CHAPTER XI.
DEATH OF ADOLPHE DENOT.
Nothing could be more complete than the success of the Vendeans, notonly in the town of Laval, but also outside the gate; nor could anyerror be more fatal than that committed by the republican General,Lechelle. Previous to this day he had never been worsted since he hadbeen sent from Paris with orders to exterminate the Vendeans; he haddriven them from Chatillon, their own chosen position in the centre oftheir own territory across the Loire; and he had rashly conceived thathe had only to show himself before Laval again, to scare them from theirresting-place, and scatter them farther from their own homes. He hadmarched his army up to Laval early on the morning of the fight; and hisbest men, the redoubtable Mayencais, indignant at the treatment whicha few of their brethren had received from Denot's followers on theprevious day, marched boldly into the town, conceiving that they hadonly to show themselves to take possession of it. The result has beentold. One half of these veteran troops fell in the streets ofLaval--many of the remainder were taken alive; a few only escaped toconsummate their disgrace by flying towards Antrames at their quickestspeed, spreading panic among the republican troops who had not yet comeup close to the town.
The news of defeat soon communicated itself; and the whole army, beforelong, was flying to Antrames. The unfortunate Lechelle himself had beenone of the first to leave the town, and had made no attempt to stop hismen until he had entered Antrames. Nor did he long remain there: as thestraggling fugitives came up, they told how close and fast upon theirtrack the victorious brigands were coming; and that the conduct of thepeasants now was not what it had been when the war commenced, when theywere fighting in their own country, and near their own homes. Then theyhad spared the conquered, then they had shed no blood, except in theheat of battle; now they spared none; they had learnt a bloody lessonfrom their enemies, and massacred, without pity, the wretches who fellinto their hands. Antrames was not a place of any strength; it could notbe defended against the Vendeans; and Lechelle had hardly drawn hisbreath in the town, before he again left it, on the road toChateau-Gonthier.
Henri and Denot were among the first of the pursuers; indeed, of sodesultory a nature was the battle, that the contest was still continuednear the gate of the town, while they were far on their road towardsAntrames. They passed almost in a gallop through that place, and did notstop until they found themselves, towards evening, close to the bridge,leading into Chateau-Gonthier. Here they perceived that Lechelle hadmade some little attempt to defend his position. He had drawn out twocannons to the head of the bridge; had stayed the course of a fewfugitives, with whom he attempted to defend the entrance into the town;and had again taken upon himself the duties of a General.
The pursuers now amounted to about three hundred horsemen, the very menwho had made the first attack on the blues in the streets of Laval, andHenri knew that so soon after their complete and signal success nothingcould daunt them, and that, in all probability, no effort of the beatenrepublicans could turn them back.
"Come," said he, speaking to those who were nearest to him, "only a fewyards farther, and we shall be far enough. It shall never be said thatthe vanquished slept in the town while their conquerors lay in thefields;" and again he put spurs to his horse, and with a yell oftriumph, his men followed him over the bridge.
It would be difficult to say who was first, for Henri, Adolphe, andnearly a dozen others, galloped across the bridge together, and thewhole troop followed them pell-mell into the town. The two cannons weresoon taken; the irresolute blues, who, with only half a heart, hadattempted to defend themselves, were driven from their positions, andHenri at once found himself master of the place.
A few of his gallant followers had fallen on the bridge. It could notbe expected but what this should be the case, for they made theirattack in the face of two field-pieces and a discharge of musketry, froma body of men quite as numerous as their own; but Henri had notperceived till he reached the square in the middle of the town, thatAdolphe Denot was no longer by his side.
"Did you see M. Denot?" said he to a soldier, who was now standing onthe ground at his horse's head.
"You mean the gentleman who was riding with you all the day, General--hewho had lost his cap?"
"Yes, yes, did you see him? he passed over the bridge with me."
"General," said the man, "he never passed the bridge. He fell on thevery centre of it. I saw him fall, and his horse galloped into the townwithout a rider."
