The Chouans

* * * * *

While these events were taking place outside the chateau, the leaders sent by the Vendeans and those of the Chouans were holding a council of war, with their glasses in their hands, under the presidency of the Marquis de Montauran.  Frequent libations of Bordeaux animated the discussion, which, however, became more serious and important at the end of the meal.  After the general plan of military operations had been decided on, the Royalists drank to the health of the Bourbons.  It was at that moment that the shot which killed Merle was heard, like an echo of the disastrous war which these gay and noble conspirators were about to make against the Republic.  Madame du Gua quivered with pleasure at the thought that she was freed from her rival; the guests looked at each other in silence; the marquis rose from the table and went out.

“He loved her!” said Madame du Gua, sarcastically.  “Follow him, Monsieur de Fontaine, and keep him company; he will be as irritating as a fly if we let him sulk.”

She went to a window which looked on the courtyard to endeavor to see Marie’s body.  There, by the last gleams of the sinking moon, she caught sight of the coach being rapidly driven down the avenue of apple-trees.  Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s veil was fluttering in the wind.  Madame du Gua, furious at the sight, left the room hurriedly.  The marquis, standing on the portico absorbed in gloomy thought, was watching about a hundred and fifty Chouans, who, having divided their booty in the gardens, were now returning to finish the cider and the rye-bread provided for the Blues.  These soldiers of a new species, on whom the monarchy was resting its hopes, dispersed into groups.  Some drank the cider; others, on the bank before the portico, amused themselves by flinging into the lake the dead bodies of the Blues, to which they fastened stones.  This sight, joined to the other aspects of the strange scene,—­the fantastic dress, the savage expressions of the barbarous and uncouth gars,—­was so new and so amazing to Monsieur de Fontaine, accustomed to the nobler and better-regulated appearance of the Vendean troops, that he seized the occasion to say to the Marquis de Montauran, “What do you expect to do with such brutes?”

“Not very much, my dear count,” replied the Gars.

“Will they ever be fit to manoeuvre before the enemy?”

“Never.”

“Can they understand or execute an order?”

“No.”

“Then what good will they be to you?”

“They will help me to plunge my sword into the entrails of the Republic,” replied the marquis in a thundering voice.  “They will give me Fougeres in three days, and all Brittany in ten!  Monsieur,” he added in a gentler voice, “start at once for La Vendee; if d’Auticamp, Suzannet, and the Abbe Bernier will act as rapidly as I do, if they’ll not negotiate with the First Consul, as I am afraid they will” (here he wrung the hand of the Vendean chief) “we shall be within reach of Paris in a fortnight.”

“But the Republic is sending sixty thousand men and General Brune against us.”

“Sixty thousand men! indeed!” cried the marquis, with a scoffing laugh.  “And how will Bonaparte carry on the Italian campaign?  As for General Brune, he is not coming.  The First Consul has sent him against the English in Holland, and General Hedouville, the friend of our friend Barras, takes his place here.  Do you understand?”

As Monsieur de Fontaine heard these words he gave Montauran a look of keen intelligence which seemed to say that the marquis had not himself understood the real meaning of the words addressed to him.  The two leaders then comprehended each other perfectly, and the Gars replied with an undefinable smile to the thoughts expressed in both their eyes:  “Monsieur de Fontaine, do you know my arms? our motto is ‘Persevere unto death.’”

The Comte de Fontaine took Montauran’s hand and pressed it, saying:  “I was left for dead at Quatre-Chemins, therefore you need never doubt me.  But believe in my experience—­times have changed.”

“Yes,” said La Billardiere, who now joined them.  “You are young, marquis.  Listen to me; your property has not yet been sold—­”

“Ah!” cried Montauran, “can you conceive of devotion without sacrifice?”

“Do you really know the king?”

“I do.”

“Then I admire your loyalty.”

“The king,” replied the young chieftain, “is the priest; I am fighting not for the man, but for the faith.”

They parted,—­the Vendean leader convinced of the necessity of yielding to circumstances and keeping his beliefs in the depths of his heart; La Billardiere to return to his negotiations in England; and Montauran to fight savagely and compel the Vendeans, by the victories he expected to win, to co-operate in his enterprise.