astonishment, but she bade them be silent by a gesture. 
 
 "Call the priest," she said, "and leave rne alone with 
 him. " 
 
 They withdrew. 
 
 "Father: " she said to the priest, who suddenly ap-
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 413 
 
 peared before her. "Father! in my childhood an old 
 man, white-haired like yourself, frequently repeated to 
 me that, with a lively faith, man can obtain everything 
 from God. Is this true?" 
 
 "It is true," answered the priest. "Everything is pos- 
 sible 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 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 radi-
 
 414 ' I-HE CHOUANS- 
 
 antly beautiful than she had ever been before, for a 
 serenity resembling that which painters delight in 
 imparting to martyrs stamped on her face a character of 
 majesty. She held out her hand to the marquis, and 
 they advanced together to the altar, at which they knelt 
 down. This marriage, which was about to be celebrated 
 but a few steps from the nuptial couch, the hastily- 
 erected altar, the cross, the vases, the chalice brought 
 secretly 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, composed a strange 
 and touching scene which may give a final touch to our 
 sketch of those times of unhappy memory, when civil 
 discord had overthrown the most holy institutions. Then 
 religious ceremonies had all the attraction of mysteries. 
 Children 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 contraven- 
 ing the new legislation; but later, these marriages, cele- 
 brated for the most part at the foot of the oak trees, were 
 all scrupulously 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 amidst 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 mis- 
 sio.n of performing the rites of the priesthood for the
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 415 
 
 Catholic remnant of souls. In order to succeed in this 
 perilous ministry, he employed 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 Priests' 
 Holes. The mere sight of his pale and suffering face 
 ha'd such power in inspiring devotion and respect, that 
 it was enough to give to the worldly drawing-room the 
 air of a holy place. All was ready for the act of mis- 
 fortune and of joy. Before beginning the ceremony, the 
 priest, amid profound silence, asked the name of the 
 bride. 
 
 "Marie Nathalie, 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 Alen9on. " 
 
 "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.
 
 \1 
 
 416 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 And the count added, under his breath, 'Give me 
 saints like that, and I will be deucedly 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 towards her husband'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 taking 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 excuses 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 indiscretion, 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 
 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 Salvator 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 
 \ou would run too much risk in trying to leave Fou-
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 417 
 
 geres. 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 grace- 
 fully. They had come at last to that fateful couch where 
 so many hopes are shattered 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 towards 
 morning, as she awoke with a start in one of those sud- 
 den movements which disturb us when we have arranged 
 with ourselves to wake next day at a certain time. "Yes ! 
 I have slept," she repeated, 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 children 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?" 
 
 She touched him gently; he woke and finished the 
 smile. Then he kissed the hand he held, and gazed at 
 the unhappy woman with such fire in his eyes, 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 veiled the ardor of her own 
 2?
 
 418 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 
 gracious heads, and still full of the pleasures they had 
 enjoyed, exchanged signs of gratitude. But the marquis, 
 after rapidly examining the exquisite picture 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 of 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 Corentin, who paced to and fro like 
 a jackal waiting for his prey, and the commandant, who 
 stood motionless, 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 / 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 love you still!"
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 
 
 419 
 
 "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 dressing- 
 
 u..., n. 
 
 room. "Pierre is there! " she cried, with a joy bordering 
 on delirium. Then she and the marchioness dressed 
 Montauran in a Chouan's garb with the wonderful rapid- 
 ity which belongs only to women. When the mar-
 
 42O THE CHOUANS. 
 
 chioness saw her husband busy loading the weapons 
 which Francine had 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 together, 
 could appreciate the careful activity with which the girl 
 had worked to outwit the vigilance of the soldiers. 
 
 "I can never get through there," said the marquis, 
 scanning the narrow embrasure of the ceil-de-bceuf. 
 
 But at the same moment a huge, dark face filled its 
 oval, and a hoarse voice, well known to Francine, 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 ladder of 
 deliverance, but a part of whose body was still in the 
 loop-hole, felt himself embraced despairingly. 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 valley to the foot of the 
 tower succeeded the volleys of the Blues stationed on 
 the promenade. The Republican fire was steady, con- 
 tinuous, unpitying; but its victims uttered not a single 
 cry, an 1 between each volley the silence was terrible.
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 431 
 
 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. 
 "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 Leonard's, cried, 
 
 ' 'Tis true; there cannot be two of them." And he 
 
 rushed towards the guard-house. 
 
 "We have washed his head with lead, commandant," 
 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 sentinel 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 bleed- 
 ing 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 both whose arms had been broken 
 by many gunshots, on a bier formed by their guns. The
 
 422 THE CHOUANS. 
 
 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 his 
 strength, but never quitting Marie's hand, "I 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 toasting-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 1827 an old man, accompanied by his wife, was 
 bargaining for cattle on the market-place of Fougeres, 
 without anybody saying anything to him, though he had 
 killed more than a hundred men. They did not even
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW. 433 
 
 remind him of his surname of Marche-a-Terre. The per- 
 son to whom the writer owes much precious information 
 as to the characters 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 
 \\hich was one of the incidents of the famous trial of 
 Rifoel, Briond, and La Chanterie. 
 
 THE END.
 
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 Beautifully and Artistically Bound in one Volume, with Portrait, 
 825 Pages, 8vo., $2.00. Half Russia, $3.50. 
 
 PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 
 
 THE ONLY UNABRIDGED TRANSLATION 
 
 and which presents for the first time to the English 
 reading public the life and thoughts of this extra- 
 ordinary young girl, who was the acknowledged 
 phenomenon of this century. To use her own lan- 
 guage, this translation tells Everything! Everything!! 
 Everything!!! otherwise, as she adds, "What use 
 were it to write?" 
 
 See that you get the Rand-McNally Edition, 
 825 pages, the only literal and complete tran>la- 
 tion published, which is not to be confounded wiih 
 other editions in paper or cloth, whatever tlieir 
 price may be, for no other edition contains more 
 than about one-half of the thoughts given to the 
 world by this marvelous young artist. 
 
 FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. 
 
 Sent prepaid, on receipt of price. 
 
 RAND, McNALLY & CO., Publishers, 
 
 CHICAGO AND NEW YORK.
 
 A 000 605 441 5
 
 
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