Arthur Mondyon soon brought him confirmation of the news. He had beenstruck by a musket ball on the breast, while they were crossing thebridge, and the whole troop of horsemen, who were behind, had passedover his body. He had, however, been taken up, and brought into thetown; whether or no his life was extinct, Arthur could not say, but hehad been told that the wound would certainly prove mortal.
Henri's first duty, even before attending to his friend, was toendeavour to save the lives of such of the blues as were yet in thetown, and, if possible, to get the person of Lechelle. It was well knownthat he had entered the place with the fugitives, and it was believedthat he had not since escaped from it. Some few of the republicansoldiers had made their way out of the town, on the road towards Segre,but there was every reason to believe that the General had not beenamong them. The inhabitants of Chateau-Gonthier were very favourable tothe Vendean cause; Henri received every information which the peoplecould give him, and at last succeeded in tracing Lechelle into a largehalf-ruined house, in the lower portion of which, a wine shop, for theaccommodation of the poorer classes, was kept open. Here they learnt,from the neighbours, that he had been seen to enter the house, and anold woman, who alone kept her position behind the counter, confessedwith some hesitation, that a man, answering the description of him theysought, had entered the shop about an hour since; that he had hastilyswallowed a large quantity of brandy, and then, instead of leaving theshop, had rushed through the inner door and gone upstairs.
"He wasn't here a minute in all," said she; "and he said nothing aboutpaying for what he took--and, when I saw him going in there, I thoughtit best to let him have his own way."
"And he is there still," said Chapeau, who had now again joined hismaster.
"Unless he went out through the window, he is; there is no other way outthan what you see there."
"Go up, Chapeau," said Henri, "and take two or three with you; if he bethere, he must come down; but remember that he is an officer, and inmisfortune."
"I will remember," said Chapeau, "that he sent us word to Chatillon,that he would not leave alive in La Vendee a father or mother to lamenttheir children, or a child to lament its parents: those were bitterwords; maybe he will be sorry to have them brought to his memory just atpresent."
"Remember what I tell you, Chapeau," said his master; "whatever he mayhave said, it is not now your duty to sit in judgment on him."
"For God's sake, gentlemen, don't do him a harm here," said the oldwoman; "for mercy's sake, Monsieur," and she turned to Henri, "don't letthem take his life; to tell you the truth, when he begged for some holeto hide in, I bid him to go upstairs; I could do no less. I should havedone the same if it had been one of you."
Henri said what he could to tranquillize her, assuring her that the manshould, at any rate, not be killed before her eyes; and this seemed tobe sufficient to reassure her. Chapeau and four others had goneupstairs; and those below were not kept waiting long, before the heavytread of the men descending was heard on the stairs, as though they werecarrying down a weight among them. Such was the case: Henri steppedforward and opened the door; and as he did so, the men staggered intothe room with their burden, and then gently dropped upon the floor thedead body of the republican General. The unfortunate man had shothimself.
Henri turned out of the shop without saying a word; and as the othersprepared to follow him, one of the men knelt down beside the body, andwrenched from the hand, which still held it fast, the fatal pistol whichhad so lately done its work. "At any rate," said he, "
there is no usein leaving this behind us; I doubt not but I can make a better use ofit than General Lechelle has done."
The Chevalier had said but the truth, in declaring that Adolphe Denot'swound was mortal; the musket ball had passed right through his lungs,passing out between his shoulders; and his limbs had been dreadfullytorn and bruised by the feet of the horses which had passed over him.Still, however, he had been carried alive into the town, had been laidin a settle-bed in the little inn, and had his wounds dressed with suchsurgical skill as the town afforded. He had spoken once since he fell,and had then begged, in an almost inarticulate whisper, that HenriLarochejaquelin would come to him, and this message had been delivered,and was attended to.
