After this he tied both ends firmly to the railing of his balcony, and
he thus had a sort of suspension-bridge, solid beyond all
misadventure, between his window and the poplar. The young man got
astride of it, like a sailor on a yard-arm, and gently propelling
himself along, he was soon in the tree, and next on the ground. Then,
without caring whether he was seen or not, he crossed the lawn at a
run and went toward Souday, the road to which he now knew better than
any other.

When he reached the heights of Servière he heard musketry, which
seemed to come from somewhere between Montaigu and the lake of
Grand-Lieu. His emotion was great. The echo of every volley that came
to him on the breeze produced a painful commotion in his mind, which
reacted on his heart. The sounds evidently indicated danger, perhaps
even death to her he loved, and this thought paralyzed him with
terror. Then when he reflected that Mary might blame him for the
troubles he had not averted from her head and from those of her father
and sister and friends, the tears filled his eyes.

Consequently, instead of slackening speed when he heard the firing, he
only thought of quickening it. From a rapid walk he broke into a run,
and soon reached the first trees of the forest of Machecoul. There,
instead of following the road, which would have delayed him several
minutes, he flung himself into a wood-path that he had taken more than
once for the very purpose of shortening the way.

Hurrying beneath the dark, overhanging dome of trees, falling
sometimes into ditches, stumbling over stones, catching on thorny
briers,--so dense was the darkness, so narrow the way,--he presently
reached what was called the Devil's Vale. There he was in the act of
jumping a brook which runs in the depths of it, when a man, springing
abruptly from a clump of gorse, seized him so roughly that he knocked
him down into the slimy bed of the brook, pressing the cold muzzle of
a pistol to his forehead.

"Not a cry, not a word, or you are a dead man!" said the assailant.

The position was a frightful one for the young baron. The man put a
knee on his chest, and held him down, remaining motionless himself, as
though he were expecting some one. At last, finding that no one came,
he gave the cry of the screech-owl, which was instantly answered from
the interior of the wood, and the rapid steps of a man were heard
approaching.

"Is that you, Picaut?" said the man whose knee was on Michel's breast.

"No, not Picaut; it is I," said the new-comer.

"Who is 'I'?"

"Jean Oullier."

"Jean Oullier!" cried the other, with such joy that he raised himself
partially, and thus relieved, to some extent, his prisoner. "Really
and truly you? Did you actually get away from the red-breeches?"

"Yes, thanks to all of you, my friends. But we have not a minute to
lose if we want to escape a great disaster."

"What's to be done? Now that you are free and here with us, all will
go well."

"How many men have you?"

"Eight on leaving Montaigu; but the _gars_ of Vieille-Vigne joined us.
We must be sixteen or eighteen by this time."

"How many guns?"

"Each man has one."

"Good. Where are they stationed?"

"Along the edge of the forest."

"Bring them together."

"Yes."

"You know the crossway at the Ragots?"

"Like my pocket."

"Wait for the soldiers there, not in ambush but openly. Order fire
when they are within twenty paces. Kill all you can,--so much vermin
the less."

"Yes. And then?"

"As soon as your guns are discharged separate in two bodies,--one to
escape by the path to La Cloutière, the other by the road to
Bourgnieux. Fire as you run, and coax them to follow you."

"To get them off their track, hey?"

"Precisely, Guérin; that's it."

"Yes; but--you?"

"I must get to Souday. I ought to be there now."

"Oh, oh, Jean Oullier!" exclaimed the peasant, doubtfully.

"Well, what?" asked Jean Oullier. "Does any one dare to distrust me?"

"No one says they distrust you; they only say they don't trust any one
else."

"I tell you I must be at Souday in ten minutes, and when Jean Oullier
says 'I must,' it is because it _must_ be done. If you can delay the
soldiers half an hour that's all I want."

"Jean Oullier! Jean Oullier!"

"What?"

"Suppose I can't make the _gars_ wait for the soldiers in the open?"

"Order them in the name of the good God."

"If it were you who ordered them they would obey; but me-- Besides,
there's Joseph Picaut among them, and you know Joseph Picaut will only
do as he chooses."

"But if I don't go to Souday I have no one to send."

"Let me go, Monsieur Jean Oullier," said a voice from the earth.

"Who spoke?" said the wolf-keeper.

"A prisoner I have just made," said Guérin.

"What's his name?"

"I did not ask his name."

"I am the Baron de la Logerie," said the young man, managing to sit
up; for the Chouan's grip was loosened and he had more freedom to move
and breathe.

"Ah! Michel's son! You here!" muttered Jean Oullier, in a savage
voice.

"Yes. When Monsieur Guérin stopped me I was on my way to Souday to
warn my friend Bonneville and Petit-Pierre that their presence in the
château was known."

"How came you to know that?"

"I heard it last evening. I overheard a conversation between my mother
and Courtin."

"Then why, as you had such fine intentions, didn't you go sooner to
warn your friend?" retorted Jean Oullier, in a tone of doubt and also
of sarcasm.

"Because the baroness locked me into my room, and that room is on the
second floor, and I could not get out till to-night through the
window, and then at the risk of my life."

Jean Oullier reflected a moment. His prejudice against all that came
from la Logerie was so intense, his hatred against all that bore the
name of Michel so deep, that he could not endure to accept a service
from the young man. In fact, in spite of the latter's ingenuous
frankness, the distrustful Vendéan suspected that such a show of
good-will meant treachery. He knew, however, that Guérin was right, and
that he alone in a crucial moment could give the Chouans confidence
enough in themselves to let the enemy come openly up to them, and
therefore that he alone could delay their march to Souday. On the
other hand, he felt that Michel could explain to the Comte de
Bonneville better than any peasant the danger that threatened him, and
so he resigned himself, though sulkily, to be under an obligation to
one of the Michel family.

"Ah, wolf-cub!" he muttered, "I can't help myself." Then aloud, "Very
well, so be it. Go!" he said; "but have you the legs to do it?"

"Steel legs."

"Hum!" grunted Jean Oullier.

"If Mademoiselle Bertha were here she would certify to them."

"Mademoiselle Bertha!" exclaimed Jean Oullier, frowning.

"Yes; I fetched the doctor for old Tinguy, and I took only fifty
minutes to go seven miles and a half there and back."

Jean Oullier shook his head like a man who is far from being
satisfied.

"Do you look after your enemies," said Michel, "and rely on me. If it
takes you ten minutes to get to Souday it will take me five, I'll
answer for that."

And the young man shook from his clothes the mud and slime with which
he was covered, and prepared to depart.

"Do you know the way?" asked Jean Oullier.

"Know the way! As well as I do the paths at la Logerie." And darting
off in the direction of Souday, he called back, "Good luck to you,
Monsieur Jean Oullier!"

Jean Oullier stood thoughtful a moment. The knowledge the young baron
declared he possessed of the neighborhood of the château greatly
annoyed him.

"Well, well," he growled at last, "we'll put that in order when we get
time." Then addressing Guérin, "Come," said he, "call up the _gars_."

The Chouan took off one of his wooden shoes and putting it to his
mouth he blew into it in a way that exactly represented the howling of
wolves.

"Do you think they'll hear that?" asked Jean Oullier.

"Of course they will. I chose the farthest place to windward to make
sure of it."

"Then we had better not wait for them here. Let us get to the Ragot
crossways. Keep on calling as you go along; we shall gain time that
way."

"How much time have we in advance of the soldiers?" asked Guérin,
following Jean Oullier rapidly through the brake.

"A good half-hour and more. They have halted at the farm of
Pichardière."

"Pichardière!" exclaimed Guérin.

"Yes. They have probably waked up Pascal Picaut, who will guide them.
He is a man to do that, isn't he?"

"Pascal Picaut won't serve as guide to any one. He'll never wake up
again," said Guérin, gloomily.

"Ah!" exclaimed Jean Oullier; "then it was he just now, was it?"

"Yes, it was he."

"Did you kill him?"

"He struggled and called for help. The soldiers were within gunshot of
us; we had to kill him."

"Poor Pascal!" said Jean Oullier.

"Yes," said Guérin, "though he belonged to the scoundrels, he was a
fine man."

"And his brother?" asked Jean Oullier.

"His brother?"

"Yes, Joseph."

"He stood looking on."

Jean Oullier shook himself like a wolf who receives a charge of
buckshot in the flank. That powerful nature accepted all the
consequences of the terrible struggle which is the natural outcome of
civil wars, but he had not foreseen this horror, and he shuddered at
the thought of it. To conceal his emotion from Guérin he hurried his
steps and bounded through the undergrowth as rapidly as though
following his hounds.

Guérin, who stopped from time to time to howl in his shoe, had some
trouble in following. Suddenly he heard Jean Oullier give a low
whistle warning him to halt.

They were then at a part of the forest called the springs of Baugé,
only a short distance from the crossways.

                                XXVI.

                         THE SPRINGS OF BAUGÉ.

The springs of Baugé are realty marshes, or rather a marsh, above
which the road leading to Souday rises steeply. It is one of the most
abrupt ascents of this mountain forest.

The column of the "red-breeches," as Guérin called the soldiers, was
obliged to first cross the marsh and then ascend the steep incline.
Jean Oullier had reached the part of the road where it crosses this
bog on piles before the ascent begins. From there he had whistled to
Guérin, who found him apparently reflecting.

"What are you thinking of?" asked Guérin.

"I am thinking that perhaps this is a better place than the
crossways," replied Jean Oullier.

"Yes," said Guérin; "for here's a wagon behind which we can ambush."

Jean Oullier, who had not before noticed it, now examined the object
his companion pointed out to him. It was a heavy cart loaded with
wood, which the driver had left for the night beside the marsh,
fearing, no doubt, to cross the narrow causeway after dusk.

"I have an idea," said Jean Oullier, looking alternately at the cart
and at the hill, which rose like a dark rampart on the other side of
the bog. "Only, they must--"

He looked all about him.

"Who must? What?"

"The _gars_ must be here."

"They are here," said Guérin. "See, here's Patry, the two Gambier
brothers, and there are the Vieille-Vigne men and Joseph Picaut."

Jean Oullier turned his back so as not to see the latter.

It was true enough; the Chouans were flocking up on all sides. First
one and then another came from behind each bush and hedge. Soon they
were all collected.

"_Gars!_" said Jean Oullier, addressing them, "Ever since La Vendée
was La Vendée,--that is, ever since she has fought for her
principles,--her children have never been called upon to show their
courage and their faith more than they are to-day. If we cannot now
stop the march of Louis Philippe's soldiers great misfortunes will
happen; I tell you, my sons, that all the glory which covers the name
of La Vendée will be wiped out. As for me, I am resolved to leave my
bones in the bog of Baugé sooner than allow that infernal column of
troops to go beyond it."

"So are we, Jean Oullier!" cried many voices.

"Good! that is what I expected from men who followed us from Montaigu
to deliver me, and who succeeded. Come, to begin with, help me to drag
this cart to the top of the hill."

"We'll try," said the Vendéans.

Jean Oullier put himself at their head, and the heavy vehicle, pushed
from behind or by the wheels by some, while eight or ten pulled it by
the shafts, crossed the narrow causeway, and was hoisted rather than
dragged to the summit of the steep embankment. There Jean Oullier
wedged the wheels with stones to prevent it from running backward by
its own weight down the steep rise it had gone up with so much
difficulty.

"Now," he said, "put yourselves in ambush each side of the marsh, half
to the right, half to the left, and when the time comes,--that's to
say, when I shout 'Fire!'--fire instantly. If the soldiers turn to
pursue you, as I hope they may, retreat toward Grand-Lieu, striving to
lead them on as best you can away from Souday, which they are aiming
for. If, on the contrary, they continue their way we will all wait for
them at the Ragot crossways. There we must stand firm, and die at our
posts."

The Chouans instantly disappeared into their hiding-places on either
side the marsh, and Jean Oullier was left alone with Guérin.
Thereupon, he flung himself flat on his stomach with his ear to the
ground and listened.

"They are coming," he said. "They are following the road to Souday as
if they knew it. Who the devil can be guiding them, now that Pascal
Picaut is dead?"

"They must have found some peasant and compelled him."

"Then that's another we shall have to get rid of. If they once get
into the depths of the forest of Machecoul without a guide, not one of
them will ever return to Montaigu."

"Ah, _ça_, Jean Oullier!" exclaimed Guérin, suddenly. "You haven't any
weapon!"

"I!" said the old Vendéan, laughing between his teeth. "I've a weapon
that can bring down more men than your carbine; and in ten minutes, if
everything goes as I hope it will, there'll be plenty of guns to pick
up beside the marsh."

So saying, Jean Oullier again went up the ascent, which he had partly
descended to explain to the men his plan of battle, and reached the
cart. It was high time. As he gained the summit he heard on the
opposite hillside, which led down to the marsh, the sound of stones
rolling from the feet of horses, and he saw two or three flashes of
light from their iron shoes. The air was quivering, as it does in the
night-time, with the approach of a body of armed men.

"Come, go down and join the rest," he said to Guérin. "I stay here."

"What are you going to do?"

"You'll see presently."

Guérin obeyed. Jean Oullier crept under the cart and waited. Guérin
had hardly taken his place among his comrades when the two leading
chasseurs of the advanced-guard came upon the edge of the marsh.
Seeing the difficulties before them, they stopped and hesitated.

"Straight on!" cried a firm voice, although it had a feminine ring.
"Straight on!"

The two chasseurs advanced, and seeing the narrow causeway built on
piles they crossed it and began the ascent, coming nearer and nearer
to the cart, and, consequently, to Jean Oullier.

When they were twenty steps away from him, Jean Oullier, still beneath
the cart, hung himself by his hands to the axletree, and resting his
feet on the front bars of the wagon, remained quite motionless. The
chasseurs were presently beside the cart. They examined it carefully
from their saddles, and seeing, of course, nothing of the man beneath
it or anything else to excite distrust, they continued their way.

