From that time, no tidings whatsoever4 were heard of Denot. He had never returned to his lodging, nor been seen anywhere, except in the stable, in which his horse had been put to stand—he had himself saddled his horse, and taken him from the stall, and from that moment nothing further could be learnt of him in Saumur. De Lescure and Henri made the most minute inquiries—but in vain; had he destroyed himself, or hid himself in the town, his horse would certainly have been found; it was surmised5 that he had started for Paris on some mad speculation6; and though his friends deeply grieved at his misconduct, his absence, when they had so much to do and to think of was in itself, felt as a relief.
After remaining about a week in Saumur, the army was disbanded—or rather disbanded itself, for every effort was made, to keep together as great a body of men as possible. An attempt was made to garrison7 the town; and for this purpose, the leaders undertook to pay about one thousand men, at a certain rate per day, for their services, while they remained under arms in Saumur, but the idea, after a very short time, was abandoned; the men would not stay away from their homes, and in spite of the comforts which were procured8 for them, and the pay which was promised, the garrison very quickly dissolved.
Cathelineau succeeded in taking back with him to St. Florent, nearly all the men who had accompanied him; his next object was the attack of Nantes, and as St. Florent is between Saumur and that town, his men were able to return to their homes, without going much out of their direct way. He marched through the town of Angers on his return, and took possession of the stores which he found there, the republican garrison having fled as soon as they heard of his approach; many of Bonchamps’ men accompanied him, and some of those who had come to Saumur with de Lescure and Henri Larochejaquelin, young men who had no wives or families, and who literally9 preferred the excitement of the campaign, to their ordinary home employments; all such men joined Cathelineau’s army, but by far the greater number of the peasants of the Bocage returned with de Lescure and Larochejaquelin.
Charette had been invited to assist Cathelineau in his attack on Nantes, and he had promised to do so; de Lescure found it absolutely necessary to go home, on account of his wound, and Larochejaquelin went with him. They had already heard that the Convention had determined10 to invade La Vend茅e on every side with an overwhelming force, and it was necessary to protect the Southern portion of the province; this duty was allotted11 to our two friends, and they therefore returned home from Saumur, without expecting to enjoy for any length of time the fruits of their recent victory.
A litter was formed for de Lescure, for at present he found it impossible to bear the motion of riding, and Henri, the little Chevalier, Father Jerome and Chapeau, accompanied him on horseback. Many of the peasants had started from Saumur, before their party, and the whole road from that town through Dou and Vihiers to Durbelli猫re, was thronged12 with crowds of these successful warriors13, returning to their families, anxious to tell to their wives and sweethearts the feats14 they had accomplished15.
They were within a league of Durbelli猫re, and had reached a point where a cross-road led from the one they were on to the village of Echanbroignes, and at this place many of the cortege, which was now pretty numerous, turned off towards their own homes.
“M. Henri,” said Chapeau, riding up to his master, from among two or three peasants, who had been walking for some time by his horse’s side, and anxiously talking to him, “M. Henri?”
“Well, Jacques; what is it now?” said Henri.
“I have a favour to ask of Monsieur.”
“A favour, Chapeau; I suppose you want to go to Echanbroignes already, to tell Michael Stein’s pretty daughter, of all the gallant16 things you did at Saumur.”
“Not till I have waited on you and M. de Lescure to the ch芒teau. Momont would be dying if he had not some one to give him a true account of what has been done, and I do not know that any one could give him a much better history of it, than myself—of course not meaning such as you and M. de Lescure, who saw more of the fighting than any one else; but then you know, M. Henri, you will have too much to do, and too much to say to the Marquis, and to Mademoiselle, to be talking to an old man like Momont.”
“Never fear, Chapeau. You shall have Momont’s ears all to yourself; but what is it you do want?”
“Why, nothing myself exactly, M. Henri; but there are two men from Echanbroignes here, who wish you to allow them to go on to Durbelli猫re, and stay a day or two there: they are two of our men, M. Henri; two of the red scarfs.”
“Two of the red scarfs!” said Henri.
“Yes, M. Henri, two of the men who went through the water, and took the town; we call ourselves red scarfs, just to distinguish ourselves from the rest of the army: your honour is a red scarf that is the chief of the red scarfs; and we expect to be especially under your honour’s protection.”
“I am a red scarf, Henri;” said the little Chevalier. “There are just two hundred of us, and we mean to be the most dare-devil set in the whole army; won’t we make the cowardly blues17 afraid of the Durbelli猫re red scarfs!”
