La Vendee Part 25

"Nor would I have you do so; we have a duty to do, and though it be painful we must do it. 'G.o.d will temper the wind to the shorn lamb,' and give us strength to bear our sufferings; but my heart shudders, when I am told that the Republic has let loose those wolves of Paris to shed the blood of our poor people."

The prospect of a prolonged civil war, of continued strife, and increased bloodshed, somewhat damped the joy with which the victory at Saumur was discussed in the aristocratic portion of the chateau; but no such gloomy notions were allowed to interfere with the triumph which reigned in the kitchen. Here victory was clothed in robes all couleur de rose, and it appeared that La Vendee, so happy in many other respects, was chiefly blessed in being surrounded by republicans whom she could conquer, and in having enemies who gave her the means of acquiring glory.

"And our own young master was the first royalist who put his foot in Saumur?" asked Momont, who had already received the information he required four or five times, and on each occasion had drunk Henri's health in about half-a-pint of wine.

"Indeed he was," said Chapeau, "the very first. You don't think he'd have let any one go before him."

"Here's his health then, and G.o.d bless him!" said Momont. "It was I first showed him how to fire a pistol; and very keen he was at taking to gunpowder."

"Indeed, and indeed he was," said the housekeeper. "When he was no more than twelve years old, not nigh as big as the little Chevalier, he let off the big blunderbuss in my bed-room, and I on my knees at prayers the while. G.o.d bless his sweet face, I always knew he'd make a great soldier."

"And don't you remember," said the laundress, "how he blew up Mademoiselle Agatha, making her sit on a milk-pan turned over, with a whole heap of gunpowder stuffed underneath, and she only six or seven years old?"

"Did he though," said the page, "blow up Mademoiselle Agatha?"

"Indeed he did, and blew every sc.r.a.p of hair off her head and eyebrows.

It's no wonder he's such a great general."

"And the Chevalier was second, wasn't he?" said the cook.

"Dear little darling fellow!" said the confidential maid; "and to think of him going to the wars with guns and swords and pistols! If anything had happened to him I should have cried my eyes out."

"And was the Chevalier the first to follow M. Henri into the town?"

asked the page, who was a year older than Arthur Mondyon, and consequently felt himself somewhat disgraced at not having been at Saumur.

"Why," said Jacques, with a look which was intended to shew how unwilling he was to speak of himself, "I can't exactly say the Chevalier was the first to follow M. Henri, but if he wasn't the second, he was certainly the third who entered Saumur."

"Who then was the second?" said one or two at the same time.

"Why, I shouldn't have said anything about it, only you ask me so very particularly," said Jacques, "but I believe I was second myself; but Jean Stein can tell you everything; you weren't backward yourself Jean, there were not more than three or four of them before you and Peter."

"I don't know about that," said Jean, "but we all did the best we could, I believe."

"And was Chapeau really second?" said Momont, who was becoming jealous of the distinction likely to be paid to his junior fellow-servant. "You don't mean to say he went in before all the other gentlemen?"

"Gentlemen, indeed!" said Chapeau. "What an idea you have of taking a town by storm, if you think men are to stand back to make room for gentlemen, as though a party were going into dinner."

"But tell us now, Jean Stein," continued Momont, "was Chapeau really second?"

"Well then," said Jean, "he was certainly second into the water, but he was so long under it, I doubt whether he was second out--he certainly did get a regular good ducking did Chapeau. Why, you came out feet uppermost, Chapeau."

"Feet uppermost!" shouted Momont, "and is that your idea of storming a town, to go into it feet uppermost?"

"But do you really mean to say that you were absolutely wet through when you took Saumur?" said the laundress.

"Indeed we were," answered Chapeau, "wringing wet, every man of us."

"Lawks! how uncomfortable," said the cook. "And M. Henri, was he wet too?"

"Wet, to be sure he was wet as water could make him."

"And the little Chevalier, did he get himself wet?" said the confidential maid, "poor little fellow! it was like to give him his death of cold."

"But, Chapeau, tell me truly now: did you kill any of those b.l.o.o.d.y republicans with your own hand?" asked the housekeeper.

"Kill them," said Chapeau, "to be sure, I killed them when we were fighting."

"And how many, Chapeau; how many did you positively kill dead, you know?" said the confidential maid.

"What nonsense you do talk!" answered he, with a great air of military knowledge, "as if a man in battle knows when he kills and when he doesn't. You're not able to look about you in that sort of way in the middle of the smoke and noise and confusion."

"You don't mean to tell me you ever kill a man without knowing it!" said the housekeeper.

"You don't understand what a battle is at all," answered Chapeau, determined to communicate a little of his experience on the matter. "One hasn't time to look about one to see anything. Now supposing you had been with us at the taking of Saumur."

"Oh, the Lord forbid!" said the housekeeper. "I'd sooner be in my grave any day, than go to one of those horrid b.l.o.o.d.y battles."

"Or you, Momont; supposing you'd been there?"

"Maybe I might have done as much as another, old as I look," replied the butler.