The main column was by this time at the edge of the marsh. The widow
Picaut passed first, then the general, then the chasseurs. The marsh
was crossed in that order.

But just as they reached the foot of the slope a thundering sound was
heard from the summit of the rise they were about to ascend; the
ground shook under their feet, and a sort of avalanche came tearing
down the hill with the rapidity of a thunderbolt.

"Stand aside!" cried Dermoncourt, in a voice which rose above that
horrible uproar.

Seizing the widow by the arm, he spurred his horse into the bushes.
The general's first thought was for his guide, who was, for the
moment, the most precious thing he had. The guide and he were safe.

But the soldiers for the most part did not have time to obey their
leader. Paralyzed by the strange noise they heard and not knowing what
enemy to look for, blinded by the darkness, and feeling danger
everywhere about them, they held to the road, where the cart (for of
course it was the cart, violently impelled by Jean Oullier from the
top of the steep embankment) cut its way through them like a monstrous
cannon-ball, killing those the wheels ran over, and wounding others
with its logs and splinters.

A moment of stupefaction followed this catastrophe, but it could not
check Dermoncourt.

"Forward, men!" he cried, "and let's get out of this cut-throat
place!"

At the same moment a voice, not less powerful than his own, called
out:--

"Fire, my _gars!_"

A flash issued from every bush on either side of the marsh and a rain
of balls came pelting down among the little troop. The voice that
ordered the volley resounded from its front, but the shots came from
its rear. The general, an old war-wolf, as sly and wary as Jean
Oullier himself, saw through the man[oe]uvre.

"Forward!" he cried; "don't lose time answering them. Forward!
forward!"

The column continued to advance, and in spite of the volleys which
followed it, reached the top of the hill.

While the general and his men were making the ascent Jean Oullier,
hiding among the underbrush, went rapidly down the hill and joined his
companions.

"Bravo!" said Guérin. "Ah! if we had only ten arms like yours and a
few such wood-carts as that we could get rid of this cursed army in a
very short time."

"Hum!" growled Jean Oullier, "I'm not as satisfied as you. I hoped to
turn them back, but we have not done it. It looks to me as if they
were keeping on their way. To the crossroads, now, and as fast as our
legs will take us!"

"Who says the red-breeches are keeping on their way?" asked a voice.

Jean Oullier went to the boggy path whence the voice had come, and
recognized Joseph Picaut. The Vendéan, kneeling on the ground, with
his gun beside him, was conscientiously emptying the pockets of three
soldiers whom Jean Oullier's mighty projectile had knocked over and
crushed to death. The wolf-keeper turned away with an expression of
disgust.

"Listen to Joseph," said Guérin, in a low voice to Jean Oullier. "You
had better listen to him, for he sees by night like the cats, and his
advice is not to be despised."

"Well, I say," said Joseph Picaut, putting his plunder into a canvas
bag he always carried with him,--"I say that since the Blues reached
the top of the embankment they haven't budged. You haven't any ears,
you fellows, or you would hear them stamping up there like sheep in a
fold. If you don't hear them, I do."

"Let us make sure of that," said Jean Oullier to Guérin, thus avoiding
a reply to Joseph.

"You are right, Jean Oullier, and I'll go myself," replied Guérin.

The Vendéan crossed the marsh, crept through the reeds, and went half
way up the ascent, crawling on his stomach like a snake among the
rocks, and gliding so gently under the bushes that they scarcely
stirred as he passed. When he was only about thirty paces from the
summit he stood up, put his hat on the end of a long stick, and waved
it above his head. Instantly a shot from the summit sent it spinning a
hundred feet below its owner.

"He was right," said Jean Oullier, who heard the shot. "But what is
hindering them? Is their guide killed?"

"Their guide is not killed," said Joseph Picaut, in a savage voice.

"Did you see him?" asked another voice, for Jean Oullier seemed
determined not to speak to Joseph Picaut.

"Yes," replied the Chouan.

"Did you recognize him?"

"Yes."

"Then it must be," said Jean Oullier, as if speaking to himself, "that
they wanted to get away from the marsh and bivouac behind those rocks,
where they are safe from our guns. No doubt they will stay there till
morning."

Presently a few lights were seen flickering on the height.

Little by little they increased in number and in size, until four or
five camp fires lit up with a ruddy glow the sparse vegetation which
grew among the rocks.

"This is very strange if their guide is still with them," said Jean
Oullier. "However, as they are certain to go by the Ragot crossways in
any case, take your men there, Guérin," he said to the Chouan, who by
this time had returned to his side.

"Very good," said the latter.

"If they continue their way, you know what you have to do; if, on the
contrary, they have really bivouacked up there, you can let them take
their ease beside their fires. It is useless to attack them."

"Why so?" asked Joseph Picaut.

Thus directly questioned as to his own order, Jean Oullier was forced
to reply.

"Because," he said, "it is a crime to uselessly expose the lives of
brave men."

"Say rather--"

"What?" demanded the old keeper, violently.

"Say 'Because my masters, the nobles whose servant I am, no longer
want the lives of those brave men.' Say that, and you'll tell the
truth, Jean Oullier."

"Who dares to say that Jean Oullier lies?" asked the wolf-keeper,
frowning.

"I!" said Joseph Picaut.

Jean Oullier set his teeth, but contained himself. He seemed resolved
to have neither friendship nor quarrel with the man.

"I!" repeated Picaut,--"I say that it is not out of love for our
bodies that you want to prevent us from profiting by our victory, but
because all you have made us fight for is to keep the red-breeches
from pillaging the castle of Souday."

"Joseph Picaut," replied Jean Oullier, calmly, "though we both wear
the white cockade we do not follow the same paths nor work for the
same ends. I have always thought that no matter how their opinions may
differ, brothers are brothers, and it grieves me to see the blood of
my brethren uselessly shed. As for my relation to my masters I have
always regarded humility as the first duty of a Christian, above all
when that Christian is a poor peasant, as I am, and as you are. Also I
consider obedience the most imperative duty of a soldier. I know that
you don't think as I do,--so much the worse for you! Under other
circumstances I might have made you repent for what you have just
said; but at this moment I do not belong to myself. You may thank God
for that."

"Well," said Joseph Picaut, sneering, "when you return into possession
of yourself you'll know where to find me, Jean Oullier; you won't have
far to look." Then, turning to the little troop of men, he went on:
"Now, if there are any among you who think it is folly to course the
hare when you can take it in its form, follow me."

He started as if to go. No one stirred; no one even answered him.
Joseph Picaut, seeing that total silence followed his proposal, made
an angry gesture and disappeared into the thicket.

Jean Oullier, taking Picaut's words for mere boastfulness, shrugged
his shoulders.

"Come, you fellows," he said to the Chouans, "be off to the Ragot
crossways, and quickly, too. Follow the bed of the brook to the
clearing at Quatre-Vents; from there it will take you fifteen minutes
to get to the crossways."

"Where are you going, Jean Oullier?" said Guérin.

"To Souday," said the wolf-keeper. "I must make sure that Michel did
his errand."

The little band departed obediently, following, as Jean Oullier told
them, the course of the rivulet. The old keeper was left alone. He
listened for a few moments to the sound of the water which the Chouans
splashed as they marched; but that noise soon mingled with the
rippling and dash of the little rapids, and Jean Oullier turned his
head in the direction of the soldiers.

The rocks on which the column had halted formed a chain, running from
east to west in the direction of Souday. On the east this chain ended
in a gentle slope, which came down to the rivulet up which the Chouans
had just passed in order to turn the encampment of the troops. On the
west it stretched for a mile and a half or more, and the nearer it
came to Souday the higher and more jagged grew the rocks, the steeper
and more denuded of vegetation were the slopes. On this side the
miniature mountain ended in an actual precipice formed by enormous
perpendicular rocks, which overhung the rivulet that washed their
base. Once or twice in his life Jean Oullier had risked the descent of
this precipice to gain upon a boar his dogs were pursuing. It was done
by a path scarcely a foot wide, hidden among the gorse and called the
Viette des Biques, meaning "the goat-path." The way was known to a few
hunters only. Jean Oullier himself had been exposed to such danger in
descending it that he considered it impossible that the troops should
attempt it in the darkness.

If the enemy's column intended to continue its aggressive movement on
Souday it must either take this goat-path, or meet the Chouans at the
Ragot crossways, or return upon its steps and follow the brook up
which the Chouans had just gone. All this seemed to throw the enemy
into his hands, and yet Jean Oullier, by a sort of presentiment, was
uneasy.

It seemed to him extraordinary that Dermoncourt had yielded to the
first attack and resigned so quickly and readily his evident intention
of advancing to Souday. Instead of continuing his own way to Souday,
as he had told Guérin he should, he remained where he was, watching
the heights, when suddenly he observed that the fires were going down
and the light they threw upon the rocks was growing fainter and
fainter.

Jean Oullier's decision was made in a moment. He darted along the same
path Guérin had taken to observe the enemy, and used the same tactics;
only, he did not stop, as Guérin had stopped, half-way up the ascent.
He continued to crawl up until he was at the foot of the blocks of
stone which surrounded the flat summit.

There he listened; he heard no noise. Then, rising cautiously to his
feet in a space between two large rocks, he looked before him and saw
nothing. The place was solitary. The fires were deserted; the furze
with which they were built was crackling and going out. Jean Oullier
climbed the rocks and dropped into the space where he had supposed the
soldiers were. Not a man was there.

He gave a terrible cry of rage and disappointment, and shouted to his
companions below to return and follow him. Then, with the swiftness of
a hunted deer, straining his iron muscles to the utmost, he rushed
along the summit of the rocks in the direction of Souday. No doubt
remained in his mind. Some unknown guide, unknown except to Joseph
Picaut, had led the soldiers to the Viette des Biques.

Notwithstanding the difficulties of the way, Jean Oullier, slipping on
the flat rocks covered with mosses, striking against the granite
blocks which rose in his path like sentinels, catching his feet in the
briers which tore his flesh as he rushed through them,--Jean Oullier,
we say, was not ten minutes in getting over the whole length of the
little chain. When he reached its extremity he climbed the last line
of rocks which overlooked the valley, and saw the soldiers.

They were just descending the slope of the hill, having risked the
path of the Viette des Biques. The line of their torches could be seen
filing cautiously along by the edge of the abyss. Jean Oullier clung
to the enormous stone on which he stood and shook it, hoping to detach
it and send it rolling on their heads. But all such efforts of mad
anger were powerless, and only a mocking laugh replied to his
imprecations. He turned round and looked behind him, thinking that
Satan himself could alone laugh thus. The laugher was Joseph Picaut.

"Well, Jean Oullier," he said, coming out of a clump of gorse, "my
scent was better than yours; you ought to have followed me. As it was,
you made me lose my time. I got here too late; and your friends will
be cooked in spite of me."

"My God! my God!" cried Jean Oullier, grasping his hair with both
hands. "Who could have guided them down that path?"

"Whoever did guide them down shall never come up again, either by this
path or any other," said Joseph Picaut. "Look at that guide now, Jean
Oullier, if you want to see her living."

Jean Oullier leaned forward once more. The soldiers had crossed the
rivulet and were gathered round the general. In the midst of them, not
a hundred paces from the two men, though separated from them by the
precipice, they saw a woman with dishevelled hair, who was pointing
out to the general with her finger the path he must now take.

"Marianne Picaut!" exclaimed Jean Oullier.

The Chouan made no answer, but he raised his gun to his shoulder and
slowly aimed it. Jean Oullier turned round when he heard the click of
the trigger, and as the Chouan fired he threw up the muzzle of the
gun.

"Wretch!" he cried; "give her time to bury your brother!"

The ball was fired into space.

"Damn you!" cried Joseph Picaut, furiously, seizing his gun by the
barrel, and giving a terrible blow with the stock on Jean Oullier's
head. "I treat Whites like you as I would Blues!"

In spite of his Herculean strength the blow was so violent that it
brought the old Vendéan to his knees; then, not able to maintain
himself in that position, he rolled over the edge of the precipice. As
he fell he caught instinctively at a tuft of gorze; but he soon felt
it yielding under the weight of his body.

Bewildered as he was, he did not altogether lose consciousness, and,
expecting every moment to feel the slender shoots which alone
supported him above the abyss give way, he commended his soul to God.
At that instant he heard shots from the gorse and saw through his
half-closed eyelids the flash of arms. Hoping that the Chouans had
returned, led by Guérin, he tried to call out, but his voice felt
imprisoned in his chest, and he could not raise the leaden hand which
seemed to hold the breath from his lips. He was like a man in a
frightful nightmare; and the pain the effort cost him was so violent
that he fancied--forgetting the blow he had received--that his
forehead was sweating blood.

Little by little his strength abandoned him. His fingers weakened, his
muscles relaxed, and the agony he endured became so terrible that he
believed he must voluntarily let go the branches which alone held him
above the void. Soon he felt himself attracted to the abyss below him
by an irresistible impulse. His fingers loosened their last hold; but
at the very moment when he imagined he should hear the air whistling
and whirling as he fell through it, and feel the jagged points of
rocks tearing his body as he passed, a pair of vigorous arms caught
him and bore him to a narrow platform which overhung the precipice at
a little distance.

He was saved! But he knew at once that the arms that were brutally
handling him were not those of friends.

                                XXVII.

                        THE GUESTS AT SOUDAY.

The day after the arrival of the Comte de Bonneville and his companion
at the château de Souday, the marquis returned from his expedition, or
rather, his conference. As he got off his horse it was quite evident
that the worthy gentleman was in a savage ill-humor.

He growled at his daughters, who had not come even so far as the door
to meet him; he swore at Jean Oullier, who had taken the liberty to go
off to the fair at Montaigu without his permission; he quarrelled with
the cook, who, in the absence of the major-domo, came forward to hold
his stirrup, and instead of grasping the one to the right, pulled with
all her strength on the one to the left, thus obliging the marquis to
get off on the wrong side of his horse and away from the portico.