There were not many to watch and attend his bed-side, for many othersbeside him in the town were in the same position; and though it wasknown to a few that the Mad Captain of La Petite Vendee had been seenduring the whole day riding by the side of their own General, Denot hadnot yet been recognized by many of the Vendeans, and most of thosearound him were indifferent to his fate. When Henri reached the room inwhich he lay, no one was with him, but the poor baker of Laval, who hadentered the town with Chapeau, and having heard that his Captain wasmortally wounded, had lost not a moment in tendering him his services.The poor man was sitting on a low stool, close by Denot's head, and inhis lap he held a wooden bowl of water, with which, from time to time,he moistened the mouth of the wounded man, dipping his hand into thewater, and letting the drops fall from his fingers on to his lips.
"Hush! hush!" he said, as Henri entered the room; "for mercy's sake,don't shake him; the black blood gushes out of his mouth with every movehe gets."
The two men did not recognize each other, for they had only met for amoment, and that by the faint light of a rush candle. Plume, therefore,had no idea of giving up his place or his duty to a man whom heconceived was a stranger; and Henri was at a loss to conceive who couldbe the singular looking creature that seemed to take so tender aninterest in his friend.
Henri advanced up to the bed on tiptoe, and gazed into Denot's face; hehad been shocked before, but he now thought that never in his life hadhe seen so sad a sight: the colour of his skin was no longer pale, butlivid; his thin, dry lips were partially open, and his teeth, close settogether, were distinctly visible; his eyes were at the moment closed,as though he were in a stupor, and his long black matted hair hung backover the folded cloak on which his head rested: his sallow, bony handslay by his side, firmly clenched, as though he had been struggling, andhis neck and breast, which had been opened for the inspection of thesurgeon, was merely covered with a ragged bloody towel.
"Is he asleep?" asked Henri, in a whisper, such as seems to comenaturally to every one, when speaking by the bed-side of those who arein great danger, but which is generally much more painfully audible toa sick man than the natural voice.
Denot opened his eyes, and showed, by the slight motion of his head,that he had heard his friend's voice, but he was at the moment unableto speak.
Plume made a signal to Henri to be quiet, and he therefore sat himselfdown at the other side of the bed, to watch till Adolphe should gainstrength to speak to him, or till the breath should have passed from hisbody. Plume, in the meantime, continued his occupation, causing a fewdrops of water to fall from time to time between those thin shrivelledlips; and in this way a long half-hour passed over them.
At last Henri heard his name scarcely pronounced by the dying man, andthe dull eyes opened, though it was evident that the film of death hadnearly hidden all objects from their view; still it was evident that heknew who it was that sat by his bed-side, and he faintly returned thepressure of the hand which grasped his own. Henri stooped down his earto catch the words which might fall from his lips; but for a while hemade no farther attempt to speak--an inexpressible look of confusedtrouble passed across his face and forehead, as he attempted to collecthis disordered thoughts, and again he closed his eyes, as though thestruggle was useless; at last he again muttered something, and Henricaught the words 'de Lescure,' and 'bridge of Saumur.'
"Yes, yes, he shall," said Henri, trying to comfort him, but still notunderstanding what it was that weighed so heavily on his breast; hefelt, however, that a promise of compliance would give him comfort. "Heshall, indeed; I will tell him, and I know he will."
Again the eyes were closed, and the struggle to speak was discontinued.Plume gave over his task, for it was evident that no care of his couldany longer be of avail, and he walked away from the bed, that he mightnot overhear the words which his Captain strove to speak to his friend;but Henri remained, still holding Denot's hand: then a thought struckhim, which had not earlier occurred to him, and beckoning to Plume tocome to him, he dismissed him, in a whisper, to endeavour to find apriest, without the loss of another moment, and bring him to the aid ofthe dying man.
Though Denot's sight and speech were almost gone, the sense of hearingwas still left to him, and he understood what Henri said. He again movedhis head in token of dissent; again pulled his friend towards him by thehand, and again muttered out a word, the last that he ever attempted toutter; that one word Henri heard as plainly as though it had been spokenwith the full breath of a strong man--it was his sister's name.
