CHAPTER III.
DURBELLIERE.
The chateau of Durbelliere, the family seat of the Larochejacquelins,was situated in the very centre of the Bocage, between the small townsof Chatillon and Vihiers--in the province of Poitou, and about twelveleagues from St. Florent.
It was a large mansion, surrounded by extensive gardens, and aconsiderable domain. There were few residences of more importanceas betokening greater wealth in the province of Poitou; but it wasneither magnificent nor picturesque. The landlords of the countrywere not men of extensive property or expensive habits--they builtno costly castles, and gave no sumptuous banquets; but they lived athome, on their incomes, and had always something to spare for thepoorer of their neighbours. Farming was their business--the chasetheir amusement--loyalty their strongest passion, and the prosperityof their tenantry their chief ambition.
The chateau of Durbelliere was a large square building, three storieshigh, with seven front windows to each of the upper stories, and threeon each side of the large door on the ground floor. Eight stone stepsof great width led up to the front door; but between the top step andthe door there was a square flagged area of considerable space; and onthe right hand, and on the left, two large whitewashed lions reclinedon brick and mortar pedestals. An enormous range of kitchens, officesand cellars, ran under the whole house; the windows opened into a lowarea, or rather trench, which ran along the front and back of the house,and to which there were no rails or palings of any kind. The servants'door was at the side of the house, and the servants and people comingto them, to save themselves the trouble of walking round to this door,were in the habit of jumping into the area and entering the kitchen bythe window. Doubtless some lady of the house, when the mansion was firstbuilt, had protested strongly against this unsightly practice; but habithad now accustomed the family to this mode of ingress and egress, andthe servants of Durbelliere consequently never used any other.
The back of the chateau was just the same as the front, the samewindows, the same broad steps, the same pedestals and the samewhitewashed lions, only the steps, instead of leading on to a largegravelled square, led into a trim garden. There were no windows,whatsoever, on one side of the house, and on the other only thosenecessary to light the huge staircase of the mansion.
The rooms were square, very large, and extremely lofty; the salon alonewas carpetted, and none of them were papered, the drawing-room, thedining-room and the grand salon were ornamented with painted panels,which displayed light-coloured shepherds and shepherdesses in almostevery possible attitude. In these rooms, also, there were highlyornamented stoves, which stood out about four feet from the wall, toppedwith marble slabs, on which were sculptured all the gods and demi-godsof the heathen mythology--that in the drawing-room exhibited Vulcancatching Mars and Venus in his marble net; and the unhappy position ofthe god of war was certainly calculated to read a useful lesson to anyParisian rover, who might attempt to disturb the domestic felicity ofany family in the Bocage.
The house was not above a hundred yards from the high road, from whichthere were two entrances about two hundred yards apart. There were largewooden, gates at each, which were usually left open, but each of whichwas guarded by two white-washed lions--not quite so much at ease asthose on the pedestals, for they were fixed a-top of pillars hardlybroad enough to support them. But this doubtless only increased theirwatchfulness.
But the glory of the chateau was the large garden behind the house. Itwas completely enclosed by a very high wall, and, like the house, wasnearly square in its proportions. It contained miles of walks, and eachwalk so like the others, that a stranger might wander there for a weekwithout knowing that he had retraversed the same ground, were it notthat he could not fail to recognize the quaint groups of figures whichmet him at every turn. A few of these were of stone, rudely sculptured,but by far the greater number were of painted wood, and, like theshepherds and shepherdesses in the drawing-room, displayed every actionof rural life. You would suddenly come upon a rosy-coloured gentleman,with a gun to his shoulder, in the act of shooting game--then a girlwith a basket of huge cabbages--an old man in a fit of the cholic; thesame rosy gentleman violently kissing a violet-coloured young lady; and,at the next turn, you would find the violet-coloured young lady fastasleep upon a bank. You would meet a fat cure a dozen times inhalf-an-hour, and always well employed. He would be saying hisprayers--drinking beer--blessing a young maiden, and cudgelling a mulethat wouldn't stir a step for him, till the large yellow drops of sweatwere falling from his face. It was inconceivable how so many paintedfigures, in such a variety of attitudes, could have been designed andexecuted; but there they were, the great glory of the old gardener, andthe endless amusement of the peasants of the neighbourhood, who wereallowed to walk there on the summer Sunday evenings.