“And who are the two men, Jacques?” said Henri.
“Jean and Peter Stein,” said Jacques: “you see, M. Henri, they ran away to the battle, just in direct opposition18 to old Michael’s positive orders. You and the Cur茅 must remember how I pledged my honour that they should be at Saumur, and so they were: but Michael Stein is an awful black man to deal with when his back is up: he thinks no more of giving a clout19 with his hammer, than another man does of a rap with his five knuckles20.”
“But his sons are brave fellows,” said the little Chevalier, “and dashed into the water among the very first. Michael Stein can’t but be proud that his two sons should be both red scarfs: if so, he must be a republican.”
“He is no republican, Chevalier,” said Chapeau, “that’s quite certain, nor yet any of the family; but he is a very black man, and when once angered, not easy to be smoothed down again; and if M. Henri will allow Jean and Peter to come on to Durbelli猫re, I can, perhaps, manage to go back with them on Sunday, and Michael Stein will mind me more than he will them: I can knock into his thick head better than they can do, the high honour which has befallen the lads, in their chancing to have been among the red scarfs.”
“Well, Chapeau, let them come,” said Henri. “No man that followed me gallantly22 into Saumur, shall be refused admittance when he wishes to follow me into Durbelli猫re.”
“We were cool enough, weren’t we, Henri, when we marched into the town?” said the Chevalier.
“We’ll have a more comfortable reception at the old ch芒teau,” said Henri; “at any rate, we’ll have no more cold water. I must say, Arthur, I thought the water of that moat had a peculiarly nasty taste.”
They were not long in reaching the ch芒teau, and Henri soon found himself in his sister’s arms. A confused account, first of the utter defeat of the Vendeans at Varin, and then of their complete victory at Saumur, had reached Durbelli猫re; and though the former account had made them as miserable23, as the latter had made them happy, neither one nor the other was entirely24 believed. De Lescure had sent an express to Clisson immediately after the taking of the town, and Madame de Lescure had sent from Clisson to Durbelli猫re; but still it was delightful25 to have the good news corroborated26 by the conquerors27 themselves, and Agatha was supremely28 happy.
“My own dear, darling Henri,” she said, clinging round his neck, “my own brave, gallant brother, and were you not wounded at all—are you sure you are not wounded?”
“Not a touch, not a scratch, Agatha, as deep as you might give me with your bodkin.”
“Thank God! I thank Him with all my heart and soul: and I know you were the first everywhere. Charles wrote but a word or too to Victorine, but he said you were the very first to set your foot in Saumur.”
“A mere29 accident, Agatha; while Charles had all the fighting—the real hard, up hill, hand to ‘hand work—I and a few others walked into Saumur, or rather we swam in, and took possession of the town. The Chevalier here was beside me, and was over the breach30 as soon as I was.”
“My brave young Arthur!” said Agatha, in her enthusiasm, kissing the forehead of the blushing Chevalier, “you have won your spurs like a knight31 and a hero; you shall be my knight and my hero. And I will give you my glove to wear in your cap. But, tell me Arthur, why have you and Henri, those red handkerchiefs tied round your waist? Chapeau has one too, and those other men, below there.”
“That’s our uniform,” said Arthur. “We are all red scarfs; all the men who clambered into Saumur through the water, are to wear red scarfs till the war is over; and they are to be seen in the front, at every battle, seige and skirmish. Mind, Agatha, when you see a red scarf, that he is one of Henri Larochejaquelin’s own body-guard; and when you see a bald pate32, it belongs to a skulking33 republican.”
“Are the republicans all bald then?” said Agatha.
“We shaved all we caught at Saumur, at any rate. We did not leave a hair upon one of them,” said Arthur, rejoicing. “The red scarfs are fine barbers, when a republican wants shaving.”
“Is Charles badly wounded?” asked Agatha.
“His arm is broken, and he remained in action for eight hours after receiving the wound, so that it was difficult to set; but now it is doing well,” said Henri.
“I should have offered him my services before this: at any rate I will do so now; but Henri I have a thousand things to say to you; do not expect to go to bed tonight, till you have told me everything just as it happened,” and Agatha hurried away, to give her sweet woman’s aid to her wounded cousin, while Henri went into his father’s room.
“Welcome, my hero! welcome, my gallant boy!” said the old man, almost rising from his chair, cripple as he was, in his anxiety to seize the hand of his beloved son.