When he reached the salon M. de Souday's wrath was still exhaling
itself in monosyllables of such vehemence that Bertha and Mary,
accustomed as their ears were to the freedom of language the old
_émigré_ allowed himself, did not, on this occasion, know which way to
look.

In vain they attempted to coax him and smooth his angry brow. Nothing
did any good; and the marquis, as he warmed his feet before the fire
and switched his top-boots with his riding-whip, seemed to regret
bitterly that Messieurs Blank and Blank were not the top-boots
themselves, to whom he addressed, as he flourished his whip, some very
offensive epithets indeed.

The fact is, the marquis was furious. For some time past he had been
sadly conscious that the pleasures of the chase were beginning to pall
upon him; also he had found himself yawning over the whist which
regularly concluded his evenings. The joys of trumps and odd tricks
were beginning to be insipid, and life at Souday threatened to become
distasteful to him. Besides, for the last ten years his legs had never
felt as elastic as they did now. Never had his lungs breathed freer,
or his brain been so active and enterprising. He was just entering
that Saint-Martin's summer for old men,--the period when their
faculties sparkle with a brighter gleam before paling, and their
bodies gather strength as if to prepare for the final struggle. The
marquis, feeling himself more lively, more fit than he had been for
many a year, growing restless in the little circle of his daily
avocations, now insufficient to occupy him, and conscious, alas! that
ennui was creeping over him, took it into his head that a new Vendée
would be admirably suited to his renewed youth, and did not doubt that
he should find in the adventurous life of a partisan those earlier
enjoyments the very memory of which was the charm of his old age.

He had therefore hailed with enthusiasm the prospect of a new uprising
and call to arms. A political commotion of that kind, coming as it
did, proved to him once more what he had often in his placid and naïve
egotism believed,--that the world was created and managed for the
satisfaction and benefit of so worthy a gentleman as M. le Marquis de
Souday.

But he had found among his co-royalists a lukewarmness and a
disposition to procrastinate which fairly exasperated him. Some
declared that the public mind was not yet ripe for any movement;
others that it was imprudent to attempt anything unless assured that
the army would side with legitimacy; others, again, insisted that
religious and political enthusiasm was dying out among the peasantry,
and that it would be difficult to rouse them to a new war. The heroic
marquis, who could not comprehend why all France should not be ready
when a small campaign would be so very agreeable to him,--when Jean
Oullier had burnished up his best carbine, and his daughters had
embroidered for him a scarf and a bloody heart,--the marquis, we say,
had just quarrelled vehemently with his friends the Vendéan leaders,
and leaving the meeting abruptly, had returned to the château without
listening to reason.

Mary, who knew to what excess her father respected the duty of
hospitality, profited by a lull in his ill humor to tell him gently of
the arrival of the Comte de Bonneville at the château, hoping in this
way to create a diversion for his mind.

"Bonneville! Bonneville! And who may that be?" growled the irascible
old fellow. "Bonneville? Some cabbage-planter or lawyer or civilian
who has jumped into epaulets, some talker who can't fire anything but
words, a dilettante who'll tell me we ought to wait and let Philippe
waste his popularity! Popularity, indeed! As if the thing to do were
not to turn that popularity on our own king!"

"I see that Monsieur le marquis is for taking arms immediately," said
a soft and flute-like voice beside him.

The marquis turned round hastily and beheld a very young man,
dressed as a peasant, who was leaning, like himself, against the
chimney-piece, and warming his feet before the fire. The stranger had
entered the room by a side door, and the marquis, whose back was
toward him as he entered, being carried away by the heat of his wrath
and his imprecations, paid no heed to the signs his daughters made to
warn him of the presence of a guest.

Petit-Pierre, for it was he, seemed to be about sixteen or eighteen
years old; but he was very slender and frail for his years. His face
was pale, and the long black hair which framed it made it seem whiter
still; his large blue eyes beamed with courage and intellect; his
mouth, which was delicate and curled slightly upward at the corners,
was now smiling with a mischievous expression; the chin, strongly
defined and prominent, indicated unusual strength of will; while a
slightly aquiline nose completed a cast of countenance, the
distinction of which contrasted strangely with the clothes he wore.

"Monsieur Petit-Pierre," said Bertha, taking the hand of the
new-comer, and presenting him to her father.

The marquis made a profound bow, to which the young man replied with a
graceful salutation. The old _émigré_ was not very much deceived by
the dress and name of Petit-Pierre. The great war had long accustomed
him to the use of nicknames and aliases by which men of high birth
concealed their rank, and the disguises under which they hid their
natural bearing; but what did puzzle him was the extreme youth of his
unexpected guest.

"I am happy, monsieur," he said, "if my daughters have been able to be
of service to you and Monsieur de Bonneville; but all the same I
regret that I was absent from home at the time of your arrival. If it
were not for an extremely unpleasant interview with some gentlemen of
my political opinions, I should have had the honor to put my poor
castle at your service myself. However, I hope my little chatterers
have been good substitutes, and that nothing our limited means can
procure has been spared to make your stay as comfortable as it can
be."

"Your hospitality, Monsieur le marquis, can only gain in the hands of
such charming substitutes," said Petit-Pierre, gallantly.

"Humph!" said the marquis, pushing out his lower lip; "in other times
than these we are in, my daughters ought to be able to procure for
their guests some amusement. Bertha, here, knows how to follow a
trail, and can turn a boar as well as any one. Mary, on the other
hand, hasn't her equal for knowing the corner of the marsh where the
snipe are. But except for a sound knowledge of whist, which they get
from me, I regard them as altogether unfit to do the honors of a
salon; and here we are, for the present, shut up with nothing to do
but poke the fire." So saying, Monsieur de Souday gave a vigorous kick
to the logs on the hearth, proving that his anger was not yet over.

"I think few women at court possess more grace and distinction than
these young ladies; and I assure you that none unite with those
qualities such nobility of heart and feeling as your daughters,
Monsieur le marquis, have shown to us."

"Court?" said the marquis, interrogatively, looking with some surprise
at Petit-Pierre.

Petit-Pierre colored and smiled deprecatingly, like an actor who
blunders before a friendly audience.

"I spoke, of course, on presumption, Monsieur le marquis," he said,
with an embarrassment that was obviously factitious. "I said the
court, because that is the sphere where your daughters' name would
naturally place them, and also, because it is there I should like to
see them."

The marquis colored because he had made his guest color. He had just
involuntarily meddled with the incognito the latter seemed anxious to
preserve, and the exquisite politeness of the old gentleman reproached
him bitterly for such a fault.

Petit-Pierre hastened to add:--

"I was saying to you, Monsieur le marquis, when these young ladies did
me the honor to introduce us, that you seem to be one of those who
desire an immediate call to arms."

"I should think so! parbleu! and I am willing to say so to you,
monsieur, who, as I see, are one of us--"

Petit-Pierre nodded in affirmation.

"Yes, that is my desire," continued the marquis; "but no matter what I
say and do, I can't get any one to believe an old man who scorched his
skin in the terrible fire which laid waste the country from 1793 to
1797. No! they listen to a pack of gabblers, lawyers without a brief,
fine dandies who dare not sleep in the open air for fear of spoiling
their clothes, milk-sops, fellows," added the marquis, kicking at
the logs, which revenged themselves by showering his boots with
sparks,--"fellows who--"

"Papa!" said Mary, gently, observing a furtive smile on Petit-Pierre's
face. "Papa, do be calm!"

"No, I shall not be calm," continued the fiery old gentleman.
"Everything was ready. Jean Oullier assured me that my division was
boiling over with enthusiasm; and now the affair is adjourned over
from the 14th of May to the Greek Calends!"

"Patience, Monsieur le marquis," said Petit-Pierre, "the time will
soon be here."

"Patience! patience! that's easy for you to say," replied the marquis,
sighing. "You are young, and you have time enough to wait; but I-- Who
knows if God will grant me days enough to unfurl the good old flag I
fought under so gayly once upon a time?"

Petit-Pierre was touched by the old man's regret.

"But have you not heard, Monsieur le marquis, for I have," he said,
"that the call to arms was only postponed because of the uncertainty
that exists as to the arrival of the princess?"

This speech seemed to increase the marquis's ill-humor.

"Let me alone, young man," he said, in an angry tone. "Don't I know
the meaning of that old joke? During the five years that I fought to
the death in La Vendée were not they always telling us that a royal
personage would draw his sword and rally all ambitions round him?
Didn't I myself, with many others, wait for the Comte d'Artois to land
on the shores of the Île Dieu on the 2d of October? We shall no more
see the Duchesse de Berry in 1832 than we saw the Comte d'Artois in
1796. That, however, will not prevent me from getting myself killed on
their behalf, as becomes a loyal gentleman."

"Monsieur le Marquis de Souday," said Petit-Pierre, in a voice of
strange emotion, "I swear to you, myself, that if the Duchesse de
Berry had nothing more than a nutshell at her command she would cross
the seas and place herself under Charette's banner, borne by a hand so
valiant and so noble. I swear to you that she will come now, if not to
conquer, at least to die with those who have risen to defend the
rights of her son."

There was such energy and determination in the tone with which he
spoke, and it seemed so extraordinary that such words should issue
from the lips of a little lad of sixteen, that the marquis looked him
in the face with extreme surprise.

"Who are you?" he said, giving way to his astonishment. "By what right
do you speak thus of the intentions of her Royal Highness, and pledge
your word for her, young man--or rather, child?"

"I think, Monsieur le marquis, that Mademoiselle de Souday did me the
honor to mention my name when she presented me to you."

"True, Monsieur Petit-Pierre," replied the marquis, confused at his
outburst. "I beg your pardon. But," he added conjecturing the youth to
be the son of some great personage, "is it indiscreet to ask your
opinion as to the present likelihood of a call to arms? Young as you
are, you speak with such excellent sense that I do not conceal from
you my desire for your opinion."

"My opinion, Monsieur le marquis, can be all the more readily given
because I see plainly that it is much the same as yours."

"Really?"

"My opinion--if I may permit myself to give one--"

"Heavens! after the pitiful creatures I heard talk to-night you seem to
me as wise as the seven sages of Greece."

"You are too kind. It is my opinion, Monsieur le marquis, that it was
most unfortunate we could not rise, as agreed upon, on the night of
the 13th and 14th of May."

"That's just what I told them. May I ask your reasons, monsieur?"

"My reasons are these: The soldiers were at that time quartered in the
villages, among the inhabitants, scattered here and there, without
object and without a flag. Nothing was easier than to surprise and
disarm them in a sudden attack."

"Most true; whereas now--"

"Now the order has been given to break up the small encampments and
draw into a focus all the scattered military forces and bodies,--not
of mere companies and detachments, but of battalions and regiments. We
shall now need a pitched battle to reach the results we might have
gained by the cost of that one night's sleep."

"That's conclusive!" cried the marquis, enthusiastically, "and I am
dreadfully distressed that out of the forty and one reasons I gave my
opponents to-night I never thought of that. But," he continued, "that
order which you say has been sent to the troops, are you quite sure it
has been actually issued?"

"Quite sure," said Petit-Pierre, with the most modest and deferential
look he could put upon his face.

The marquis looked at him in stupefaction.

"It is a pity," he went on, "a great pity! However, as you say, my
young friend,--you will permit me to give you that title,--it is
better to have patience and wait till our new Maria Theresa comes into
the midst of her new Hungarians, and meantime to drink to the health
of her royal son and his spotless banner. That reminds me that these
young ladies must deign to get our breakfast ready, for Jean Oullier
has gone off, as some one," he added, with a half-angry look at his
daughters, "has taken upon herself to allow him to go to Montaigu
without my orders."

"That some one was I, Monsieur le marquis," said Petit-Pierre, whose
courteous tone was not quite free from command. "I beg your pardon for
having thus employed one of your men; but you were absent, and it was
most urgent that we should judge exactly what we had to expect from
the temper of the peasantry assembled at Montaigu for the fair."

There was a tone of such easy and natural assurance in that soft,
sweet voice, such a consciousness of authority in the person who
spoke, that the marquis was speechless. He ran over in his mind the
various great personages he could think of who might have a son of
this age, and all he managed to say in reply were a few stammered
words of acquiescence.

The Comte de Bonneville entered the room at this moment. Petit-Pierre,
as the older acquaintance of the two, presented him to the marquis.

The open countenance and frank, joyous manner of the count immediately
won upon the old gentleman, already delighted with Petit-Pierre. He
dismissed his ill-humor, and vowed not to think any more of the cold
hearts and backwardness of his late companions; and he inwardly
resolved, as he led his guests to the dining-room, to use all his wit
to extract from the Comte de Bonneville the real name of the youth who
now chose to pass under the incognito of Petit-Pierre.

                               XXVIII.

         IN WHICH THE MARQUIS DE SOUDAY BITTERLY REGRETS THAT
                   PETIT-PIERRE IS NOT A GENTLEMAN.

The two young men, whom the Marquis de Souday pushed before him,
stopped on the threshold of the dining-room door. The aspect of the
table was literally formidable.

In the centre rose, like an ancient citadel commanding a town, an
enormous pasty of boar's meat and venison. A pike weighing fifteen
pounds, three or four chickens in a stew, and a regular tower of Babel
in cutlets flanked this citadel to the north, south, east, and west;
and for outposts or picket-guards M. de Souday's cook had surrounded
these heavy works with a cordon of dishes, all touching one another,
and containing aliments of many kinds,--hors-d'[oe]uvres, entrées,
entremets, vegetables, salads, fruits, and marmalades,--all huddled
together and heaped in a confusion that was certainly not picturesque,
though full of charm for appetites sharpened by the cutting air of the
forests of the Mauge region.

"Heavens!" cried Petit-Pierre, drawing back, as we have said, at the
sight of such victualling. "You treat poor peasants too royally,
Monsieur de Souday."

"Oh, as for that, I have nothing to do with it, my young friend, and
you must neither blame me nor thank me. I leave all that to these
young ladies. But it is, I hope, unnecessary to say how happy I am
that you honor the board of a poor country gentleman."