The gardens of Durbelliere were also wonderful in another respect. Itwas supposed to be impossible to consume, or even to gather, all thecherries which they produced in the early summer. The trees between thewalks were all cherry-trees--old standard trees of a variety of sorts;but they all bore fruit of some description or another, some sweet andsome bitter; some large, some small, and some perfectly diminutive; someblack, some red, and some white. Every species of known cherry was inthat garden in abundance; but even the gardener himself did not know theextent of the produce. Birds of all kinds flocked there in enormousnumbers, and banqueted gloriously during the summer. No one disturbedthem except the painted sportsman; and the song of the linnet and thethrush was heard all day, and that of the nightingale during the night.
The old Marquis de Larochejaquelin had been crossed in love early inlife, and he had not recovered from his sorrow till he was above fifty,when he married, and outlived his young wife, who left him differentchildren. Henri and Agatha were the only two now living with him. As hasalready been said, the old man was very infirm, and had lost the use ofhis limbs.
When the weather was cold or wet, he sat with his daughter, Agatha, nearhis bright wood fire, and watched her needle, or listened to her songs;but, if the sun appeared at all, he was dragged out in his garden chairamong the birds and the painted figures, and was happy in spite of hisinfirmities.
He was most affectionate to his children, and indulgent to a fault. Hewas kind to every one, and, unless the birds were disturbed, thecherry-trees injured, or the figures upset, he was never angry even witha servant. Everybody loved and venerated the old Marquis, and even inhis foibles, he was thoroughly respected. He had a vast collection ofstuffed birds of every description, and the peasants round him were soanxious to gratify him by adding to his stock, that there began to bea doubt whether room in the chateau could be found for the presentswhich were continually brought. The upper story of the house had neverbeen required by the family, and the rooms had not even been roofed orplastered. One great partition wall ran across the space, and the onlyceiling was the bare high-pointed roof of the house. This place wascalled the granary, and was used for a drying ground. And here thesuperfluous birds were brought, much to the old man's grief, for he knewthat he should never see them again; but he could not refuse them whenthey were given to him, and the room which he inhabited wouldconveniently hold no more.
The happiness of the last years of the old man's life was much disturbedby the events of the French revolution. He had been very anxious whenhe saw his young son join a club, which was sure to incur the ill-willof the ruling power in Paris; and yet he could not dissuade him fromdoing so; and, though he had rejoiced when his son returned to Poitoustill safe, the imprisonment of the King had woefully afflicted him, andhis death had nearly killed him. He had now expressed his opposition tothe levies of a conscription with a degree of energy which hadastonished his family. He knew the names and persons of every man andwoman living on his estate, indeed, of every child above the age of ten;and, when he was told the names of those who were drawn as conscripts,he desired that they might all be told in his name that he hoped theywould not obey.
Henri de Larochejacqu
elin has already been introduced to the reader. Hereturned to Poitou as soon as the Republic was proclaimed, together withde Lescure and Adolphe Denot. Adolphe had been staying a great portionof the winter at Durbelliere, but he had since gone to his own place,and was now at Clisson, the seat of M. de Lescure.