“I have come home, safe, father,” said Henri, “to lay my sword at your feet.”
“You must not leave it there long, Henri, I fear, you must not leave it there long; these traitors34 are going to devour35 us alive; to surround us with their troops and burn us out of house and home; they will annihilate36 the people they say, destroy the towns, and root out the very trees and hedges. We shall see, Henri—we shall see. So they made a bad fight of it at Saumur?”
“They had two men to one against us, besides the advantage of position, discipline and arms, and yet they marched the best part of their troops off in the night without striking a blow.”
“Thanks be to the Lord, we will have our King again; we will have our dear King once more, thanks be to the Almighty,” said the old man, eager with joy. “And they fled, did they, without striking a blow!”
“Some of them did, father; but some fought well enough; it was desperate sharp work when poor Charles was wounded.”
“God bless him! God bless him! I didn’t doubt it was sharp work; but even with valour, or without valour, what could sedition37 and perjury38 avail against truth and loyalty39! they were two to one; they had stone walls and deep rivers to protect them; they had arms and powder, and steel cuirasses; they had disciplined troops and all the appanages of war, and yet they were scattered40 like chaff41; driven from their high walls and deep moats, by a few half-armed peasants; and why? why have our batons42 been more deadly than their swords? because we have had truth and loyalty on our side. Why have our stuff jackets prevailed against their steel armour43; because they covered honest hearts that were fighting honestly for their King. His Majesty44 shall enjoy his own again, my boy. Vive le Roi! Vive le Roi!”
“I trust he may, father; but, as you say, we shall have some hard work to do first. Cathelineau and Charette will be before Nantes in a week’s time. I should have been with them had we not heard that a strong body of republican troops is to be stationed at Parthenay. They say that Santerre is to command a party of Marseillaise, commissioned to exterminate45 the Vendeans.”
“The same, Danton’s friend, he who used to be so loud at the Cordeliers; and Westerman is to assist him,” said Henri.
“Worse again, Henri, worse again; was it not he who headed the rebels on the tenth of August, when our sainted King was driven from his home?”
“Yes, the same Westerman is now to drive us from our homes; or rather to burn us, our homes, and all together—such at least is the task allotted to him.”
“God help our babes and our women!” said the old Marquis shuddering48, “if they fall into the clutches of Santerre, and that other still blacker demon49!”
“Do not fear, father; have we not shewn that we are men? Santerre will find that he has better soldiers to meet than any he brings with him.”
“Fear, Henri! no, for myself I fear nothing. What injury can they do to an old man like me? I do not even fear for my own children; if their lives are required in the King’s service, they know how to part with them in perfect confidence of eternal happiness hereafter; but, Henri, I do feel for our poor people; they are now full of joy and enthusiasm, for they are warm from victory, and the grief of the few, who are weeping for their relatives, is lost in the joy of the multitude. But this cannot always be so, we cannot expect continual victory, and even victory itself, when so often repeated, will bring death and desolation into every parish and into every family.”
“I trust, father, the war will not be prolonged so distantly as you seem to think; the forces of Austria, England and Prussia already surround the frontiers of France; and we have every reason to hope that friendly troops from Britain will soon land on our own coast. I trust the autumn will find La Vend茅e crowned with glory, but once more at peace.”
“God send it, my son!” said the Marquis.
“I do not doubt the glory—but I do doubt the peace.”
“We cannot go back now, father,” said Henri.
“Nor would I have you do so; we have a duty to do, and though it be painful we must do it. ‘God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb,’ and give us strength to bear our sufferings; but my heart shudders50, when I am told that the Republic has let loose those wolves of Paris to shed the blood of our poor people.”
The prospect51 of a prolonged civil war, of continued strife52, and increased bloodshed, somewhat damped the joy with which the victory at Saumur was discussed in the aristocratic portion of the ch芒teau; but no such gloomy notions were allowed to interfere53 with the triumph which reigned54 in the kitchen. Here victory was clothed in robes all couleur de rose, and it appeared that La Vend茅e, so happy in many other respects, was chiefly blessed in being surrounded by republicans whom she could conquer, and in having enemies who gave her the means of acquiring glory.
“And our own young master was the first royalist who put his foot in Saumur?” asked Momont, who had already received the information he required four or five times, and on each occasion had drunk Henri’s health in about half-a-pint of wine.
“Indeed he was,” said Chapeau, “the very first. You don’t think he’d have let any one go before him.”
