The Chouans

* * * * *

The events of the day had excited such violent emotions in Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s whole being that she lay back almost fainting in the carriage, after giving the order to drive to Fougeres.  Francine was as silent as her mistress.  The postilion, dreading some new disaster, made all the haste he could to reach the high-road, and was soon on the summit of La Pelerine.  Through the thick white mists of morning Marie de Verneuil crossed the broad and beautiful valley of Couesnon (where this history began) scarcely able to distinguish the slaty rock on which the town of Fougeres stands from the slopes of La Pelerine.  They were still eight miles from it.  Shivering with cold herself, Mademoiselle de Verneuil recollected the poor soldier behind the carriage, and insisted, against his remonstrances, in taking him into the carriage beside Francine.  The sight of Fougeres drew her for a time out of her reflections.  The sentinels stationed at the Porte Saint-Leonard refused to allow ingress to the strangers, and she was therefore obliged to exhibit the ministerial order.  This at once gave her safety in entering the town, but the postilion could find no other place for her to stop at than the Poste inn.

“Madame,” said the Blue whose life she had saved.  “If you ever want a sabre to deal some special blow, my life is yours.  I am good for that.  My name is Jean Falcon, otherwise called Beau-Pied, sergeant of the first company of Hulot’s veterans, seventy-second half-brigade, nicknamed ‘Les Mayencais.’  Excuse my vanity; I can only offer you the soul of a sergeant, but that’s at your service.”

He turned on his heel and walked off whistling.

“The lower one goes in social life,” said Marie, bitterly, “the more we find generous feelings without display.  A marquis returns death for life, and a poor sergeant—­but enough of that.”

When the weary woman was at last in a warm bed, her faithful Francine waited in vain for the affectionate good-night to which she was accustomed; but her mistress, seeing her still standing and evidently uneasy, made her a sign of distress.

“This is called a day, Francine,” she said; “but I have aged ten years in it.”

The next morning, as soon as she had risen, Corentin came to see her and she admitted him.

“Francine,” she exclaimed, “my degradation is great indeed, for the thought of that man is not disagreeable to me.”

Still, when she saw him, she felt once more, for the hundredth time, the instinctive repulsion which two years’ intercourse had increased rather than lessened.

“Well,” he said, smiling, “I felt certain you were succeeding.  Was I mistaken? did you get hold of the wrong man?”

“Corentin,” she replied, with a dull look of pain, “never mention that affair to me unless I speak of it myself.”

He walked up and down the room casting oblique glances at her, endeavoring to guess the secret thoughts of the singular woman whose mere glance had the power of discomfiting at times the cleverest men.

“I foresaw this check,” he replied, after a moment’s silence.  “If you would be willing to establish your headquarters in this town, I have already found a suitable place for you.  We are in the very centre of Chouannerie.  Will you stay here?”

She answered with an affirmative sign, which enabled Corentin to make conjectures, partly correct, as to the events of the preceding evening.

“I can hire a house for you, a bit of national property still unsold.  They are behind the age in these parts.  No one has dared buy the old barrack because it belonged to an emigre who was thought to be harsh.  It is close to the church of Saint Leonard; and on my word of honor the view from it is delightful.  Something can really be made of the old place; will you try it?”

“Yes, at once,” she cried.

“I want a few hours to have it cleaned and put in order for you, so that you may like it.”

“What matter?” she said.  “I could live in a cloister or a prison without caring.  However, see that everything is in order before night, so that I may sleep there in perfect solitude.  Go, leave me; your presence is intolerable.  I wish to be alone with Francine; she is better for me than my own company, perhaps.  Adieu; go—­go, I say.”

These words, said volubly with a mingling of coquetry, despotism, and passion, showed she had entirely recovered her self-possession.  Sleep had no doubt classified the impressions of the preceding day, and reflection had determined her on vengeance.  If a few reluctant signs appeared on her face they only proved the ease with which certain women can bury the better feelings of their souls, and the cruel dissimulation which enables them to smile sweetly while planning the destruction of a victim.  She sat alone after Corentin had left her, thinking how she could get the marquis still living into her toils.  For the first time in her life this woman had lived according to her inmost desires; but of that life nothing remained but one craving, —­that of vengeance,—­vengeance complete and infinite.  It was her one thought, her sole desire.  Francine’s words and attentions were unnoticed.  Marie seemed to be sleeping with her eyes open; and the long day passed without an action or even a gesture that bore testimony to her thoughts.  She lay on a couch which she had made of chairs and pillows.  It was late in the evening when a few words escaped her, as if involuntarily.

“My child,” she said to Francine, “I understood yesterday what it was to live for love; to-day I know what it means to die for vengeance.  Yes, I will give my life to seek him wherever he may be, to meet him, seduce him, make him mine!  If I do not have that man, who dared to despise me, at my feet humble and submissive, if I do not make him my lackey and my slave, I shall indeed be base; I shall not be a woman; I shall not be myself.”

The house which Corentin now hired for Mademoiselle de Verneuil offered many gratifications to the innate love of luxury and elegance that was part of this girl.  The capricious creature took possession of it with regal composure, as of a thing which already belonged to her; she appropriated the furniture and arranged it with intuitive sympathy, as though she had known it all her life.  This is a vulgar detail, but one that is not unimportant in sketching the character of so exceptional a person.  She seemed to have been already familiarized in a dream with the house in which she now lived on her hatred as she might have lived on her love.