Marie de Lescure, the sister of Henri's friend, was staying atDurbelliere with Agatha Larochejaquelin; and her visit, which had beenprolonged from before Christmas, had certainly not been made lessagreeable by the fact of Henri's having been at home the whole time. Sheand Agatha were both pretty, but they were very different. Marie haddark hair, nearly black, very dark eyes, and a beautiful richcomplexion; her skin was dark, but never sallow; her colour was notbright, but always clear and transparent; her hair curled naturallyround her head, and the heavy curls fell upon her neck and shoulders;she was rather under the middle height, but the symmetry of her figurewas so perfect, that no one would have called her too short. She hadhigh animal spirits, and was always happy and good humoured; was veryfond of amusement of every kind, and able to extract amusement out ofeverything. She was the great favourite of the old Marquis, not that heloved her so well as his own daughter, but her habits and manners suitedhim better than Agatha's; she could better sympathize with the old man'swishes and fancies; she would smooth the plumage of his birds for him;arrange and re-arrange his shells; feed his cats, his dogs, his tamedeer, and his white peacock--for the old Marquis had live pets as wellas dead favourites. Then she would sing merry little songs to him, andlaugh at him, and quiz his painted figures, and help to wheel his chair,or pretend to do so.
She did all these things more readily than Agatha did, for her spiritswere lighter. Not that Agatha was unhappy, or inattentive to her father;but she was quieter than Marie and of a more contemplative mood. Shealso had dark hair, but it was a dark brown, and she wore it braidedclose to her forehead. Her complexion was clear and bright, her foreheadwas white, and the colour in her cheeks, when she had colour there, wasthat of the clearest carnation. She was considerably taller than Marie,but her figure was exquisitely perfect, and her gait was that of aqueen. She was the Rose of Poitou, the beauty and queen of the wholedistrict. She was all but worshipped by the peasantry around her; ifthey admired her beauty much, they much more strongly appreciated hervirtues, her charity, her considerate kindness, her want of selfishness,her devotion to her friends and neighbours, and lastly, her strongfeeling of loyalty, her love for the king while he lived, and herpassionate regret for him since he had perished on the scaffold. In thisshe inherited all the feelings of her father, and it was greatly herattachment to the throne and to the name of the King, which led to sohigh a pitch the enthusiasm of the peasantry in behalf of the royalists.
Many wishes, surmises and anticipations had arisen as to who was tocarry off this rich prize; who should be the happy husband of AgathaLarochejaquelin; but her friends had hitherto been anxious in vain; shestill went "in maiden meditation fancy free." Not that she was withoutprofessed admirers; but they had none of them yet touched her heart.Many thought that she would be the bride of her brother's friend,Adolphe Denot; for he was more at the chateau than any one else, wasvery handsome, and had a good property. Adolphe was moreover seen to bevery attentive to Mademoiselle Agatha; and thrown so much with her ashe was, how could he fail of being in love with her.
This belief much disturbed the comfort of Agatha's humble friends, forAdolphe Denot was not popular among them: there was a haughtiness in hismanner to the poor, to which their own lords and masters had neveraccustomed them. He was supercilious and proud in his bearing towardsthem, and had none of the cheering, frank look and tone of their owndear young M. Henri. They need not, however, have been alarmed, forAgatha Larochejaquelin was not at all disposed to take Adolphe Denot asher lord; she was passionately attached to her brother, and for his sakeshe had been kind, attentive, nay, almost affectionate to his friend;she and Adolphe had been much together since they were children. He hadbeen absent from Durbelliere for about a year, during which time, he hadceased to be a boy, and on his return to the chateau had taken onhimself the airs, if not the manners of a man. Agatha's manner to himwas not altered, it was still friendly and affectionate, and Adolphe,with his usual vanity, misinterpreted it; he flattered himself that thebeautiful girl loved him, and he soon persuaded himself that he wasdevotedly attached to her.
He had not yet positively declared his love, but Agatha felt from hismanner that she had to expect a declaration, and she consequentlyaltered her own; she became less familiar with him, she avoided allopportunities of being alone with him; she still called him by hisChristian name, for she had always done so; she was still kind andattentive to him, for he was a guest in her father's house; but Adolphefelt that she was altered, and he became angry and moody; he thoughtthat she was coquetting and that he was slighted; and without muchnotice to any one, he left the house.