So saying, the marquis gently impelled Petit-Pierre, who still seemed
to hesitate, to approach the table. He yielded to the pressure with
some reserve.

"I know I cannot worthily respond to what you expect of me, Monsieur
le marquis," he said; "for I must humbly admit to you that I am a very
poor eater."

"I understand," said the marquis; "you are accustomed to delicate
dishes. As for me, I am a regular peasant, and I prefer good, solid,
succulent food, which repairs the waste of the system, to all the
dainties of a fine table."

"That's a point I have often heard King Louis XVIII. and the Marquis
d'Avaray discuss," said Petit-Pierre.

The Comte de Bonneville touched the youth's arm.

"Then you knew King Louis XVIII. and the Marquis d'Avaray?" said the
old gentleman, in much amazement, looking at Petit-Pierre, as if to
make sure that the youth was not laughing at him.

"Yes, I knew them well, in my youth," replied Petit-Pierre, simply.

"Hum!" said the marquis, shortly.

They had now taken their places round the table, Mary and Bertha with
them, and the formidable breakfast began. But in vain did the marquis
offer dish after dish to his younger guest. Petit-Pierre refused all,
and said if his host were willing he would like a cup of tea and two
fresh eggs from the fowls he heard clucking so cheerfully in the
poultry-yard.

"As for fresh eggs," said the marquis, "that's an easy matter. Mary
shall get you some warm from the nest; but as for tea, the devil! I
doubt if there is such a thing in the house."

Mary did not wait to be sent on this errand. She was already leaving
the room when her father's remark about the tea stopped her, and she
seemed as embarrassed as he. Evidently tea was lacking. Petit-Pierre
noticed the quandary of his hosts.

"Oh!" he said, "don't give yourself any uneasiness. Monsieur de
Bonneville will have the kindness to take a few spoonfuls from my
dressing-case."

"Your dressing-case!"

"Yes," said Petit-Pierre. "As I have contracted the bad habit of
drinking tea, I always carry it with me in travelling."

And he gave the Comte de Bonneville a little key, selecting it from a
bunch that was hanging to a gold chain. The Comte de Bonneville
hastened away by one door as Mary went out by the other.

"Upon my soul!" cried the marquis, engulfing an enormous mouthful of
venison, "you are something of a girl, my young friend; and if it were
not for the opinions I heard you express just now, which I consider
too profound for the female mind, I should almost doubt your sex."

Petit-Pierre smiled.

"Wait till you see me at work, Monsieur le marquis, when we meet
Philippe's troops. You'll soon resign the poor opinion you are forming
of me now."

"What? Do you mean to belong to any of our bands?" cried the marquis,
more and more puzzled.

"I hope so," said the youth.

"And I'll answer for it," said Bonneville, returning and giving
Petit-Pierre the little key he had received from him, "I'll answer for
it you'll always find him in the front rank."

"I am glad of it, my young friend," said the marquis; "but I am not
surprised. God has not measured courage by the bodies to which he
gives it, and I saw in the old war one of the ladies who followed M.
de Charette fire her pistols valiantly."

Just then Mary returned, bringing in one hand a teapot, and in the
other a plate with two boiled eggs on it.

"Thank you, my beautiful child," said Petit-Pierre, in a tone of
gallant protection, which reminded M. de Souday of the seigneurs of
the old court. "A thousand excuses for the trouble I have given you."

[Illustration: Portrait of Louis XVIII.]

"You spoke just now of his Majesty Louis XVIII.," said the Marquis de
Souday, "and his culinary opinions. I have heard it said that he was
extremely fastidious about his meals and his way of eating them."

"That is true," said Petit-Pierre; "he had a fashion of eating
ortolans and cutlets which was his alone."

"And yet," said the Marquis de Souday, setting his handsome teeth into
a cutlet and gnawing off the whole lean of it with one bite, "it seems
to me there is only one way of eating a cutlet."

"Your way, I suppose, Monsieur le marquis," said Bonneville, laughing.

"Yes, faith! and as for ortolans, when by chance Mary and Bertha
condescend to gunning, and bring home, not ortolans, but larks and
fig-peckers, I take them by the beak, salt and pepper them nicely, put
them whole into my mouth, and crunch them off at the neck. They are
excellent eaten that way; only, it requires two or three dozen for
each person."

Petit-Pierre laughed. It reminded him of the story of the Swiss guard
who wagered he would eat a calf in six weeks for his dinner.

"I was wrong in saying that Louis XVIII. had a peculiar way of eating
ortolans and cutlets; I should have said a peculiar way of having them
cooked."

"Bless me!" exclaimed the marquis; "it seems to me there are no two
ways for that either. You roast ortolans on a spit, and you broil
cutlets on a gridiron."

"True," said Petit-Pierre, who evidently took pleasure in all these
recollections; "but his Majesty Louis XVIII. refined upon the process.
As for cutlets, the _chef_ at the Tuileries was careful to cook the
ones which 'had the honor,' as he said, to be eaten by the king
between two other cutlets, so that the middle cutlet got the juices of
the other two. He did something the same thing with the ortolans.
Those that were eaten by the king were put inside a thrush, and the
thrush inside a woodcock, so that by the time the ortolan was cooked
the woodcock was uneatable, but the thrush was excellent, and the
ortolan superlative."

"But really, young man," said the marquis, throwing himself back in
his chair, and looking at Petit-Pierre with extreme astonishment, "one
would think you had seen the good King Louis XVIII. performing all
these gastronomic feats."

"I have seen him," replied Petit-Pierre.

"Did you have a place at court?" asked the marquis, laughing.

"I was page," replied Petit-Pierre.

"Ah! that explains it all," said the marquis. "Upon my soul! you have
seen a good deal for one of your age."

"Yes," replied Petit-Pierre, with a sigh. "Too much, in fact."

The two young girls glanced sympathetically at the young man. The face
which looked so youthful at first sight showed, on closer examination,
that a certain number of years had passed over it, and that troubles
had left their mark there.

The marquis made two or three attempts to continue the conversation;
but Petit-Pierre, buried in thought, seemed to have said all he meant
to say, and whether he did not hear the various theories the marquis
advanced on dark meats and white meats, and on the difference of
flavor between the wild game of the forest and the domesticated game
of the poultry-yard, or whether he did not think it worth while to
approve or to confute, he maintained an absolute silence.

Nevertheless, in spite of this non-responsiveness, the marquis, now in
high good-humor after the generous satisfaction of his appetite, was
enchanted with his young friend. They returned to the salon; but
there, Petit-Pierre, instead of remaining with the two young girls and
the count and marquis near the fireplace,--where a fire which
testified to an abundance of wood from the neighboring forest was
blazing,--Petit-Pierre, thoughtful or dreamy as the reader chooses,
went straight to the window and rested his forehead against the glass.

An instant later, as the marquis was making sundry compliments to the
count on his young companion, the latter's name, pronounced in a curt,
imperious tone, made him start with astonishment.

Petit-Pierre called to Bonneville, who turned hastily and ran rather
than walked in the direction of the young peasant. The latter spoke
for some moments and seemed to be giving orders. At each sentence
uttered by the youth Bonneville bowed in token of assent, and as soon
as Petit-Pierre had ended what he had to say the count took his hat,
saluted every one present, and left the room.

Petit-Pierre then approached the marquis.

"Monsieur de Souday," he said, "I have just assured the Comte de
Bonneville that you will not object to his taking one of your horses
to make a trip to all the châteaus in the neighborhood and call a
meeting here at Souday, this evening, of those very men whom you
quarrelled with this morning. They are no doubt still assembled at
Saint-Philbert. I have therefore enjoined him to make haste."

"But," said the marquis, "some of those gentlemen must be affronted
with me for the manner in which I spoke to them this morning; they
will probably refuse to come to my house."

"An order shall be given to those who resist an invitation."

"An order! from whom?" asked the marquis, in surprise.

"Why, from Madame la Duchesse de Berry, from whom M. de Bonneville has
full powers. But," said Petit-Pierre, with a certain hesitation,
"perhaps you fear that such a meeting at the château de Souday may
have some fatal result for you or for your family. In that case,
marquis, say so at once. The Comte de Bonneville has not yet started."

"God bless me!" cried the marquis, "let him go, and take my best
horse, and founder him if he chooses!"

The words had scarcely left his lips before the Comte de Bonneville,
as though he had heard them and meant to profit by the permission,
rode at full speed past the windows and through the great gates to the
main-road, which led to Saint-Philbert.

The marquis went to the window to follow the rider with his eyes, and
did not leave it until he was lost to sight. Then he turned to speak
to Petit-Pierre; but Petit-Pierre had disappeared, and when the
marquis asked his daughters where he was they answered that the young
man had gone to his room, remarking that he had letters to write.

"Queer little fellow!" muttered the marquis to himself.

                                XXIX.

                        THE VENDÉANS OF 1832.

The same day, about five in the afternoon the Comte de Bonneville
returned. He had seen five of the principal leaders and they agreed to
be at Souday that night between eight and nine o'clock.

The marquis, always hospitable, ordered his cook to tax the
poultry-yard and the larder to the utmost, and to get ready the most
plentiful supper she could possibly manage.

The five leaders who agreed to assemble that evening were Louis
Renaud, Pascal, C[oe]ur-de-Lion, Gaspard, and Achille. Those of our
readers who are somewhat familiar with the events of 1832 will easily
recognize the personages who concealed their identity under these
_noms de guerre_ for the purpose of throwing the authorities off the
scent in case of intercepted despatches.

By eight o'clock Jean Oullier, to the marquis's deep regret, had not
returned. Consequently, the care of the entrance gates was intrusted
to Mary, who was not to open them unless in reply to a knock given in
a peculiar manner.

The salon, with shutters closed and curtains drawn, was the place
selected for the conference. By seven o'clock four persons were ready
and waiting in this room,--namely, the Marquis de Souday, the Comte de
Bonneville, Petit-Pierre, and Bertha. Mary, as we have said, was
stationed at the gates, in a sort of little lodge, which had an
iron-barred window toward the road, through which it was possible to
see whoever rapped, and so admit none until assured of the visitor's
identity.

Of all those in the salon the most impatient was Petit-Pierre, whose
dominant characteristic did not seem to be calmness. Though the clock
said barely half-past seven, and the meeting was fixed for eight, he
went restlessly to the door again and again to hear if any sounds
along the road announced the expected gentlemen. At last, precisely at
eight o'clock, a knock was heard at the gate, or rather three knocks
separated in a certain manner, which indicated the arrival of a
leader.

"Ah!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, going eagerly to the door.

But the Comte de Bonneville stopped him with a respectful smile and
gesture.

"You are right," said the young man, and he went back and seated
himself in the darkest corner of the salon. Almost at the same moment
one of the expected leaders appeared in the doorway.

"M. Louis Renaud," said the Comte de Bonneville, loud enough for
Petit-Pierre to hear him, and to recognize the man under the disguise
of the assumed name.

The Marquis de Souday went forward to meet the new-comer, with all the
more eagerness because this young man was one of the few at the
conference of the morning who had favored an immediate call to arms.

"Ah, my dear count," said the marquis, "come in. You are the first to
arrive, and that's a good omen."

"If I am the first, my dear marquis," replied Louis Renaud, "I assure
you it is not that others are less eager; but my home being nearer to
the château I have not so far to come, you know."

So saying, the personage who called himself Louis Renaud, and who was
dressed in the ordinary simple clothes of a Breton peasant, advanced
into the room with such perfect juvenile grace and bowed to Bertha
with an ease so essentially aristocratic, that it was quite evident he
would have found it difficult to assume, even momentarily, the manners
and language of the social caste whose clothes he borrowed.

These social duties duly paid to the marquis and Bertha, the new-comer
turned his attention to the Comte de Bonneville; but the latter,
knowing the impatience of Petit-Pierre, who, though he remained in his
corner, was making his presence known by movements the count alone
could interpret, at once proceeded to open the question.

"My dear count," he said to the so-called Louis Renaud, "you know the
extent of my powers, you have read the letter of her Royal Highness
Madame, and you know that, momentarily at least, I am her intermediary
to you. What is your opinion on the situation?"

"My opinion, my dear count, I may not give precisely as I gave it this
morning. Here, where I know I am among the ardent supporters of
Madame, I shall risk telling the plain truth."

"Yes, the plain truth," said Bonneville; "that is what Madame desires
to know. And whatever you tell me, my dear count, she will know
exactly as if she heard it."

"Well, my opinion is that nothing ought to be done until the arrival
of the maréchal."

"The maréchal!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre. "Is he not at Nantes?"

Louis Renaud, who had not before noticed the young man in his corner,
turned his eyes to him on hearing this question. Then he bowed, and
replied:--

"On reaching home this morning I heard for the first time that the
maréchal had left Nantes as soon as he heard of the failure at
Marseille, and no one knows either the road he has taken or the
purpose that carried him away."

Petit-Pierre stamped his foot with impatience.

"But," he cried, "the maréchal is the soul of the enterprise. His
absence will check the uprising and diminish the confidence of our
men. Unless he commands, all the leaders will be of equal rank, and we
shall see the same rivalries among them that were so fatal to the
royalist party in the old wars of La Vendée."

Seeing that Petit-Pierre assumed the conversation, Bonneville stepped
backward, giving place to the youth, who now advanced into the circle
of light cast by the lamps and candles. Louis Renaud looked with
amazement at a young man, apparently almost a child, who spoke with
such assurance and decision.

"It is a delay, monsieur," he said; "that is all. You may be sure that
as soon as the maréchal knows of the arrival of Madame in La Vendée,
he will instantly return to his post."

"Did not M. de Bonneville tell you that Madame was on the way and
would be speedily among her friends?"

"Yes, he did tell me so; and the news has given me the keenest
satisfaction."