“At least,” she said to herself, “I did not rouse insulting pity in him; I do not owe him my life.  Oh, my first, my last, my only love! what an end to it!” She sprang upon Francine, who was terrified.  “Do you love a man?  Oh, yes, yes, I remember; you do.  I am glad I have a woman here who can understand me.  Ah, my poor Francette, man is a miserable being.  Ha! he said he loved me, and his love could not bear the slightest test!  But I,—­if all men had accused him I would have defended him; if the universe rejected him my soul should have been his refuge.  In the old days life was filled with human beings coming and going for whom I did not care; it was sad and dull, but not horrible; but now, now, what is life without him?  He will live on, and I not near him!  I shall not see him, speak to him, feel him, hold him, press him,—­ha!  I would rather strangle him myself in his sleep!”

Francine, horrified, looked at her in silence.

“Kill the man you love?” she said, in a soft voice.

“Yes, yes, if he ceases to love me.”

But after those ruthless words she hid her face in her hands, and sat down silently.

The next day a man presented himself without being announced.  His face was stern.  It was Hulot, followed by Corentin.  Mademoiselle de Verneuil looked at the commandant and trembled.

“You have come,” she said, “to ask me to account for your friends.  They are dead.”

“I know it,” he replied, “and not in the service of the Republic.”

“For me, and by me,” she said.  “You preach the nation to me.  Can the nation bring to life those who die for her?  Can she even avenge them?  But I—­I will avenge them!” she cried.  The awful images of the catastrophe filled her imagination suddenly, and the graceful creature who held modesty to be the first of women’s wiles forgot herself in a moment of madness, and marched towards the amazed commandant brusquely.

“In exchange for a few murdered soldiers,” she said, “I will bring to the block a head that is worth a million heads of other men.  It is not a woman’s business to wage war; but you, old as you are, shall learn good stratagems from me.  I’ll deliver a whole family to your bayonets —­him, his ancestors, his past, his future.  I will be as false and treacherous to him as I was good and true.  Yes, commandant, I will bring that little noble to my arms, and he shall leave them to go to death.  I have no other rival.  The wretch himself pronounced his doom, —­a day without a morrow.  Your Republic and I shall be avenged.  The Republic!” she cried in a voice the strange intonations of which horrified Hulot.  “Is he to die for bearing arms against the nation?  Shall I suffer France to rob me of my vengeance?  Ah! what a little thing is life! death can expiate but one crime.  He has but one head to fall, but I will make him know in one night that he loses more than life.  Commandant, you who will kill him,” and she sighed, “see that nothing betrays my betrayal; he must die convinced of my fidelity.  I ask that of you.  Let him know only me—­me, and my caresses!”

She stopped; but through the crimson of her cheeks Hulot and Corentin saw that rage and delirium had not entirely smothered all sense of shame.  Marie shuddered violently as she said the words; she seemed to listen to them as though she doubted whether she herself had said them, and she made the involuntary movement of a woman whose veil is falling from her.

“But you had him in your power,” said Corentin.

“Very likely.”

“Why did you stop me when I had him?” asked Hulot.

“I did not know what he would prove to be,” she cried.  Then, suddenly, the excited woman, who was walking up and down with hurried steps and casting savage glances at the spectators of the storm, calmed down.  “I do not know myself,” she said, in a man’s tone.  “Why talk?  I must go and find him.”

“Go and find him?” said Hulot.  “My dear woman, take care; we are not yet masters of this part of the country; if you venture outside of the town you will be taken or killed before you’ve gone a hundred yards.”

“There’s never any danger for those who seek vengeance,” she said, driving from her presence with a disdainful gesture the two men whom she was ashamed to face.

“What a woman!” cried Hulot as he walked away with Corentin.  “A queer idea of those police fellows in Paris to send her here; but she’ll never deliver him up to us,” he added, shaking his head.

“Oh yes, she will,” replied Corentin.

“Don’t you see she loves him?” said Hulot.

“That’s just why she will.  Besides,” looking at the amazed commandant, “I am here to see that she doesn’t commit any folly.  In my opinion, comrade, there is no love in the world worth the three hundred thousand francs she’ll make out of this.”

When the police diplomatist left the soldier the latter stood looking after him, and as the sound of the man’s steps died away he gave a sigh, muttering to himself, “It may be a good thing after all to be such a dullard as I am.  God’s thunder! if I meet the Gars I’ll fight him hand to hand, or my name’s not Hulot; for if that fox brings him before me in any of their new-fangled councils of war, my honor will be as soiled as the shirt of a young trooper who is under fire for the first time.”

The massacre at La Vivetiere, and the desire to avenge his friends had led Hulot to accept a reinstatement in his late command; in fact, the new minister, Berthier, had refused to accept his resignation under existing circumstances.  To the official despatch was added a private letter, in which, without explaining the mission of Mademoiselle de Verneuil, the minister informed him that the affair was entirely outside of the war, and not to interfere with any military operations.  The duty of the commanders, he said, was limited to giving assistance to that honorable citoyenne, if occasion arose.  Learning from his scouts that the movements of the Chouans all tended towards a concentration of their forces in the neighborhood of Fougeres, Hulot secretly and with forced marches brought two battalions of his brigade into the town.  The nation’s danger, his hatred of aristocracy, whose partisans threatened to convulse so large a section of country, his desire to avenge his murdered friends, revived in the old veteran the fire of his youth.