"I'm sure you'd have done well, Momont. I'm sure you'd have done very well," endeavouring to conciliate him into listening; "but supposing you had been there, or at the camp of Varin--we'll say Varin, for after all, we had more fighting there than at Saumur. Supposing you were one of the attacking party; you find yourself close wedged in between your two comrades right opposite the trenches; you have a loaded musket in your hand, with a bayonet fixed to it, and you have five or six rounds of cartridges in your belt; you know that you are to do your best, or rather your worst with what you've got. Well, your commander gives the word of attack. We'll suppose it's the good Cathelineau. 'Friends,' he will say; 'dear friends; now is the time to prove ourselves men; now is the moment to prove that we love our King; we will soon shew the republicans that a few sods of turf are no obstacles in the way of Vendean royalists,' and then the gallant fellow rushes into the trenches; two thousand brave men follow him, shouting 'Vive le Roi!' and you, Momont, are one of the first. All of a sudden, as you are just in motion, prepared for your first spring, a sharp cutting gush of air pa.s.ses close to your face, and nearly blinds you; you feel that you can hardly breathe, but you hear a groan, and a stumble; your next neighbour and three men behind him have been sent into eternity by a cannon-ball from the enemy. Do you think then that the man who fired the cannon knows, or cares who he has killed? Well, on you go; had you not been in a crowd, the enemy's fire, maybe, might have frightened you; but good company makes men brave: on you go, and throw yourself into the trench.

You find a more active man than yourself just above you; he is already nearly at the top of the bank, his feet are stuck in the sods above your head; he is about to spring upon the rampart, when the bayonet of a republican pa.s.ses through his breast, and he falls at your feet, or perhaps upon your head. You feel your heart shudder, and your blood runs cold, but it is no time for pausing now; you could not return if you would, neither can you remain where you are: up you go, grasping your musket in one hand and digging the other into the loose sods. Your eyes and mouth are crammed with dust, your face is bespattered with your comrade's blood, your ears are full of strange noises; your very nature changes within you; the smell of gunpowder and of carnage makes you feel like a beast of prey. You do not think any longer of the friends who have fallen beside you; you only long to grapple with the enemy who are before you."

"Oh, mercy me! how very shocking!" said the housekeeper. "Pray don't go on Chapeau; pray don't, or I shall have such horrid dreams."

"Oh! but you must go on, Chapeau," said the confidential maid, "I could never bear that you should leave off; it is very horrid, surely; but as Mademoiselle says, we must learn to look at blood and wounds now, and hear of them, too."

"Do pray tell us the rest," said the page, who sat listening intently with his mouth wide open. "I do so like it; pray tell us what Momont did after he became a beast of prey?"

Chapeau was supremely happy; he felt that his military experience and his descriptive talents were duly appreciated, and he continued:

"Well, you are now in the camp, on the enemy's ground, and you have to fight every inch, till you drive them out of it; six or seven of your comrades are close to you, and you all press on, still grasping your muskets and pus.h.i.+ng your bayonets before you: the enemy make a rush to drive you back again; on they come against you, by twenties and by thirties; those who are behind, push forward those who are in front, and suddenly you find a heavy dragging weight upon your hands, and again you hear the moans of a dying man close to you--almost in your arms. A republican soldier has fallen on your bayonet. The struggles of the wounded man nearly overpower you; you twist and turn and wrench, and drag your musket to and fro, but it is no use; the weapon is jammed between his ribs; you have not s.p.a.ce nor time to extricate it; you are obliged to leave it, and on you go unarmed, stumbling over the body of your fallen enemy. Whether the man dies or lives, whether his wound be mortal or no, you will never hear. And so you advance, till gradually you begin to feel, rather than to see, that the blues are retreating from you. You hear unarmed men asking for quarter, begging for their lives, and the sound of entreaty again softens your heart; you think of sparing life, instead of taking it; you embrace your friends as you meet them here and there; you laugh and sing as you feel that you have done your best and have conquered; and when you once more become sufficiently calm to be aware what you are yourself doing, you find that you have a sword in your hand, or a huge pistol; you know not from whom you took them, or where you got them, or in what manner you have used them. How can a man say then, whom he has killed in battle, or whether he has killed any man? I do not recollect that I ever fired a shot at Varin myself, and yet my musket was discharged and the pan was up. I will not say that I ever killed a man; but I will say that I never struck a man who asked for mercy, or fired a shot even on a republican, who had thrown down his arms."

Henri's voice was now heard in the hall, loudly calling for Jacques, and away he ran to join his master, as he finished his history.

"It makes my blood run cold," said the housekeeper, "to think of such horrid things."

"Chapeau describes it very well, though," said the confidential maid; "I'm sure he has seen it all himself. I'm sure he's a brave fellow."

"It's not always those who talk the most that are the bravest," said Momont.

Henri and his sister sat talking that night for a long time, after the other inhabitants of the chateau were in bed, and though they had so many subjects of interest to discuss, their conversation was chiefly respecting Adolphe Denot.

"I cannot guess what has become of him," said Henri; "I made every possible inquiry, short of that which might seem to compromise his character. I do not think he can have returned to the Bocage, or we should have heard of him."

"He must have gone to Fleury," said Agatha. "I am sure you will not find that he is at his own house."