Agatha was glad that he was gone; she wished to spare him thehumiliation of a refusal; she understood his character well, and feltthat the wound inflicted on his self-love, by being rejected, would bemore painful to him than his actual disappointment; she knew thatAdolphe would not die for love, but she also knew that he would notquietly bear the fancied slight of unreturned affection. If, by herconduct, she could induce him to change his own, to drop the lover, andbe to her again simply her brother's friend, all might yet be well; butif he persevered and declared his love, she felt that there would be aquarrel, not only between him and her, but between him and Henri.
To tell the truth, Henri had rather fostered his friend's passion forAgatha. He had wished to see them married; and, though he had notexactly told his friend as much, he had said so much that both Agathaand Denot knew what his wishes were. This, of course, gave greatencouragement to the lover, but it greatly grieved poor Agatha; and nowthat Adolphe was gone, she made up her mind to open her heart to herbrother.
A day or two before the revolt of St. Florent, they were sittingtogether in the drawing-room; it was late in the evening, the oldMarquis had retired for the night, and Marie de Lescure was engagedelsewhere, so that Agatha and her brother were left alone together. Hewas reading, but she was sitting gazing at the fire. She could hardlysummon up courage to say, even to her dear brother, what she wished tosay.
"Henri," she said at last, "does Adolphe return here from Fleury?"(Fleury was the name of Denot's house).
"I hope he will," said Henri; "but what makes you ask? the place is dullwithout him, isn't it?"
"Dull! you don't find Marie dull, do you, Henri?"
"Oh, Marie!" said he, laughing, "Marie amuses our father, and she charmsme; but you might find the house dull, in spite of Marie--eh, Agatha?"
"Indeed no, Henri; the house was not dull even when you were in Paris,and Marie was at Clisson, and papa and I were alone together here; itwas not my being dull made me ask whether Adolphe was to return."
"But you wouldn't be sorry that he should come back, Agatha? You don'twant to banish poor Adolphe from Durbelliere, I hope?"
"No," said Agatha, doubtfully, "no, I don't want to banish him--ofcourse, Henri, I can't want to banish your friend from the house; but--"
"But what?" said Henri, now perceiving that his sister had something onher mind--something that she wished to say to him; "but what, dearestAgatha?"
"I don't want to banish him from the house, Henri; but I wish he wouldnot return just at present; but you haven't answered my question--youhaven't told me whether you expect him."
"I think he will return; but he did not himself say exactly when. I amsorry to hear what you say, Agatha--very sorry--I thought you andAdolphe were great friends. I was even a little jealous," added he,laughing, "at the close alliance between you, and I thought of gettingup a little separate party of my own with Marie."
"Don't separate yourself from me, Henri!" said she; "don't let us beseparated in anything, even in thought; not but that I should bedelighted to see a dearer friendship between you and Marie, even thanthat between Mari
e and myself; but don't plan any separate alliance forme. I hope you have not been doing so--tell me, Henri, that you havenot." And then she added, blushing deeply up to her pale forehead, "Youhave not proposed to Adolphe that I should be his wife?"
"No, Agatha, I have not proposed it to him; I should not have dreamt ofdoing so, without knowing that it would not be disagreeable to you."
"There's my own dear brother! My own Henri!" said she, going over tohim, caressing him, and kissing his forehead.
"I will never make an offer of your hand to any one Agatha; you shallchoose for yourself; I will never cause you sorrow in that way: but Iwill own, dearest, that I have wished you should marry Adolphe, and Ihave also fancied that you loved him."
"No, Henri, no, I do not love him--I can never love him--that is, as myhusband. I do love him as your friend. I will continue to love him assuch, as long as he remains your friend."
"I fancied also," continued he; "nay, I did more than fancy--I am surehe loves you--is it not so?"