“Here’s his health then, and God bless him!” said Momont. “It was I first showed him how to fire a pistol; and very keen he was at taking to gunpowder55.”
“Indeed, and indeed he was,” said the housekeeper56. “When he was no more than twelve years old, not nigh as big as the little Chevalier, he let off the big blunderbuss in my bed-room, and I on my knees at prayers the while. God bless his sweet face, I always knew he’d make a great soldier.”
“And don’t you remember,” said the laundress, “how he blew up Mademoiselle Agatha, making her sit on a milk-pan turned over, with a whole heap of gunpowder stuffed underneath57, and she only six or seven years old?”
“Did he though,” said the page, “blow up Mademoiselle Agatha?”
“Indeed he did, and blew every scrap58 of hair off her head and eyebrows59. It’s no wonder he’s such a great general.”
“And the Chevalier was second, wasn’t he?” said the cook.
“Dear little darling fellow!” said the confidential60 maid; “and to think of him going to the wars with guns and swords and pistols! If anything had happened to him I should have cried my eyes out.”
“And was the Chevalier the first to follow M. Henri into the town?” asked the page, who was a year older than Arthur Mondyon, and consequently felt himself somewhat disgraced at not having been at Saumur.
“Why,” said Jacques, with a look which was intended to shew how unwilling61 he was to speak of himself, “I can’t exactly say the Chevalier was the first to follow M. Henri, but if he wasn’t the second, he was certainly the third who entered Saumur.”
“Who then was the second?” said one or two at the same time.
“Why, I shouldn’t have said anything about it, only you ask me so very particularly,” said Jacques, “but I believe I was second myself; but Jean Stein can tell you everything; you weren’t backward yourself Jean, there were not more than three or four of them before you and Peter.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Jean, “but we all did the best we could, I believe.”
“And was Chapeau really second?” said Momont, who was becoming jealous of the distinction likely to be paid to his junior fellow-servant. “You don’t mean to say he went in before all the other gentlemen?”
“Gentlemen, indeed!” said Chapeau. “What an idea you have of taking a town by storm, if you think men are to stand back to make room for gentlemen, as though a party were going into dinner.”
“But tell us now, Jean Stein,” continued Momont, “was Chapeau really second?”
“Well then,” said Jean, “he was certainly second into the water, but he was so long under it, I doubt whether he was second out—he certainly did get a regular good ducking did Chapeau. Why, you came out feet uppermost, Chapeau.”
“Feet uppermost!” shouted Momont, “and is that your idea of storming a town, to go into it feet uppermost?”
“But do you really mean to say that you were absolutely wet through when you took Saumur?” said the laundress.
“Indeed we were,” answered Chapeau, “wringing wet, every man of us.”
“Lawks! how uncomfortable,” said the cook. “And M. Henri, was he wet too?”
“Wet, to be sure he was wet as water could make him.”
“And the little Chevalier, did he get himself wet?” said the confidential maid, “poor little fellow! it was like to give him his death of cold.”
“But, Chapeau, tell me truly now: did you kill any of those bloody62 republicans with your own hand?” asked the housekeeper.
“Kill them,” said Chapeau, “to be sure, I killed them when we were fighting.”
“And how many, Chapeau; how many did you positively63 kill dead, you know?” said the confidential maid.
“What nonsense you do talk!” answered he, with a great air of military knowledge, “as if a man in battle knows when he kills and when he doesn’t. You’re not able to look about you in that sort of way in the middle of the smoke and noise and confusion.”
“You don’t mean to tell me you ever kill a man without knowing it!” said the housekeeper.
“You don’t understand what a battle is at all,” answered Chapeau, determined to communicate a little of his experience on the matter. “One hasn’t time to look about one to see anything. Now supposing you had been with us at the taking of Saumur.”
“Oh, the Lord forbid!” said the housekeeper. “I’d sooner be in my grave any day, than go to one of those horrid64 bloody battles.”
“Or you, Momont; supposing you’d been there?”
“Maybe I might have done as much as another, old as I look,” replied the butler.