"Delay! delay!" murmured Petit-Pierre. "I have always heard it said
that any uprising in your part of the country ought to take place
during the first two weeks in May. After that the inhabitants are busy
with their agriculture and are not so easily aroused. Here it is the
14th, and we are already late. As for the leaders, they are convoked,
are they not?"

"Yes, monsieur," said Louis Renaud, with a certain sad gravity, "they
are; and I ought to add that you can hardly count on any but the
leaders." Then he added, with a sigh, "And not all of them either, as
M. le Marquis de Souday discovered this morning."

"You surely do not mean to say that, monsieur!" cried Petit-Pierre.
"Lukewarmness in La Vendée! and that too, when our friends in
Marseille--and I can speak confidently, for I have just arrived from
there--are so furious at their failure that they are longing to take
revenge!"

A pale smile crossed the lips of the young leader.

"You are from the South, monsieur," he said, "though you have not the
accent of it."

"You are right; I am," answered Petit-Pierre. "What of it?"

"You must not confound the South with the West, the Marseillais with
the Vendéans. A proclamation may rouse the South, and a check rebuff
it. Not so in La Vendée. When you have been here some time you will
appreciate the truth of what I say. La Vendée is grave, cold, silent.
All projects are discussed slowly, deliberately; the chances of
success and defeat are each considered. Then, if La Vendée sees a
prospect of success she holds out her hand, says _yes_, and dies, if
need be, to fulfil her promise. But as she knows that _yes_ and _no_
are words of life and death to her, she is slow in uttering them."

"You forget enthusiasm, monsieur," said Petit-Pierre.

"Ah, enthusiasm!" he replied; "I heard that talked of in my boyhood.
It is a divinity of a past age which has stepped from its pedestal
since the days when so many pledges were made to our fathers only to
be forgotten. Do you know what passed this morning at Saint-Philbert?"

"In part, yes; the marquis told me."

"But after the marquis left?"

"No; I know nothing."

"Well, out of the twelve leaders present who were appointed to command
the twelve divisions, seven protested in the name of their men, and
they have by this time sent those men back to their homes, all the
while declaring, every one of them, that personally and under all
circumstances, they would shed their blood for Madame; only they would
not, they added, take before God the terrible responsibility of
dragging their peasantry into an enterprise which promised to be
nothing more, so it seemed to them, than a bloody skirmish."

"Then it comes to this," said Petit-Pierre. "Must we renounce all
hope, all effort?"

The same sad smile crossed the lips of the young leader.

"All _hope_, yes, perhaps; all effort, _no_. Madame has written that
she is urged forward by the committee in Paris; Madame assures us that
she has ramifications in the army. Let us therefore make the attempt!
Possibly a riot in Paris, combined with a defection in the army, may
prove her judgment to have been better than ours. If we make no
attempt on her behalf, Madame will always be convinced that had it
been made it would have been successful; and no doubt ought to be left
in Madame's mind."

"But if the attempt fails?" cried Petit-Pierre.

"Five or six hundred men will have been uselessly killed, that is all.
It is well that from time to time a party, even if it fails, should
give such examples, not only to its own country but to neighboring
nations."

"You are not of those who have sent back their men, then?" asked
Petit-Pierre.

"No, monsieur; but I am of those who have sworn to die for her Royal
Highness. Besides," he added, "perhaps the affair has already begun,
and there may be no choice but to follow the movement."

"How so?" asked Petit-Pierre, Bonneville, and the marquis, in one
breath.

"Shots were fired to-day at the fair at Montaigu--"

"And firing is going on now at the fords of the Boulogne," said an
unknown voice from the doorway, on the threshold of which a new
personage now appeared.

                                 XXX.

                             THE WARNING.

The person we now introduce, or rather the person who now
introduced himself into the salon of the Marquis de Souday, was the
commissary-general of the future Vendéan army, who had changed his
name, well-known at the bar of Nantes, for that of Pascal.

He had gone several times into foreign lands to confer with Madame,
and knew her personally. It was scarcely two months since he had last
seen her, on which occasion after delivering to her Royal Highness the
news from France, he had received her last instructions in return. It
was he who had come into La Vendée to tell the adherents to hold
themselves in readiness.

"Aha!" exclaimed the Marquis de Souday, with a motion of the lips
which meant that he did not hold lawyers in cherished admiration, "M.
le Commissaire-général Pascal."

"Who brings news, apparently," said Petit-Pierre, with the evident
intention of drawing upon himself the attention of the new-comer. The
latter, when he heard the voice, turned immediately to the young man,
who made him an almost imperceptible sign with lips and eyes, which,
however, sufficed to let him know what was expected of him.

"News? Yes," he said.

"Good or bad?" asked Louis Renaud.

"Mixed. But we'll begin with the good."

"Go on."

"Her Royal Highness has crossed the South successfully, and is now
safe and sound in La Vendée."

"Are you sure of that?" asked the Marquis de Souday and Louis Renaud
in one breath.

"As sure as that I see you all five here in good health," replied
Pascal. "Now let us go to the other news."

"Have you heard anything from Montaigu?" asked Louis Renaud.

"They fought there yesterday," said Pascal; "that is, a few shots were
fired by the National Guard and some peasants were killed and
wounded."

"What occasioned it?" asked Petit-Pierre.

"A dispute at the fair, which became a riot."

"Who commands at Montaigu?" again asked Petit-Pierre.

"A mere captain usually," replied Pascal; "but yesterday, in
consequence of the fair, the sub-prefect and the general commanding
the military sub-division were both there."

"Do you know the general's name?"

"Dermoncourt."

"And pray, who is General Dermoncourt?"

"Under what head do you desire to know of him, monsieur,--man,
opinions, or character?"

"All three heads."

"As a man, he is from sixty to sixty-two years old, and he belongs to
that iron race which fought the wars of the Revolution and the Empire.
He will be night and day in the saddle, and not leave us an instant's
rest."

"Very good," said Louis Renaud, laughing. "Then we'll try to tire him
out; and as we are, none of us, half his age we shall be very unlucky
or very stupid if we fail."

"His opinions?" asked Petit-Pierre.

"At heart I believe him to be a republican."

"In spite of twelve years' service under the Empire! He must have been
dyed in the wool."

"There are many like him. You remember what Henri IV. said of the
Leaguers,--'The barrel smells of the herring.'"

[Illustration: Portrait of Dermoncourt.]

"His character?"

"Oh, as for that, loyalty itself! He is neither an Amadis nor a
Galahad. He's a Ferragus, and if ever Madame had the misfortune to
fall into his hands--"

"What are you talking about, Monsieur Pascal?" exclaimed Petit-Pierre.

"I am a lawyer, monsieur," replied the civil commissary, "and in that
capacity I foresee all the chances of a case. I repeat, therefore,
that if Madame were unfortunately to fall into the hands of General
Dermoncourt she would have full opportunity to recognize his
courtesy."

"Then," said Petit-Pierre, "that is the sort of enemy Madame would
choose for herself,--brave, vigorous, and loyal. Monsieur, we are
fortunate-- But you spoke of shots at the fords of the river?"

"I presume that those I heard on my way came from there."

"Perhaps," said the marquis, "Bertha had better go and reconnoitre.
She will soon let us know what is happening."

Bertha rose.

"What!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, "do you send mademoiselle?"

"Why not?" asked the marquis.

"I think it is a man's duty, not a woman's."

"My young friend," said the old gentleman, "in such matters I rely
first upon myself, next upon Jean Oullier, and after Jean Oullier on
Bertha and on Mary. I desire the honor of staying here with you; my
fellow, Jean Oullier, is off amusing himself. Consequently, Bertha
must go."

Bertha went toward the door; but on the threshold she met her sister
and exchanged a few words with her in a low voice.

"Here is Mary," she said, turning back.

"Ah!" exclaimed the marquis; "did you hear the firing, my girl?"

"Yes, father," said Mary; "they are fighting."

"Where?"

"At the springs of Baugé."

"You are sure?"

"Yes; the shots came from the marsh."

"You see," said the marquis; "the news is precise. Who keeps the gate
in your absence?"

"Rose Tinguy."

"Listen!" said Petit-Pierre.

Loud raps were heard upon the gate.

"The devil!" cried the marquis; "that's not one of us."

They all listened attentively.

"Open! open!" cried a voice. "There's not an instant to lose!"

"It is his voice!" exclaimed Mary, eagerly.

"His voice?--whose voice?" said the marquis.

"Yes, I recognize it," said Bertha,--"the voice of young Baron
Michel."

"What does that cabbage-grower want here?" said the marquis, making a
step toward the door as if to prevent his entrance.

"Let him come, let him come, marquis!" cried Bonneville. "I'll answer
for him; there's nothing to fear."

He had hardly said the words before the sound of a rapid step was
heard, and the young baron rushed into the salon, pale, breathless,
covered with mud, dripping with perspiration, and with scarcely breath
enough to say:--

"Not a moment to lose! Fly! Escape! They are coming!"

He dropped on one knee, resting one hand on the ground, for his breath
failed him, his strength was exhausted. He had done, as he promised
Jean Oullier, nearly a mile and a half in six minutes.

There was a moment of trouble and confusion in the salon.

"To arms!" cried the marquis. Springing to his own gun, he pointed to
a rack at the corner of the room, where three or four carbines and
fowling-pieces were hanging.

The Comte de Bonneville and Pascal, with one and the same movement,
threw themselves before Petit-Pierre as if to defend him.

Mary sprang to the young baron to raise him and give him what help he
needed, while Bertha ran to a window looking toward the forest and
opened it.

Shots were then heard, evidently coming nearer, though still at some
distance.

"They are on the Viette des Biques," said Bertha.

"Nonsense!" said the marquis; "impossible they should attempt such a
dangerous path!"

"They are there, father," said Bertha.

"Yes, yes," gasped Michel. "I saw them there; they have torches. A
woman is guiding them, marching at their head; the general is second."

"Oh, that cursèd Jean Oullier! Why isn't he here?" said the marquis.

"He is fighting, Monsieur le marquis," said Michel. "He sent me; he
couldn't come himself."

"He!" exclaimed the marquis.

"But I was coming, mademoiselle; I was coming myself. I knew yesterday
the château was to be attacked, but I was a prisoner; I got down from
a second-story window."

"Good God!" cried Mary, turning pale.

"Bravo!" exclaimed Bertha.

"Gentlemen," said Petit-Pierre, tranquilly, "I think we must decide on
a course. Shall we fight? If we do, we must arm ourselves at once, bar
the gates, and take our posts. Shall we escape? If so, there is even
less time to lose."

"Let us fight!" said the marquis.

"No, escape!" cried Bonneville. "When Petit-Pierre is safe we will
fight."

"What is that you say, count?" exclaimed Petit-Pierre.

"I say that nothing is ready; we are not prepared to fight. Are we,
gentlemen?"

"Oh, yes, we can always fight," said the youthful, light-hearted voice
of a new-comer, addressing himself partly to those in the salon, and
partly to two other young men who were following him, and whom, no
doubt, he had met at the gate.

"Ah, Gaspard! Gaspard!" cried Bonneville.

Springing to meet the new arrival, he whispered something in his ear.

"Gentlemen," said Gaspard, turning to the others, "the Comte de
Bonneville is perfectly right; we must retreat." Then addressing the
marquis, he added, "Haven't you some secret door or issue to the
castle, marquis? We have no time to lose; the last shots we heard at
the gate--Achille, C[oe]ur-de-Lion, and I--were not half a mile
distant."

"Gentlemen," said the Marquis de Souday, "you are in my house, and it
is for me to assume the responsibility. Silence! listen to me and obey
me to-night; I will obey you to-morrow."

All were silent.

"Mary," said the marquis, "close the gates, but do not barricade them;
leave them so that they can be opened at the first rap. Bertha, to the
underground passage instantly, and don't lose a moment. My daughters
and I will receive the general and do the honors of the château to
him. To-morrow, wherever you are, we will join you; only, let us know
where that will be."

Mary sprang from the room to execute her father's order, while Bertha,
signing to Petit-Pierre to follow her, went out by the opposite door,
crossed the inner courtyard, entered the chapel, took two wax tapers
from the altar, lighted them, gave one to Bonneville, one to Pascal,
and then, pushing a spring which made the front of the altar turn of
itself, she pointed to a stairway, leading to the vaults in which the
lords of Souday were formerly buried.

"You can't lose your way," she said; "you will find a door at the
farther end, and the key is in it. That door leads into the open
country. These gentlemen all know how to find their way there."

Petit-Pierre took Bertha's hand and pressed it warmly. Then he sprang
down the steps to the vault behind Bonneville and Pascal, who lighted
the way.

Louis Renaud, Achille, C[oe]ur-de-Lion, and Gaspard followed
Petit-Pierre.

Bertha closed the aperture behind them. She noticed that Michel was
not among the fugitives.

                                XXXI.

                         MY OLD CRONY LORIOT.

The Marquis de Souday, after watching the fugitives with his eyes
until they entered the chapel, gave one of those deep exclamations
which mean that the breast is relieved of a heavy weight; then he
returned to the vestibule. But instead of proceeding from the
vestibule to the salon, he went from the vestibule to the kitchen.

Contrary to all his habits and to the great astonishment of his cook,
he walked to the fire, raised the covers of the saucepans anxiously,
made sure that no ragout was sticking to the bottom of them, and put
back the spits a trifle so that no unexpected flame should dishonor
the roasts; having done this he returned to the vestibule, thence to
the dining-room, where he inspected the bottles, doubled their number,
looked to see if the table was properly set, and then, satisfied with
the inspection, returned to the salon.

There he found his daughters, the castle gate being intrusted to
Rosine, whose only duty was to open it on the first rap.