"He has never told me so," said she, again blushing; "it is that he maynot tell me so, that I now say that I hope he is not returning. Oh,Henri, my own dearest brother, do not let him come to Durbelliere;prevent him in some way; go to him for a while; make some plan with him;and give me warning when he is coming, and I will be at Clisson withMarie."
"Will it not be better for both of you, Agatha, that you shouldunderstand each other? I know he loves you, though he has not told meso. You must tell him, kindly, that you cannot return his affection: youcannot always run away from him."
"He will forget me soon. He will, at any rate, forget his love, when hefinds that I avoid his company; but, Henri, if he formally asks my hand,and is refused, that he will neither forget nor forgive."
"He must take his chance, dearest, like other men."
"But he isn't like other men, Henri. You know he is--he is ratherimpatient of refusal; he could not bear as well as some men anymortification to his pride."
"I trust he has too much real pride to feel himself disgraced, becausehe is not loved. I grieve for him, for I love him myself; and I know hisaffections are strong; but I think it is better he should know the truthat once, and it must be from your own lips. I cannot tell him you willnot accept him before he himself makes the offer."
Agatha did not reply; she could not explain even to her brother all thatshe felt. She could not point out to him how very weak--how selfish hisfriend was. She could not tell him that his bosom friend would sufferten times more from the wound to his pride in being rejected, than fromthe effects of disappointed love; but she rightly judged her lover'scharacter. Adolphe Denot loved her as warmly as he was capable of lovingought but himself; but were she to die, his grief would be very shortlived; he would not, however, endure to see that she preferred any oneto himself.
"I am sorry for this, Agatha--very sorry," continued her brother; "I hadfondly hoped to see you Adolphe's wife, but it is over now. I will neverpress you against your will."
"My own Henri--how good you are to your Agatha. I knew you would nottorture me with a request that I should marry a man I did not love. Igrieve that I interfere with your plans; but I will live with you, andbe your old maid sister, and nurse and love your children, and theyshall love their old maid aunt."
"There are other men, Agatha, besides Adolphe. Perhaps your next requestwill be a very different one; perhaps, then, you will be singing thepraises of some admirer, and asking me to give him a brother's place inmy heart."
"And when I ask it, you will do so; but Henri," and she put her handsupon his shoulder, as she stood close to his chair, "don't let Adolphecome here immediately."
"He must do so, dearest, now I think of it: we have other things tothink of besides ladies' hearts, and other matters to plan besideswedding favours; the troops will be in Clisson on Monday next, tocollect the conscripts. I have promised to be with de Lescure, andAdolphe is to meet me there; they are both then to come here. Not a manshall be taken who does not choose to go; and there are not many whowish to go from choice. There will be warm work in Poitou next week,Agatha; few of us then can think of love or marriage. You and Marie willbe making sword-knots and embroidering flags; that will be your work.A harder task will soon follow it--that of dressing wounds andstaunching blood. We shall have hot work, and more than plenty of it.May God send us well through it."
"Amen; with all my heart I say, amen," said Agatha; "but will these poormen resist the soldiers, Henri?"
"Indeed they will, Agatha."
"But can they? They have not arms, nor practice in the way offighting--they have no leaders."
"We will take arms from our enemies. We will be apt scholars in fightingfor our wives, and our sisters, and our houses. As for leaders, the manwho is most fit shall lead the others."
"And you, Henri--merciful Heaven! what are you about to do--will youtake up arms against the whole republic?"
"With God's blessing I will--against the whole republic."
"May the Lord, in his mercy, look on you and give you his assistance;and as your cause is just and holy, He will do so. Whatever women cando, we will do; you shall have our prayers for your success our tearsfor your reverses, and our praises for your courage; and when yourequire it, as some of you will too soon, our tenderest care in yoursufferings." At this moment Marie de Lescure entered the room. "Marie,"continued Agatha, "you will help to succour those who are wounded infighting for their King?"