Adolphe Denot survived this last effort of his troubled spirit, but afew moments; the sepulchral rattle in his throat soon told the sad taleof his dissolution; and Plume hurrying up to the bed-head, assistedHenri in composing the limbs of the dead man.
For three months Denot and Plume had consorted together; they had beena strange fantastic pair of comrades, but yet not altogetherill-matched: nothing could be more dissimilar than they had been in age,in birth, and previous habits, but they had met together with the samewishes, the same ambition, the same want of common sense, and above allthe same overweening vanity; they had flattered each other from themoment of their first meeting to the present day, and thus these twopoor zealous maniacs, for in point of sanity the Lieutenant was butlittle better than his Captain, had learnt to love each other.
And now Plume, having carefully completed what the exigencies of themoment required, gave way to his sincere grief, and bewailed his friendwith no silent sorrow. Henri, who had totally forgotten the little thathe had heard of the martial baker, was at a loss to conceive who couldbe the man, a stranger to himself who found cause for so much sorrow inthe death of Adolphe Denot. As for himself, he had tenderly loved Denotas a brother; he had truly forgiven him his gross treachery; and he haddetermined to watch over him, and if possible protect him from farthersorrow: but after the interview he had had with him, he could notconceal from himself that Adolphe was still insane; and he felt thatdeath had come to him in an honourable way, atoning for past faults, andrelieving him from future sufferings. He could not grieve that hisfriend had fallen in battle, bravely doing his duty in the cause towhich he was bound by so many ties.
"He was the bravest man, and the best soldier, and the most honourablegentleman in the whole army," said Plume, sobbing; "and now there's noone left but myself," and then recovering himself he made to the manesof the departed warrior a loyal promise, which he fully determined tokeep. "Thou art gone, my brave commander, my gallant commander," hesaid, standing suddenly upright, and stretching his long arms over thecorpse, "thou art gone, and I doubt not I shall follow thee: but tillthat moment shall come, till a death, as honourable as thine own, shallrelease me from my promise, I swear that I will not disgrace the highstation which thy departure obliges me to fill. It was thou who firsttutored my unaccustomed arm to wield the sword; it was thou who badestme hear unmoved the thunder of an enemy's artillery; it was thou whotaughtest me all I know of military tactics, and the art of war. Restin peace, dear friend, dearest of instructors, I will not disgrace thyprecepts." And so finishing, he stooped down, kissed the face of thedead body which he apostrophized, made a cross on the bosom, andmuttered a fervent prayer for the welfare of the departed soul.
If Henri was surprised before, he was now perfectly a
stounded; nothingcould be less poetical, less imposing, or have less of military grandeurabout it than the figure of poor Auguste Plume. What could he mean bysaying that he was now called on to fill a high station? Who could itbe that confessed to owe so deep a debt of gratitude to the dead man?
"Had you known M. Denot long?" asked Henri, when he conceived that Plumewas sufficiently composed to hear and answer a question.
"What's that you say his name was?" said Plume, eagerly, pricking up hisears. "I beg your pardon, Sir, I didn't exactly catch the word."
"And didn't you know the name of the friend, whom you seem to havevalued so highly?"
"Indeed, to tell you the truth, Sir, I did not. We two used to have agood deal of talk together: for hours and hours we've sat and talkedover this war, and he has told me much of what he used to do in Poitou,when he served with the Vendeans; but I could never get him to tell mehis name. It was a question he didn't like to be asked; and yet I amsure he never did anything to disgrace it."
"His name was Adolphe Denot," said Henri.
"Adolphe Denot--Adolphe Denot! well, I am very glad I know at last. Onedoesn't like not to know the name of the dearest friend one ever had;especially after he's dead. But wasn't he Count Denot, or Baron Denot,or something of that sort?"
"No, he had no title; but yet he was of noble blood."
"I suppose then we must call him General Denot--simple General; itsounds as well as Count or Marquis in these days. Was he a General whenyou knew him in La Vendee?"
"I have known him all my life," replied Henri.