The girls were seated beside the fire when their father entered. Mary
was anxious, Bertha dreamy. Both were thinking of Michel. Bertha was
intoxicated with that pungent joy which follows the revelation of love
in the heart of the one we love; she fancied she read in the glances
of the young baron the assurance that it was for her the poor lad, so
timid, so hesitating, had conquered his weakness and braved real
perils. She measured the greatness of the love she supposed him to
feel by the revolution that love had evidently made in his nature. She
built her castles in the air, and blamed herself bitterly for not
having urged him to return to the château when she noticed that he did
not follow those whom his devotion had saved. Then she smiled; for
suddenly a thought crossed her mind: if he had remained behind he must
be hidden in some corner of the château, and was it not for the
pleasure of meeting her privately? Perhaps if she went into the
shrubbery of the park he would start up beside her and say: "See what
I have done to obtain a word with you!"

The marquis had scarcely seated himself in his accustomed easy-chair,
and had not had time to notice the preoccupation of his daughters,
which he would, of course, attribute to another cause than the
true one, when a single rap was heard on the gate. The marquis
started,--not because he did not expect the rap, but because this rap
was not the one he expected. It was timid, almost obsequious, and,
consequently, there was nothing military about it.

"Oh! oh!" exclaimed the marquis; "whom have we here, I'd like to
know."

"Some one knocked," said Bertha, coming out of her revery.

"One rap," said Mary.

The marquis shook his head as if to say, "That's not the point," and
then, deciding to see for himself what the matter was, he left the
salon, crossed the vestibule, and advanced as far as the top step of
the portico.

There, instead of the bayonets and sabres he was expecting to see
glitter in the darkness, instead of the soldierly figures and
moustaches with which he proposed to make acquaintance, the Marquis de
Souday saw nothing but the enormous dome of a blue cotton umbrella,
which approached him, point forward, up the steps of the portico.

As this umbrella, steadily advancing like a turtle's carapace,
threatened to put out his eye with its point, which stuck forth like
the central spot of an ancient shield, the marquis raised the orb of
this buckler and came face to face with a weasel's muzzle, surmounted
by two little, glittering eyes, like carbuncles, and topped with a
very tall hat, extremely narrow in the brim and so much brushed and
rebrushed that it shone in the dusky light as though it were
varnished.

"By all the devils of hell!" cried the marquis, "if it isn't my old
crony Loriot!"

"Ready to offer you his little services if you think him worthy,"
replied a falsetto voice which its owner endeavored to make
ingratiating.

"You are very welcome indeed to Souday, Maître Loriot," said the
marquis, in a tone of good-humor and as if he expected some genuine
pleasure from the presence of the person he welcomed so cordially. "I
expect quite a numerous party this evening, and you shall help me do
the honors. Come in, and see the young ladies."

Thereupon the old gentleman, with an easy air that showed how
convinced he was of the distance between a Marquis de Souday and a
village notary, preceded his guest into the salon. It is true that
Maître Loriot took so much time to wipe his boots on the mat which lay
at the door of that sanctuary that the politeness of the marquis, had
he exercised it in remaining behind his visitor, would have been
sorely tried and lessened.

Let us profit by the moment when the legal functionary shuts his
umbrella and dries his feet to sketch his portrait, if indeed the
undertaking is not beyond our powers.

Maître Loriot, the notary of Machecoul, was a little old fellow, thin
and slim and seeming smaller than he really was from his habit of
never speaking except half double in an attitude of the profoundest
respect. A long, sharp nose was the whole of his face; nature, in
developing beyond all reason that feature of his countenance, had
economized on the rest with such extraordinary parsimony that it was
necessary to look at him for some time before perceiving that Maître
Loriot had a mouth and chin and eyes like other men; but when that
knowledge was once attained it was observable that the eyes were
vivacious and the mouth not by any means devoid of shrewdness.

Maître Loriot fulfilled the promises of his physiognomical prospectus;
and he was clever enough to wring some thirty thousand francs out of a
country practice in which his predecessors had hardly managed to make
both ends meet. To attain this result, supposed until he came to be
impossible, M. Loriot had studied, not the Code, but men; he had
learned from that study that vanity and pride were the dominant
instincts of mankind; and he had, in consequence, endeavored to make
himself agreeable to those two vices, in which effort he succeeded so
well that he soon became absolutely necessary to those who possessed
them.

By reason of this system of behavior, politeness in Maître Loriot had
become servility; he did not bow, he prostrated himself; and, like the
fakirs of India, he had so trained his body to certain submissive
motions that this attitude was now habitual with him. Never would he
have addressed a titled person, were that person only a baron or even
a chevalier, in any other than the third person. He showed a gratitude
both humble and overflowing for all affability bestowed upon him;
and as, at the same time, he manifested an exaggerated devotion to the
interests confided to him, he had finally, little by little,
obtained a very considerable _clientèle_ among the nobility of the
neighborhood.

But the thing above all others which contributed to the success of
Maître Loriot in the department of the Loire-Inférieure and even in
the adjoining departments, was the ardor of his political opinions. He
was one of those who might well be called "more royalist than the king
himself." His little gray eye flamed when he heard the name of a
Jacobin, and to his mind all who had ever belonged to the liberal
side, from M. de Chateaubriand to M. de la Fayette were Jacobins.
Never would he have recognized the monarchy of July, and he always
called the King Louis-Philippe "Monsieur le Duc d'Orléans," not even
allowing him the title of Royal Highness which Charles X. did grant
him.

Maître Loriot was a frequent visitor to the Marquis de Souday. It was
part of his policy to parade an extreme respect for this illustrious
relic of the former social order,--a social order he deeply regretted;
and his respect had gone so far that he had made various loans to the
marquis, who, being very careless, as we have said, in the matter of
money, neglected as a matter of course to pay the interest on them.

The Marquis de Souday always welcomed Maître Loriot, partly on account
of the said loans; also because the old gentleman's fibre was not less
sensitive than that of others to agreeable flattery; and, lastly,
because the coolness which existed between the owner of Souday and the
other proprietors of the neighborhood made him rather lonely, and he
was glad of any distraction to the monotony of his life.

When the little notary thought his boots were cleaned of every vestige
of mud he entered the salon. There he again bowed to the marquis, who
had returned to his usual easy chair, and then he began to compliment
the two young girls. But the marquis did not leave him time to do much
of that.

"Loriot," he said, "I am always glad to see you."

The notary bowed to the ground.

"Only," continued the marquis, "you will permit me to ask, won't you?
what brings you here into our desert at half-past nine o'clock of a
rainy night. I know that when a man has such an umbrella as yours the
sky above him is always blue, but--"

The notary judged it proper not to allow such a joke to be made by a
marquis without laughing, and murmuring "Ah, good! very good!" Then,
making a direct answer, he said:--

"I was at the château de la Logerie very late, having been there to
carry some money to Madame la baronne on an order I did not receive
till two in the afternoon. I was coming back on foot, as I usually do,
when I heard noises of evil portent in the forest, which confirmed
what I already knew of a riot at Montaigu. I feared, if I went any
farther, that I might meet the soldiers of the Duc d'Orléans; and to
avoid that unpleasantness I thought that M. le marquis would deign to
let me lodge here for the night."

At the mention of la Logerie Mary and Bertha raised their heads like
two horses who hear from afar and suddenly the sound of the bugle.

"Oh! you have come from la Logerie, have you?" said the marquis.

"Yes, as I have just had the honor of mentioning to Monsieur le
marquis," replied Maître Loriot.

"Well! well! well! We have had another visitor from la Logerie this
evening."

"The young baron, perhaps?" suggested the notary.

"Yes."

"I am looking for him."

"Loriot," said the marquis, "I am astonished to hear you--a man whose
principles I have always considered sound--to hear you prostituting a
title which you habitually respect by attaching it to the name of
those Michels."

As the marquis uttered this remark with an air of superb disdain
Bertha turned crimson and Mary turned pale. The impression produced by
his words was lost upon the old gentleman, but it did not escape the
little gray eye of the notary. He was about to speak when Monsieur de
Souday made a sign with his hand that he had not finished his remarks.

"And I wish to know why you, my old crony," he continued, "whom we
have always treated well and kindly, why you think it necessary to put
forward a subterfuge in order to enter my house."

"Monsieur le marquis!" stammered Loriot.

"You came here to look for young Michel, didn't you? That's all very
well, but why lie about it?"

"I beg Monsieur le marquis to accept my most humble excuses. The
mother of the young man, whom I have been obliged to accept as a
client, being a legacy with the practice of my predecessor, is very
anxious. Her son got out of a window on the second story at the risk
of breaking his neck, and in defiance of her maternal wishes he has
run away; consequently Madame Michel requests me--"

"Ha! ha!" cried the marquis, "did he really do that?"

"Literally, Monsieur le marquis."

"Well, that reconciles me to him,--not perhaps altogether, but
somewhat."

"If Monsieur le marquis would indicate to me where I am likely to find
the young man," said Loriot, "I could take him back to his mother."

"As for that, the devil knows where he has taken himself, I don't! Do
you know, girls?" asked the marquis, turning to his daughters.

Bertha and Mary both made signs in the negative.

"You see, my dear crony, that we can't be of the least use to you,"
said the marquis. "But do tell me why mother Michel locked up her
son."

"It seems," replied the notary, "that young Michel, hitherto so
gentle, and docile, and obedient, has fallen suddenly in love."

"Ah, ha! taken the bit in his teeth? I know what that is! Well, Maître
Loriot, if you are called in counsel, do you tell mother Michel to
give him his head and keep a light rein on him; that's better than a
martingale. He strikes me as a pretty good little devil, what I have
seen of him."

"An excellent heart, Monsieur le marquis; and then, an only son!--more
than a hundred thousand francs a year!" said the notary.

"Hum!" exclaimed the marquis, "if that's all he has, it is little
enough to cover the villanies of the name he bears."

"Father!" said Bertha, while Mary only sighed, "You forget the service
he did us to-night."

"Hey! hey!" thought Loriot, looking at Bertha, "can the baroness be
right after all? It would be a fine contract to draw."

And he began to add up the fees he might expect from a marriage
contract between Baron Michel de la Logerie and the daughter of the
Marquis de Souday.

"You are right, my child," said the marquis; "we'll leave Loriot to
hunt up mother Michel's lost lamb, and say no more about them." Then,
turning to Loriot, he added: "Are you going any further on your quest,
Mr. Notary?"

"If Monsieur le marquis will deign to permit, I would prefer--"

"Just now, you gave me, as a pretext for staying here, your dread of
encountering the soldiers," interrupted the marquis. "Are you really
afraid of them? Heavens and earth, what's the meaning of that? You,
one of us, afraid of soldiers!"

"I am not afraid," replied Loriot; "Monsieur le marquis may believe
me. But those cursed Blues turn my stomach; I feel such an aversion
for them that after I have seen even one of their uniforms I can't eat
anything for twenty-four hours."

"That explains your leanness; but the saddest part of it is that this
aversion of yours obliges me to turn you out of my house."

"Monsieur le marquis is making fun of his humble servant."

"Indeed I am not; I don't wish your death, that's all."

"My death?"

"Yes, if the sight of one soldier gives you twenty-four hours of
inanition, you'll certainly die of starvation outright if you pass a
whole night under the same roof as a regiment."

"A regiment?"

"Yes, a regiment. I have invited a regiment to sup at Souday to-night;
and the regard I have for you obliges me to send you off, hot foot, at
once. Only, be careful which way you go because those scamps the
soldiers if they catch you in the fields, or rather in the woods, at
this time of night may take you for what you are not--I mean to say,
for what you are."

"What then?"

"What then! why, they'd honor you with a shot or two, and the muskets
of M. le Duc d'Orléans are loaded with ball, you know."

The notary turned pale and stammered a few unintelligible words.

"Decide; you have the choice,--death by hunger, or by guns. You've no
time to lose; I hear the tramp of men--and there! precisely!--that's
the general knocking at the gate."

Sure enough, the knocker resounded; this time it was vigorously
handled, as became the guest whose arrival it announced.

"In company with Monsieur le marquis," said Loriot, "I will conquer my
aversion, invincible as it is."

"Good! then take that torch and go with me to meet my guests."

"Your guests? Why, really, Monsieur le marquis, I can't believe--"

"Come, come, _Thomas_ Loriot, you shall see first, and believe
afterwards."

And the Marquis de Souday, taking a torch himself, advanced to the
portico. Bertha and Mary followed him; Mary thoughtful, Bertha
anxious,--both looking earnestly into the shadows of the courtyard to
see if they could discover any sign of the presence of him they were
both thinking of.

                                XXXII.

             THE GENERAL EATS A SUPPER WHICH HAD NOT BEEN
                          PREPARED FOR HIM.

According to the instructions of the marquis transmitted by Mary to
Rosine, the gate was opened to the soldiers at the first rap. No
sooner was this done than they filed into the courtyard and hastened
to surround the house.

Just as the old general was about to dismount he saw the two
torchbearers on the portico, and beside them, partly in shadow, partly
in the light, the two young girls. They all came toward him with a
gracious, hospitable manner which greatly amazed him.

"Faith! general," said the marquis, coming down the last step, as if
to go as far as possible to meet the general. "I began to despair of
seeing you, this evening at least."

"You despaired of seeing me, Monsieur le marquis!" exclaimed the
general, astonished at this exordium.

"Yes, I despaired of seeing you. At what hour did you leave
Montaigu,--at seven?"

"At seven precisely?"

"Well, that's just it! I calculated that it would take you about two
hours to march here, and I expected you at nine or half-past, and here
it is half-past ten. I was just wondering if some accident could have
happened to deprive me of the honor of receiving so brave and gallant
a soldier."

"Then you expected me, monsieur?"

"Why, of course, I did. I'll bet it was that cursed ford at Pont-Farcy
which detained you. What an abominable country it is, general!--brooks
that become impassible torrents from the slightest rain; roads--call
them roads indeed! I call them bogs! How did you get over those
dreadful springs of Baugé?--a sea of mud in which you are sure to
flounder to the waist, and are lucky enough if it doesn't come over
your head. But even that is nothing to the Viette des Biques. When I
was a young fellow and a frantic hunter I used to think twice before
risking myself over it. Really, general, I feel very grateful for this
visit when I think what trouble and fatigue it has caused you."