"Indeed, and indeed I will," said the bright-eyed girl, eagerly, "andregret only that I cannot do more; that I cannot myself be in thebattle. But, M. Larochejaquelin, will the people rise? will there reallybe fighting? will Charles be there?"
"Indeed he will, Marie; the first among the foremost. Agatha asked mebut now, who would be our leaders? Is there a man in the Bocage--aye,in all Poitou, who will not follow Charles de Lescure?"
"May the blessed Saviour watch over him and protect him," said Marie,shuddering.
"But tell me, Henri;" said Agatha, "where will it commence--where willthey first resist the troops?"
"I cannot say exactly," said he, "in many places at once I hope. In St.Florent, they say, not a man will join; in Clisson and Torfou they beginon Monday. Charles, and I, and Adolphe will be in Clisson. Father Jeromehas the whole lists; he says that in St. Laud's, in Echanbroignes, andClisson, they are ready, to a man, to oppose the troops: he will go withme to Clisson on Sunday afternoon; on Monday, with God's will, we willbe in the thick of it."
"And will Father Jerome be there, among the soldiers?" said Marie.
"Why not," said Henri, "will the peasants fight worse when they seetheir priest before them?"
"And if he should fall?"
"He will fail in the service of his God and his King; Father Jerome willbe here himself tomorrow."
"The Cure of St Laud's," said Agatha, "is not the man to sit idle, whengood work is to be done, but, oh! what awful times are these, when thepriests themselves have to go out to fight for their altars and theircrucifix."
"I will return home with you, M Larochejaquelin, when you go toClisson," said Marie.
"And leave Agatha alone?" said Henri
"Don't mind me, Henri," said Agatha, "I shall be well here. Marie cannotleave Madame de Lescure alone, when her husband is, away and in suchdanger."
"You will soon have company here enough," said Henri. "De Lescure, andI, and Adolphe, and Heaven knows whom besides. Charette will be in arms,and d'Autachamps, the Prince de Talmont, and M. Bonchamps. At presenttheir business is at a distance from us; but we shall probably be allbrought together sooner or later, and they will all be welcome atDurbelliere."
"They shall be welcome if they are friends of yours, and friends of theKing; but come, Marie, it is late, let us go to bed; next week, perhaps,we shall be wanting rest, and unable to take it."
They met the next morning at breakfast, and the old Marquis was therealso, and the priest, to whom they had alluded in their conversation onthe preceding evening--Father Jerom
e, the Cure of St. Laud's--such atleast had he been, and so was he still called, though his parish hadbeen taken away from him, and his place filled by a constitutionalpastor; that is, by a priest who had taken the oath to the Constitution,required by the National Assembly Father Jerome was banished from hischurch, and deprived of the small emoluments of his office; but he wasnot silenced, for he still continued to perform the ceremonies of hisreligion, sometimes in some gentleman's drawing-room, sometimes in afarmer's house, or a peasant's cottage, but oftener out in the open air,under the shadow of a spreading beech, on a rude altar hastily built forhim with rocks and stones.
The church of St Laud's was perfectly deserted--not a single personwould attend there to hear mass said by the strange priest--the peasantswould as soon have been present at some infernal rite, avowedlycelebrated in honour of the devil--and yet the Cure newly sent there wasnot a bad man But he was a constitutional priest, and that was enoughto recommend him to the ill-will of the peasantry In peaceable and happytimes, prior to the revolution, the Cure of St Laud's had been aremarkable person, he was a man of more activity, both of mind and body,than his brethren, he was more intimate with the gentry than thegenerality of clergymen in the neighbourhood, and at the same time moreactively engaged in promoting the welfare of the poor. The country curesgenerally were men who knew little of the world and its ways--who wereuneducated, save as regards their own profession--who had few ideasbeyond their own duties and station, This was not so with Father Jerome;he had travelled and heard the ways of men in other countries; he hadnot read much but he had seen a good deal, and he was a man of quickapprehension--and above all a man of much energy. He had expressed greathostility to the revolution since its commencement; at a time when sofew were hostile to it, he had foreseen that it would destroy thereligion and the religious feeling of the country, and he had constantlybesought his flock to remain true to their old customs. He was certainlya devout man in his own way, though he was somewhat unscrupulous in hisdevotions; the people were as superstitious as they were faithful, andhe never hesitated in using their superstition to forward his own views.His whole anxiety was for their welfare; but he cherished their veryfaults, their ignorance and their follies, to enable himself to servethem in his own manner. He was unwilling that they should receive othereducation than that which they now had--he was jealous of any one'sinterfering with them but their landlord and himself. He would not ownthat any change: could better their condition, or that anything more wasdesirable for them than that they should live contented and obedient,and die faithful in hope.