"Indeed!" said Plume: and then gazing at his companion, from head tofoot, he continued, "An't you the gentleman that came with Chapeau tosee him last night? An't you the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendeans?"
Henri gave him to understand that he was.
"Then this meeting is very lucky," said Plume, "most exceedinglyfortunate! I am now the Commander-in-Chief of La Petite Vendee. We mustunite our forces. I am not ambitious--at least not too ambitious; youshall be the chief, I will be next to you. Chapeau, I am sure, will becontented to be third here, over the body of our friend, let us concertour measures for utterly exterminating the republicans. We have now beenvictorious, proudly, grandly victorious; my voice shall be for a marchto Paris. Come, General, give me your hand. Hand in hand, like truecomrades, let us march to Paris, and thunder at the doors of theConvention."
As he spoke, Auguste Emile Septimus held out his hand to the youngCommander; and Henri could not refuse the proffered grasp. He nowremembered Chapeau's description of the martial baker; and as heunderwent the merciless squeeze which Plume inflicted on him, the youngMarquis meditated, with something like vexation, on the ridiculousfigure and language of him who now claimed his friendship andconfidence. He had before been on terms of perfect equality with menequally low in station with poor Plume. Cathelineau had been apostillion; Stofflet, a game-keeper; but he had admired the enthusiasticgenius of Cathelineau, he had respected the practical iron energy ofStofflet--he could neither admire nor respect Auguste Plume--and yet hecould not reject him.
He endeavoured, in as few words as he could, to make his companionunderstand, that highly as he appreciated his disinterested offer, hecould not, at the present moment, accede to it. That many officers, highin the confidence of the whole army, must be consulted before anyimportant step was taken; that, as for himself his duty required him tohurry back to Laval as quick as he could. That, as regarded him, Plume,he advised him to return to his own men, and endeavour to organize theminto a regular corps, in doing which he promised him that practicalassistance should not be wanting; and that, as regarded the body oftheir mutual friend, he, Henri, would give orders for its immediateburial; and having said so much as quickly as he could speak, HenriLarochejaquelin hurried from the room, leaving the unfortunate Plume torenew his lamentations over his friend. He had cause to lament; the onlyman likely to flatter his vanity was gone. He would never again be toldthat he was born for great achievements--never again promised thatbravery, fidelity to his commander, and gallant demeanour among hiscomrades, would surely lead him to exalted duties. Such were theprecepts with which the insanity of Denot had inflamed the mad ambitionof his poor follower. He now felt--not his own unfitness, for that hecould not suspect--but the difficulty, the impossibility to get histalents and services acknowledged; and he again sat down to weep, partlyfor his friend, and partly for himself.
Henri passed the remainder of the night in Chateau-Gonthier, and earlyon the next morning he returned towards Laval. The road was covered withswarms of Vendeans, now returning from the pursuit in which they hadnearly exterminated the unfortunate army which had followed them acrossthe Loire. They had crossed that river panic-stricken and hopeless; nowthey were shouting with triumph, and exulting with joy, confident ofsuccess. None of those who returned were without some token of success;some carried back with them the muskets of the republican infantry;others, the sabres of the cavalry; and others, more joyful in theirsuccess than any, were mounted on their horses. They all loudly greetedHenri as he passed, and declared that nothing should ever conquer them,now that they had the General over them, whom they themselves hadchosen.
Henri, though he well knew the difficulties which were before him, couldnot but be triumphant as he listened to the cheers of his followers; hehad certainly been pre-eminently successful in the first attempts whichhad been made under his own sole command; and it is not surprising thatthis, joined to the confidence of youth, should have made him feelhimself equal almost to any enterprise. Then another subject of joyfilled his heart; Marie had promised that if the Vendeans were nowsuccessful, if they could look forward to spending one quiet week inLaval, she would no longer refuse to join her hand to his and becomebone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh--that promise she would nowrealize; and therefore as he rode back through the gate of Laval, Henrifelt happier than he had done for many a long, weary, tedious day.