The general saw that, for the moment, he had to do with as shrewd a
player as himself; and he resolved to eat with a good grace the dish
that the marquis served to him.

"I beg you to believe, Monsieur le marquis," he replied, "that I
regret having kept you waiting, and that the fault of the delay is
none of mine. In any case, I will try to profit by the lesson you give
me, and the next time I come I will set out in time to defy fords,
bogs, and precipices from hindering my arrival politely in season."

At this moment an officer came up to the general to take his orders
about the search to be made of the château.

"It is useless, my dear captain," replied the general; "the marquis
tells me we have come too late; in other words, we have nothing to do
here,--the château is all in order."

"But, my dear general!" said the marquis, "in order or not, my house
is at your disposal; pray do exactly as you like with it."

"You offer it with such good grace I cannot refuse."

"Well, young ladies, what are you about," exclaimed the marquis, "that
you let me keep these gentlemen talking here in the rain? Pray come
in, general, come in, gentlemen; there's an excellent fire in the
salon which will dry your clothes--which that cursed ford must have
soaked thoroughly."

"How shall I thank you for all your considerateness?" said the
general, biting his moustache and secretly his lips.

"Oh! you are a man I am glad to serve, general," replied the marquis,
preceding the officers whom he was lighting, the little notary
modestly bringing up the rear with the other torch. "But permit me,"
he added, "to present to you my daughters. Mesdemoiselles Bertha and
Mary de Souday."

"Faith, marquis," said the general, gallantly, "the sight of two such
charming faces is worth the risks of taking cold at the fords, or
getting muddy in the bog, or even breaking one's neck on the Viette
des Biques."

"Well, young ladies," said the marquis, "make use of your pretty eyes
to see if supper, which has long been waiting for these gentlemen,
intends to keep us waiting now."

"Really, marquis," said Dermoncourt, turning to his officers, "we are
quite confounded by such kindness; and our gratitude--"

"Is amply relieved by the pleasure your visit affords us. You can
easily believe, general, that having grown accustomed to the two
pretty faces you compliment so charmingly, and being moreover their
father, I should sometimes find life in my little castle a trifle
insipid and monotonous. You can understand, therefore, that when an
imp of my acquaintance came and whispered in my ear, 'General
Dermoncourt started from Montaigu at seven o'clock, with his staff, to
pay you a visit,' I was delighted."

"Ah! it was an imp who told you?"

"Yes; there is always such a being in every cottage and every castle
in this region of country. So the prospect of the pleasant evening I
should owe to your coming, general, gave me something of my old
elasticity, which, alas! I am losing. I hurried my people and put my
hen-house and larder under contribution, set my daughters in motion,
and kept my old crony Loriot, the Machecoul notary, to do you honor;
and I have even, God damn me! put my own hand in the pie, and we have
managed, among us, to prepare a supper which is ready for you, and
also for your soldiers--for I don't forget I was once a soldier
myself."

"Ah! you have served in the army, Monsieur le marquis?" said
Dermoncourt.

"Perhaps in the same wars as yourself; though, instead of saying that
I served, I ought only say that I fought."

"In this region?"

"Yes, under the orders of Charette."

"Ah ha!"

"I was his aide-de-camp."

"Then this is not the first time we have met, marquis."

"Is that really so?"

"Yes, I made the campaigns of 1795 and 1796 in La Vendée."

"Ah! bravo! that delights me," cried the marquis; "then we can talk at
dessert of our youthful prowess--Ah, general," said the old gentleman,
with a certain melancholy, "it is getting to be a rare thing on either
side to find those who can talk of the old campaigns. But here come
the young ladies to tell us that supper is ready. General, will you
give your arm to one of them? the captain will take the other." Then,
addressing the rest of the officers, he said, "Gentlemen, will you
follow the general into the dining-room?"

They sat down to table,--the general between Mary and Bertha, the
marquis between two officers. Maître Loriot took the seat next to
Bertha, intending, in the course of the meal, to get in a word about
Michel. He had made up his mind that, so far as he was concerned, the
marriage contract should be drawn in his office.

For some minutes nothing was heard but the clatter of plates and
glasses; all present were silent. The officers, following the example
of their general, accepted complacently this unexpected termination of
their intended attack. The marquis, who usually dined at five o'clock,
and was therefore nearly six hours late in getting anything to eat,
was making up to his stomach for its lost time. Mary and Bertha, both
of them pensive, were not sorry to have an excuse for their silent
reflections in the aversion they felt to the tricolor cockade.

The general was evidently reflecting on some means of getting even
with the marquis. He understood perfectly well that Monsieur de Souday
had received warning of his approach. Practised in Vendéan warfare, he
well knew the facility and rapidity with which news is communicated
from one village to another. Surprised at first by the heartiness of
the Marquis de Souday's welcome, he had gradually recovered his
coolness and returned to his habits of minute observation. All he saw,
whether it was his host's extreme attentions, or the profusion of the
repast, far too sumptuous to have been prepared for enemies, only
confirmed his suspicions; but, patient as all good hunters of men and
game should be, and certain that if his illustrious prey had taken
flight (as he believed she had) it would be useless to pursue her in
the darkness, he resolved to postpone his more serious investigations
and to let no indication of what was below the surface escape him.

It was the general who first broke silence.

"Monsieur le marquis," he said, raising his glass, "the choice of a
toast may be as difficult for you as for us; but there is one that
cannot be embarrassing, and has, indeed, the right to precede all
others. Permit me to drink to the health of the Demoiselles de Souday,
thanking them for their share in the courteous reception with which
you have honored us."

"My sister and I thank you, monsieur," said Bertha; "and we are very
glad to have pleased you in accordance with our father's wishes."

"Which means," said the general, smiling, "that you are only gracious
to us under orders, and that our gratitude for your attentions is
really due to Monsieur le marquis. Well, that's all right; I like such
military frankness, which would induce me to leave the camp of your
admirers and enter that of your friends, if I thought I could be
received there wearing, as I do, the tricolor cockade."

"The praises you give to my frankness, monsieur," replied Bertha,
"induce me to say honestly that the colors you wear are not those I
like to see upon my friends; but, if you really wish for that title I
will grant it, hoping that the day may come when you will wear mine."

"General," said the marquis, scratching his ear, "your remark is
perfectly true; what toast can I give in return for your graceful
compliment to my daughters without compromising either of us? Have you
a wife?"

The general was determined to nonplus the marquis.

"No," he said.

"A sister?"

"No."

"A mother, perhaps?"

"Yes," said the general, issuing from the ambush in which he seemed to
have been awaiting the marquis, "France, our common mother."

"Ah, bravo! then I drink to France! and may the glory and the grandeur
that her kings have given her for the last eight centuries long
continue."

"And, permit me to add, the half-century of liberty which she owes to
her sons."

"That is not only an addition, but a modification," said the marquis.
Then, after an instant's silence, he added, "Faith! I'll accept that
toast! White or tricolor, France is always France!"

All the guests touched glasses, and Loriot himself, carried off his
balance by the enthusiasm of the marquis, emptied his glass.

Once launched in this direction, and moistened abundantly, the
conversation became so lively and even vagabond that after the supper
was two thirds through, Mary and Bertha, thinking they had better not
wait till the end of it, rose from table and passed without remark
into the salon.

Maître Loriot, who seemed to have come there as much for the daughters
as for their father, rose a few moments later and followed them.

                               XXXIII.

                  IN WHICH MAÎTRE LORIOT'S CURIOSITY
                      IS NOT EXACTLY SATISFIED.

Maître Loriot profited, as we have said, by the example of the young
ladies, and left the marquis and his guests to evoke at ease their
memories of the "war of giants." He rose from table and followed the
Demoiselles de Souday into the salon. There he advanced toward them,
bending almost double, and rubbing his hands.

"Ah!" said Bertha; "you seem to be pleased about something, Monsieur
le notaire."

"Mesdemoiselles," replied Maître Loriot, in a low voice, "I have done
my best to second your father's trick. I hope that if need be you will
not refuse to certify to the coolness and self-possession I have shown
under the circumstances."

"What trick do you mean, dear Monsieur Loriot," said Mary, laughing.
"Neither Bertha nor I know what you mean."

"Good heavens!" said the notary; "I don't know any more than you know,
but it seems to me that Monsieur le marquis must have some serious and
powerful reasons to treat as old friends, and even better than some
old friends are treated, those hateful bullies whom he has admitted to
his table. The attentions he is paying to those hirelings of the
usurper strike me as very strange, and I fancy they have a purpose."

"What purpose?" asked Bertha.

"Well, that of filling those fellows' minds with such a sense of
security that they will neglect to look after their own safety, and
then--taking advantage of their carelessness, to make them share the
fate--"

"The fate?"

"The fate of--" repeated the notary.

"The fate of whom?"

The notary passed his hand across his throat.

"Holofernes, perhaps?" cried Bertha, laughing.

"Exactly," said Maître Loriot.

Mary joined her sister in the peals of laughter this assurance called
forth. The little notary's supposition delighted the sisters beyond
measure.

"So you assign us the part of Judith!" cried Bertha, endeavoring to
check her laughter.

"But, mesdemoiselles--"

"If my father were here, Monsieur Loriot, he might be angry that you
suppose him capable of such proceedings, which would be in my opinion,
a little too Biblical. But don't be uneasy; we will tell neither papa
nor the general, who certainly would not be flattered at the meaning
you put upon our attentions."

"Young ladies," entreated Loriot, "forgive me if my political fervor,
my horror for all the partisans of the present unfortunate doctrines,
carried me rather too far."

"I forgive you, Monsieur Loriot," replied Bertha, who, having been, in
consequence of her frank, decided nature, the most suspicious, felt
that she had the most to pardon,--"I forgive you; and in order that
you may not make such mistakes in future I shall give you the key-note
of the situation. You must know that General Dermoncourt, whom you
regard as Antichrist, has merely come to Souday to make exactly the
same search that is made in all the neighboring châteaus."

"If that's the case," said the little notary, who was getting himself
deeper and deeper into trouble, "why treat him with,--yes, I will say
the word,--with such luxury and splendor? The law is precise."

"The law! How so?"

"Yes; it forbids all magistrates and civil and military officers
charged with the execution of judicial authority to seize, carry away,
or appropriate any articles other than those named in the warrant.
What are these men now doing with the viands and wines of all
sorts which are on the table of the Marquis de Souday? They are
ap-pro-pri-ating them!"

"It seems to me, my dear Monsieur Loriot," said Mary, "that my father
has the right to invite whom he chooses to his table."

"Even those who come to execute--to bring into his home--an odious and
tyrannical power? Certainly he has the right, mademoiselle; but you
will allow me to regard it as a most unnatural thing, and to suppose
it has some secret cause or object."

"In other words, Monsieur Loriot, you see a secret which you want to
penetrate."

"Oh, mademoiselle--"

"Well, I'll confide it to you, as well as I can, my dear Monsieur
Loriot. I am willing to trust you, if you, on your side, will tell me
how it happened that having to look for Monsieur Michel de la Logerie,
you came straight to the château de Souday."

Bertha said the words in a firm, incisive way, and the notary, to whom
they were addressed, heard them with more embarrassment than was felt
by the lady who uttered them.

As for Mary, she came up to her sister, slipped her arm within
Bertha's, and resting her head upon the latter's shoulder, awaited,
with a curiosity she did not seek to disguise, the answer of Maître
Loriot.

"Well, if you really wish to know why, young ladies--"

The notary made a pause, as though expecting to be encouraged; and
Bertha did encourage him with a nod.

"I came," continued Maître Loriot, "because Madame la Baronne de la
Logerie informed me that the château de Souday was probably the place
to which her son went on taking flight from his home."

"And on what did Madame la Baronne de la Logerie base that
supposition?" asked Bertha, with the same questioning look and the
same firm, incisive voice.

"Mademoiselle," replied the notary, more and more embarrassed, "after
what I said to your father, really I do not know whether, in spite of
the reward you promise to my frankness, I have the courage to say
more."

"Why not?" said Bertha, with the same coolness. "Shall I help you? It
is because she thinks, I believe you said, that the object of Monsieur
Michel's love is at Souday."

"Yes, mademoiselle, that is just it."

"Very good; but what I desire to know, and what I shall insist on
knowing, is Madame de la Logerie's opinion of that love."

"Her opinion is not exactly favorable, mademoiselle," returned the
notary; "that I must admit."

"That's a point on which my father and the baroness will agree," said
Bertha, laughing.

"But," continued the notary, pointedly, "Monsieur Michel will be of
age in a few months,--consequently, free as to his actions, and the
master of an immense fortune."

"As to his actions," said Bertha, "so much the better for him."

"In what way, mademoiselle?" asked the notary, maliciously.

"Why to rehabilitate the name he bears and efface the evil memories
his father left behind him. As to the fortune, if I were the woman
Monsieur Michel honored with his affection, I should advise him to
make such use of it that there would soon be no name in the whole
province more honored than his."

"What use would you advise him to make of it?" exclaimed the notary,
much astonished.

"To return that money to those from whom they say his father got it,
and to make restitution to the former proprietors of the national
domain which M. Michel bought."

"But in that case, mademoiselle, you would ruin the man who had the
honor to be in love with you," said the little notary, quite
bewildered.

"What would that matter if he obtained the respect of all, and the
regard of her who advised the sacrifice?"

Just then Rosine appeared at the door of the salon.

"Mademoiselle," she said, not addressing herself particularly to
either Mary or Bertha, "will you please come here?"

Bertha wanted to continue her conversation with the notary. She was
eager for information as to the feelings Madame de la Logerie had
against her; and, moreover, she enjoyed talking, however vaguely, of
projects which for some time past had been the theme of her
meditations. So she told Mary to go and see what was wanted.