“I’m sure you’d have done well, Momont. I’m sure you’d have done very well,” endeavouring to conciliate him into listening; “but supposing you had been there, or at the camp of Varin—we’ll say Varin, for after all, we had more fighting there than at Saumur. Supposing you were one of the attacking party; you find yourself close wedged in between your two comrades right opposite the trenches65; you have a loaded musket67 in your hand, with a bayonet fixed68 to it, and you have five or six rounds of cartridges69 in your belt; you know that you are to do your best, or rather your worst with what you’ve got. Well, your commander gives the word of attack. We’ll suppose it’s the good Cathelineau. ‘Friends,’ he will say; ‘dear friends; now is the time to prove ourselves men; now is the moment to prove that we love our King; we will soon shew the republicans that a few sods of turf are no obstacles in the way of Vendean royalists,’ and then the gallant fellow rushes into the trenches; two thousand brave men follow him, shouting ‘Vive le Roi!’ and you, Momont, are one of the first. All of a sudden, as you are just in motion, prepared for your first spring, a sharp cutting gush70 of air passes close to your face, and nearly blinds you; you feel that you can hardly breathe, but you hear a groan71, and a stumble; your next neighbour and three men behind him have been sent into eternity72 by a cannon73-ball from the enemy. Do you think then that the man who fired the cannon knows, or cares who he has killed? Well, on you go; had you not been in a crowd, the enemy’s fire, maybe, might have frightened you; but good company makes men brave: on you go, and throw yourself into the trench66. You find a more active man than yourself just above you; he is already nearly at the top of the bank, his feet are stuck in the sods above your head; he is about to spring upon the rampart, when the bayonet of a republican passes through his breast, and he falls at your feet, or perhaps upon your head. You feel your heart shudder47, and your blood runs cold, but it is no time for pausing now; you could not return if you would, neither can you remain where you are: up you go, grasping your musket in one hand and digging the other into the loose sods. Your eyes and mouth are crammed74 with dust, your face is bespattered with your comrade’s blood, your ears are full of strange noises; your very nature changes within you; the smell of gunpowder and of carnage makes you feel like a beast of prey75. You do not think any longer of the friends who have fallen beside you; you only long to grapple with the enemy who are before you.”
“Oh, mercy me! how very shocking!” said the housekeeper. “Pray don’t go on Chapeau; pray don’t, or I shall have such horrid dreams.”
“Oh! but you must go on, Chapeau,” said the confidential maid, “I could never bear that you should leave off; it is very horrid, surely; but as Mademoiselle says, we must learn to look at blood and wounds now, and hear of them, too.”
“Do pray tell us the rest,” said the page, who sat listening intently with his mouth wide open. “I do so like it; pray tell us what Momont did after he became a beast of prey?”
Chapeau was supremely happy; he felt that his military experience and his descriptive talents were duly appreciated, and he continued:
“Well, you are now in the camp, on the enemy’s ground, and you have to fight every inch, till you drive them out of it; six or seven of your comrades are close to you, and you all press on, still grasping your muskets76 and pushing your bayonets before you: the enemy make a rush to drive you back again; on they come against you, by twenties and by thirties; those who are behind, push forward those who are in front, and suddenly you find a heavy dragging weight upon your hands, and again you hear the moans of a dying man close to you—almost in your arms. A republican soldier has fallen on your bayonet. The struggles of the wounded man nearly overpower you; you twist and turn and wrench77, and drag your musket to and fro, but it is no use; the weapon is jammed between his ribs78; you have not space nor time to extricate79 it; you are obliged to leave it, and on you go unarmed, stumbling over the body of your fallen enemy. Whether the man dies or lives, whether his wound be mortal or no, you will never hear. And so you advance, till gradually you begin to feel, rather than to see, that the blues are retreating from you. You hear unarmed men asking for quarter, begging for their lives, and the sound of entreaty80 again softens81 your heart; you think of sparing life, instead of taking it; you embrace your friends as you meet them here and there; you laugh and sing as you feel that you have done your best and have conquered; and when you once more become sufficiently82 calm to be aware what you are yourself doing, you find that you have a sword in your hand, or a huge pistol; you know not from whom you took them, or where you got them, or in what manner you have used them. How can a man say then, whom he has killed in battle, or whether he has killed any man? I do not recollect83 that I ever fired a shot at Varin myself, and yet my musket was discharged and the pan was up. I will not say that I ever killed a man; but I will say that I never struck a man who asked for mercy, or fired a shot even on a republican, who had thrown down his arms.”
Henri’s voice was now heard in the hall, loudly calling for Jacques, and away he ran to join his master, as he finished his history.
“It makes my blood run cold,” said the housekeeper, “to think of such horrid things.”