Durbelliere had not been in his parish, but he had always beenpeculiarly intimate with the family of the Larochejaquelins, and hadwarmly welcomed the return of Henri to the Bocage, at a time when somany of the nobility were leaving the country. They were now about tojoin hand and heart in saving the people from the horrors of theconscription, and though the Cure's nominal mission was to be purelyspiritual, he was quite prepared to give temporal aid to his allies,should it at any time appear expedient to himself to do so.
Father Jerome was a tall, well-made, brawny man; his face was notexactly handsome, but it was bold and intellectual; his eye was brightand clear, and his forehead high and open--he was a man of immensemuscular power and capable of great physical exertion--he was aboveforty-five years of age but still apparently in the prime of hisstrength. He wore a long rusty black, or rather grey cure's frock, whichfell from his shoulders down to his heels, and was fastened round hisbody with a black belt--this garment was much the worse for wear, forFather Jerome had now been deprived of his income for some twelvemonths; but he was no whit ashamed of his threadbare coat, he rathergloried in it, and could not be induced by the liberal offers of hismore wealthy friends to lay it aside.
Father Jerome greeted them all as he entered the breakfast-room. He wasreceived with great kindness by the old Marquis, who pressed his handand made him sit beside himself; he blessed the two young girlsfervently, and nodded affectionately to Henri, whom he had seen on thepreceding day. It was evident that the Cure of St. Laud's was quite athome at Durbelliere.
"We have awful times coming on us now, Father Jerome," said Agatha.
"Not so, Mademoiselle," said the priest, "we have good times coming, wewill have a King and our Church again, we poor cure will have our homesand our altars again; our own parishes and our old flocks."
"Come what, come may," said Henri, "we cannot be worse than theConvention would make us."
"But we firmly trust that by God's will and with God's aid, we will soonbe rid of all our troubles," said the priest. "M le Marquis, we haveyour best wishes, I know; and your full approval. I hope we shall soonbe able to lay our trophies at your feet."
"The approval of an old man like me is but of little avail; but youshall have my prayers. I would, however, that God had spared me fromthese days; it is grievous for me to see my son going out to fightagainst his own countrymen, at his own door-sill; it would be moregrievous still, where he now to hesitate in doing so."
"No true son of Poitou hesitates now," said the enthusiastic priest."I yesterday saw every conscript in the parish of St. Laud's, and nota single man hesitated--not one dreams of joining the republicans; and,moreover, there is not an able-bodied man who will not come forward toassist the conscripts in withstanding the soldiers; the women, too,Mademoiselle, are equally eager. Barere will find it difficult, I think,to raise a troop from Poitou."
"Will the conscripts from hence be required to join at Chatillon or atCholet?" said the old man.
"Those from St. Laud's, at Chatillon," said Henri; "but the men will notleave their homes, they will know how to receive the soldiers if theycome amongst them."
So saying, he got up and went out, and the priest followed him; they hadmuch to do, and many things to arrange; to distribute arms andgunpowder, and make the most of their little means. It was not theirpresent intention to lead the men from their homes, but they wished toprepare them to receive the republican troops, when they came into thecountry to enforce the collection of the republican levy.