But Mary, on her side, was rather unwilling to leave the salon. She
was frightened to see to what lengths Bertha's love had developed
within the last few days; every word her sister said echoed painfully
in her soul. She felt sure that Michel's love was wholly her own, and
she thought with actual terror of Bertha's despair when she should
discover how strangely she had deceived herself. Besides, in spite of
Mary's immense affection for her sister, love had already poured into
her heart the little dose of selfishness which always accompanies that
emotion, and she was quite joyful, from another point of view, at what
she was now hearing. The part which Bertha was tracing out for the
wife of Michel she felt should be her own. So it happened that Bertha
was obliged to ask her for the second time to see what Rosine wanted.

"Go, dearest," she said, kissing Mary's forehead, "go; and while you
are there please give orders about preparing Monsieur Loriot's room;
for I fear, in all this turmoil, it has been forgotten."

Mary was accustomed to obey, and she obeyed. Of the two sisters, she
was by far the most docile and gentle. She found Rosine at the door.

"What do you want of us?" she asked.

Rosine did not reply. Then, as if she feared to be overheard from the
dining-room, where the marquis was narrating the last day of
Charette's life, she took Mary by the arm and drew her under the
staircase at the farther end of the vestibule.

"Mademoiselle," she said, "he is hungry."

"He is hungry?" repeated Mary.

"Yes; he has just told me so."

"Who is it you are talking of? Who is hungry?"

"He, the poor lad."

"Who is he?"

"Why, Monsieur Michel."

"Monsieur Michel here!"

"Didn't you know it?"

"No."

"Two hours ago--after Mademoiselle Bertha returned from the chapel,
just before the soldiers arrived--he came to the kitchen."

"Didn't he go away with Petit-Pierre?"

"No."

"And you say he went to the kitchen?"

"Yes; and he was so tired, it was quite pitiful. 'Monsieur Michel,' I
said like that, 'why don't you go into the salon?' 'My dear Rosine,'
said he, in his gentle way, 'they didn't ask me.' Then he wanted to go
and sleep at Machecoul, for he said he wouldn't go back to La Logerie
for all the world. It seems his mother meant to take him to Paris. So
I wouldn't let him leave the house."

"You did quite right, Rosine. Where is he now?"

"I put him in the tower chamber; but as the soldiers have taken the
ground-floor, we can't get in there now except through the passage at
the end of the hay-loft, and I came to ask you for the key."

Mary's first thought (it was her good thought) was to tell her sister;
but a second thought succeeded the first, and that, it must be owned,
was less generous. It was no other than to see Michel first and alone.
Rosine gave her the opportunity.

"I'll tell you where the key is," said Mary.

"Oh, mademoiselle," replied Rosine, "do come with me. There are so
many men about that I don't like to be alone, and I should die of
fright to go up there by myself; whereas if you, the marquis's
daughter, were with me they would all respect us."

"But the provisions?"

"Here they are."

"Where?"

"In this basket."

"Oh, very good; then come."

And Mary sprang up the stairs with the agility of the kids she
sometimes hunted among the rocks in the forest of Machecoul.

                                XXXIV.

                          THE TOWER CHAMBER.

When Mary reached the second floor she stopped before the room
occupied by Jean Oullier. The key she wanted was kept in that room.

Then she opened a door which gave entrance from this floor on a
winding stairway which led to the upper portion of the tower, where,
preceding Rosine whose basket hindered her, she continued her
ascension, which was somewhat dangerous, for the stairs of the
half-abandoned tower had fallen into a state of dilapidation and
decay. It was at the top of this tower, in a little chamber under the
roof, that Rosine and the cook, forming themselves into a committee of
deliberation, had shut up the young Baron Michel de la Logerie.

The intention of these honest girls was excellent; the result was in
no sense equal to their good-will. It would be impossible to imagine a
more miserable refuge, or one where it would be less possible to
obtain even a slight repose. The room was, in fact, used by Jean
Oullier to store the seeds, tools, and other necessary articles for
his various avocations as Jack-at-all-trades. The walls were literally
palisaded with branches of beans, cabbages, lettuce, onions, of
diverse varieties, all gone to seed and exposed to the air for the
purpose of ripening and drying them. Unfortunately, these botanic
specimens had acquired such a coating of dust, while awaiting the
period of their return to earth, that the least movement made in the
narrow chamber sent up a cloud of leguminous atoms which affected the
atmosphere disagreeably.

The sole furniture of this room was a wooden bench, which was not a
very comfortable seat, certainly; and Michel, unable to endure it, had
betaken himself to a pile of oats of a rare species, which obtained,
on account of their rarity, a place in this collection of precious
germs. He seated himself in the midst of the mound, and there, in
spite of some inconveniencies, he found enough elasticity to rest his
limbs, which were cramped with fatigue.

But after a time Michel grew weary of lying on this movable and
prickly sofa. When Guérin threw him down into the brook a goodly
quantity of mud became attached to his garments, and the dampness soon
penetrated to his skin. His stay before the kitchen fire had been
short, so short that the dampness now returned, more penetrating than
ever. He began, therefore, to walk up and down in the turret-room,
cursing the foolish timidity to which he owed not only the cold,
stiffness, and hunger he began to feel, but also--more dismal
still--the loss of Mary's presence. He scolded himself for not
securing his own profit out of the valiant enterprise he had
undertaken, and for losing courage to end successfully an affair he
had so well begun.

Let us hasten to say here, in order that we may not misrepresent our
hero's character, that the consciousness of his mistake did not make
him a whit more courageous, and it never for an instant occurred to
him to go frankly to the marquis and ask for hospitality,--a desire
for which had been one of the determining motives of his flight.

Meantime the soldiers had arrived, and Michel, attracted by the noise
to the narrow casement of his turret-chamber, saw the Demoiselles de
Souday, their father, the general, and his officers, passing and
repassing before the brilliantly lighted windows of the main building.
It was then that, seeing Rosine in the courtyard beneath, he asked,
with all the modesty of his character, for a bit of bread, and
declared himself hungry.

Hearing, soon after, a light step apparently approaching his room, he
began to feel a lively satisfaction under two heads: first, he was
likely to get something to eat; and next, he should probably hear news
of Mary.

"Is that you, Rosine?" he asked, when he heard a hand endeavoring to
open the door.

"No, it is not Rosine; it is I, Monsieur Michel," said a voice.

Michel recognized it as Mary's voice; but he could not believe his
ears. The voice continued:--

"Yes, I,--I, who am very angry with you!"

As the tone of the voice was not in keeping with the words, Michel was
less alarmed than he might have been.

"Mademoiselle Mary!" he cried; "Mademoiselle Mary! Good heavens!"

He leaned against the wall to keep himself from falling. Meanwhile the
young girl had opened the door.

"You!" cried Michel,--"you, Mademoiselle Mary! Oh, how happy I am!"

"Not so happy as you say."

"Why not?"

"Because, as you must admit, in the midst of your happiness you are
dying of hunger."

"Ah, mademoiselle! who told you that?" stammered Michel, coloring to
the whites of his eyes.

"Rosine. Come, Rosine, quick!" continued Mary. "Here, put your lantern
on this bench, and open the basket at once; don't you see that
Monsieur Michel is devouring it with his eyes?"

These laughing words made the young baron rather ashamed of the vulgar
need of food he had expressed to his foster-sister. It came into his
head that to seize the basket, fling it out of the window, at the risk
of braining a soldier, fall upon his knees, and say to the young girl
pathetically, with both hands pressed to his heart, "Can I think of my
stomach when my heart is satisfied?" would be a rather gallant
declaration to make. But Michel might have had such ideas in his head
for a number of consecutive years without ever bringing himself to act
in so cavalier a manner. He therefore allowed Mary to treat him
exactly like a foster-brother. At her invitation he went back to his
seat on the oats, and found it a very enjoyable thing to eat the food
cut for him by the delicate hand of the young girl.

"Oh, what a child you are!" said Mary. "Why, after doing so gallant an
act and rendering us a service of such importance, at the risk, too,
of breaking your neck,--why didn't you come to my father, and say to
him, as it was so natural to do, 'Monsieur, I cannot go home to my
mother to-night; will you keep me till to-morrow morning?'"

"Oh, I never should have dared!" cried Michel, letting his arms drop
on each side of him, like a man to whom an impossible proposal was
made.

"Why not?" asked Mary.

"Because your father awes me."

"My father! Why, he is the kindest man in the world. Besides, are you
not our friend?"

"Oh, how good of you, mademoiselle, to give me that title." Then,
venturing to go a step farther, he added. "Have I really won it?"

Mary colored slightly. A few days earlier she would not have hesitated
to reply that Michel was indeed her friend, and that she was
constantly thinking of him. But during those few days Love had
strangely modified her feelings and produced an instinctive reticence
which she was far from comprehending. The more she was revealed to
herself as a woman, by sensations hitherto unknown to her, the more
she perceived that the manners, habits, and language resulting from
the education she had received were unusual; and with that faculty of
intuition peculiar to women she saw what she lacked on the score of
reserve, and she resolved to acquire it for the sake of the emotion
that filled her soul and made her feel the necessity of dignity.

Consequently, Mary, who up to this time had never concealed a single
thought, began to see that a young girl must sometimes, if not lie, at
least evade the truth; and she now put in practice this new discovery
in her answer to Michel's question.

"I think," she replied, "that you have done quite enough to earn the
name of friend." Then without giving him time to return to a subject
on hazardous ground, she continued, "Come, give me proof of the
appetite you were boasting of just now by eating this other wing of
the chicken."

"Oh, mademoiselle, no!" said Michel, artlessly, "I am choking as it
is."

"Then you must be a very poor eater. Come, obey; if not, as I am only
here to serve you, I shall go."

"Mademoiselle," said Michel, stretching out both his hands, in one of
which was a fork, in the other a piece of bread,--"mademoiselle, you
cannot be so cruel. Oh! if you only knew how sad and dismal I have
been here for the last two hours in this utter solitude--"

"You were hungry; that explains it," said Mary, laughing.

"No, no, no; that was not it! I could see you from here, going and
coming with all those officers."

"That was your own fault. Instead of taking refuge like an owl in this
old turret, you ought to have come into the salon and gone with us to
the dining-room and eaten your supper sitting, like a Christian, on a
proper chair. You would have heard my father and General Dermoncourt
relating adventures to make your flesh creep, and you would have seen
the old weasel Loriot--as my father calls him--eating his supper,
which was scarcely less alarming."

"Good God!" cried Michel.

"What?" asked Mary, surprised by the sudden exclamation.

"Maître Loriot, of Machecoul?"

"Maître Loriot, of Machecoul," repeated Mary.

"My mother's notary?"

"Ah, yes, that's true; so he is!" said Mary.

"Is he here?" asked Michel.

"Yes, of course he is here; and what do you think he came for?"
continued Mary, laughing.

"What?"

"To look for you."

"For me?"

"Exactly; sent by the baroness."

"But, mademoiselle," cried Michel, much alarmed, "I don't wish to go
back to La Logerie."

"Why not?"

"Because,--well, because they lock me up, they detain me; they want to
keep me at a distance from--from my friends."

"Nonsense! La Logerie is not so very far from Souday."

"No; but Paris is far from Souday, and the baroness wants to take me
to Paris. Did you tell that notary I was here?"

"No, indeed."

"Oh! I thank you, mademoiselle."

"You need not thank me, for I did not know it myself."

"But now that you do know it--"

Michel hesitated.

"Well, what?"

"You must not tell him, Mademoiselle Mary," said Michel, ashamed of
his weakness.

"Upon my word, Monsieur Michel," replied Mary, "you must allow me to
say one thing."

"Say it, mademoiselle; say it!"

"Well, it seems to me if I were a man Maître Loriot should not disturb
me under any circumstances."

Michel seemed to gather all his strength in order to take a
resolution.

"You are right," he said; "and I will go and tell him that I will not
return to La Logerie."

At this moment they were startled by loud cries from the cook, calling
to Rosine.

"Good heavens!" they both cried, one as frightened as the other.

"Do you hear that, mademoiselle?" said Rosine.

"Yes."

"They want me."

"Oh!" said Mary, rising, and all ready to flee away, "can they know we
are here?"

"Suppose they do," said Rosine; "what does it matter?"

"Nothing," said Mary; "but--"

"Listen!" exclaimed Rosine.

They were silent, and the cook was heard to go away. Presently her
voice was heard in the garden.

"Dear me!" said Rosine; "there she is, calling me outside."

And Rosine was for running down at once.

"Heavens!" cried Mary; "don't leave me here alone."

"Why, you are not alone," said Rosine, naïvely. "Monsieur Michel is
here."

"Yes, but to get back to the house," stammered Mary.

"Why, mademoiselle," cried Rosine, astonished, "have you suddenly
turned coward,--you so brave, who are in the woods by night as much as
by day! It isn't a bit like you."

"Never mind; stay, Rosine."

"Well, for all the help I have been to you for the last half-hour I
might as well go."

"Very true; but that's not what I want of you."

"What do you want?"

"Well, don't you see?"

"What?"

"Why, that this unfortunate boy can't pass the night here, in this
room."

"Then where can he pass it?" asked Rosine.

"I don't know; but we must find him another room."

"Without telling the marquis?"

"Oh, true! my father doesn't know he is here. Good heavens! what's to
be done? Ah, Monsieur Michel, it is all your fault!"

"Mademoiselle, I am ready to leave the house if you demand it."

"What makes you say that?" cried Mary, quickly. "No; on the contrary,
stay."

"Mademoiselle Mary, an idea!" interrupted Rosine.

"What is it?"

"Suppose I go and ask Mademoiselle Bertha what we had better do?"

"No," replied Mary, with an eagerness which surprised herself; "no,
that's useless! I will ask her myself presently when I go down, after
Monsieur Michel has finished his wretched little supper."

"Very good; then I'll go now," said Rosine.

Mary dared not keep her longer. Rosine disappeared, leaving the two
young people entirely alone.

                                XXXV.

          WHICH ENDS QUITE OTHERWISE THAN AS MARY EXPECTED.