“Chapeau describes it very well, though,” said the confidential maid; “I’m sure he has seen it all himself. I’m sure he’s a brave fellow.”
“It’s not always those who talk the most that are the bravest,” said Momont.
Henri and his sister sat talking that night for a long time, after the other inhabitants of the ch芒teau were in bed, and though they had so many subjects of interest to discuss, their conversation was chiefly respecting Adolphe Denot.
“I cannot guess what has become of him,” said Henri; “I made every possible inquiry84, short of that which might seem to compromise his character. I do not think he can have returned to the Bocage, or we should have heard of him.”
“He must have gone to Fleury,” said Agatha. “I am sure you will not find that he is at his own house.”
“Impossible, my love; we must have heard of him on the way; had he gone round by Montrenil, he must still have passed over the bridge of Fouchard, and we should have heard of him there.”
“He must have ridden over in the night; you see he so evidently wanted to conceal85 from you where he was going.”
“My own impression is, that he is gone to Paris,” said Henri; “but let him have gone where he may, of one thing I am sure; he was not in his right senses when he left the council-room, nor yet when he was speaking to me in the street; poor Adolphe! I pity him with all my heart. I can feel how miserable he must be.”
“Why should he be miserable, Henri? The truth is, you mistake his character. I do not wish to make you think ill of your friend; but Adolphe is one of those men whom adversity will improve. You and our father have rather spoilt him between you; he is too proud, too apt to think that everything should bend to his wishes: he has yet to learn that in this world he must endure to have his dearest wishes thwarted86; and till adversity has taught him that, his feelings will not be manly87, nor his conduct sensible.”
“Poor fellow!” said Henri, “if adversity will teach him, he is likely to get his lesson now. Did he part quietly with you, Agatha, on the day before we started to Saumur?”
“Anything but quietly,” said she. “I would not tell you all he said, for on the eve of a battle in which you were to fight side by side, I did not wish to make you angry with your friend and companion: but had a raging madman, just escaped from his keepers, come to offer me his hand, his conduct could not have been worse than Adolphe Denot’s.”
“Was he violent with you, Agatha?”
“He did not offer to strike me, nor yet to touch me, if you mean that: but he threatened me; and that in such awful sounding, and yet ridiculous language, that you would hardly know whether to laugh or to be angry if I could repeat it.”
“What did he say, Agatha?”
“Say! it would be impossible for me to tell you; he swung his arms like a country actor in a village barn, and declared that if he were not killed at Saumur, he would carry me away in spite of all that my friends could do to hinder him.”
“Poor fellow! poor Adolphe!” said Henri.
“You are not sorry I refused him? You would, indeed, have had to say, poor Agatha! had I done otherwise.”
“I am not sorry that you refused him, but I am sorry you could not love him.”
“Why you say yourself he is mad: would you wish me to love a madman?”
“It is love that has made him mad. Adolphe is not like other men; his passions are stronger; his feelings more acute; his regrets more poignant88.”
“He should control his passions as other men must do,” said Agatha: “all men who do not, are madmen.” She remained silent for a few moments, and then added, “you are right in saying that love has made him mad; but it is the meanest of all love that has done so—it is self-love.”
“I think you are too hard upon him, Agatha; but it is over now, and cannot be helped.”
“What did he say to you, Henri, when he left you in Saurnur?”
“His name had been mentioned you know in the council as one of the leaders: Bonchamps, I believe, proposed it; but Charles objected, and named Charette in his place, and Cathelineau and the rest agreed to it. This angered Adolphe, and no wonder, for he is ambitious, and impatient of neglect. I wish they would have let him been named instead of me, but they would not, and when the list was finished, he was not on it. He got up and said something; I hardly know what, but he complained of Stofflet being one of the Generals; and then Charles rebuked89 him, and Adolphe in a passion left the room.”
“And you followed him?” asked Agatha.
“Yes, I followed him; but he was like a raging madman. I don’t know how it was; but instead of complaining about the Generals, he began complaining about you. I don’t know exactly whether I ought to tell you what he said—indeed I had not intended to have done so.”
“Nay, Henri; now you have raised my woman’s curiosity, and you positively must tell me.”
“I hardly know how to tell you,” said Henri, “for I really forget how he said it. I don’t know on earth how he introduced your name at all; but he ended in accusing you of having a more favoured lover.”
Agatha blushed slightly as she answered:
“He has no right whatever to ask the question; nor if I have a favoured lover, should it be any ground of complaint to him. But to you, Henri, if you wish a promise from me on the subject, I will readily and willingly promise, that I will receive no man’s love, and, far as I can master my own heart, I will myself entertain no passion without your sanction: and you, dear brother, you shall make me a return for my confidence; you shall ask me to marry no man whom I cannot love.”
“Don’t for a moment think, dearest, that what he said, made me uneasy as regarded you: but whom do you think he selected for you—of whom do you think he is jealous?”
“I cannot attempt to guess a madman’s thoughts, Henri.”
“I will tell you then,” said he; “but you will be shocked as well as surprised. He is jealous of Cathelineau!”
“Cathelineau?” said Agatha, blushing now much more deeply than she had done before.
“Yes, Cathelineau, the postillion.”
“No, not Cathelineau the postillion; but Cathelineau the Saint of Anjou, and the hero of St. Florent, and of Saumur. He at any rate has linked my name with that of a man worthy90 of a woman’s love.”
“Worthy, Agatha, had his birth and early years been different from what they were.”
“Worthy as he is of any woman’s love,” said Agatha. “Great deeds and noble conduct make birth of no avail, to give either honour or disgrace.”
“Why should you ask that question, Henri?” said she: “are the words which Adolphe Denot has uttered in his wild insanity91 of such weight, as to make you regard as possible such an event? Have I not told you I would wed no one without your sanction? Do you not know that Cathelineau has never spoken to me but the coldest words of most distant respect? Do you not know that his heart and soul are intent on other things than woman’s love? I, too, feel that this is not the time for love. While I live in continual dread92 that those I most value may fall in battle; while I fear that every messenger who comes to me in your absence, may have some fatal news to tell, I do not wish to take upon me a fresh burden of affection. Am I not best as I am, Henri, at present?” And she put her arm affectionately through his. “When the wars are over, and the King is on his throne, you shall bring me home a lover; some brave friend of your’s who has proved himself a gallant knight.”
“I would have him be a gallant knight, certainly,” said Henri, “but he should also be a worthy gentleman.”
“And is not Cathelineau a worthy gentleman?” forgetting in her enthusiasm that she was taking the cause of one who was being spoken of as her lover. “Oh, indeed he is; if valour, honesty, and honour, if trust in God, and forgetfulness of self, if humanity and generosity93 constitute a gentleman, then is Cathelineau the prince of gentlemen: but do not, pray do not mistake me, Henri: a lover of scenery admires the tops of distant mountains, and gazes on their snowy peaks with a pleasure almost amounting to awe94; but no one seeks to build his house on the summit: so do I admire the virtues95, the devotion, the courage of Cathelineau; but my admiration96 is mixed with no love which would make me wish to join my lot with his. I only say, that despite his birth and former low condition, he is worthy of any woman’s love.”
Henri did not quite like his sister’s enthusiasm, though he hardly knew why it displeased97 him. He had thought of Cathelineau only as a soldier and a General, and had found nothing in him that he did not approve of; but he felt that he could not welcome him as his darling sister’s husband; “if Adolphe should have prophesied99 rightly,” said he, to himself as he went from his sister’s room to his own chamber100, “but no! whatever her feelings may be, she is too good to do anything that would displease98 me.”
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1
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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2
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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4
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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5
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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7
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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8
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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9
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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10
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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11
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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14
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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15
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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16
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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17
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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18
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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19
clout
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| n.用手猛击；权力，影响力 | |
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20
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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21
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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22
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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23
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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24
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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25
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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26
corroborated
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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29
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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30
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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31
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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33
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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34
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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35
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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36
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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37
sedition
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| n.煽动叛乱 | |
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38
perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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39
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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40
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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41
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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42
batons
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| n.（警察武器）警棍( baton的名词复数 )；（乐队指挥用的）指挥棒；接力棒 | |
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43
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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44
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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45
exterminate
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| v.扑灭，消灭，根绝 | |
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46
brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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47
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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48
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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49
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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50
shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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51
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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52
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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53
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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54
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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55
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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56
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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57
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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58
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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59
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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60
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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61
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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62
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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63
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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64
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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65
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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66
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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67
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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68
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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69
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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70
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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71
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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72
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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73
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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74
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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75
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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76
muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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77
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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78
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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79
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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80
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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81
softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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82
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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83
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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84
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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85
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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86
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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87
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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88
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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89
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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91
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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92
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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93
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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94
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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95
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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96
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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97
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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98
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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99
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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