Hulot with his two officers followed the troop slowly, hoping to get safely to Ernee where the wounded could be cared for. The fight we have just described, which was almost forgotten in the midst of the greater events which were soon to occur, was called by the name of the mountain on which it took place. It obtained some notice at the West, where the inhabitants, observant of this second uprising, noticed on this occasion a great change in the manner in which the Chouans now made war. In earlier days they would never have attacked so large a detachment. According to Hulot the young royalist whom he had seen was undoubtedly the Gars, the new general sent to France by the princes, who, following the example of the other royalist chiefs, concealed his real name and title under one of those pseudonyms called “noms de guerre.” This circumstance made the commandant quite as uneasy after his melancholy victory as he had been before it while expecting the attack. He turned several times to consider the table-land of La Pelerine which he was leaving behind him, across which he could still hear faintly at intervals the drums of the National Guard descending into the valley of Couesnon at the same time that the Blues were descending into that of La Pelerine.
“Can either of you,” he said to his two friends, “guess the motives of that attack of the Chouans? To them, fighting is a matter of business, and I can’t see what they expected to gain by this attack. They have lost at least a hundred men, and we” — he added, screwing up his right cheek and winking by way of a smile, “have lost only sixty. God’s thunder! I don’t understand that sort of speculation. The scoundrels needn’t have attacked us; we might just as well have been allowed to pass like letters through the post — No, I don’t see what good it has done them to bullet-hole our men,” he added, with a sad shake of his head toward the carts. “Perhaps they only intended to say good-day to us.”
“But they carried off our recruits, commander,” said Merle.
“The recruits could have skipped like frogs into the woods at any time, and we should never have gone after them, especially if those fellows had fired a single volley,” returned Hulot. “No, no, there’s something behind all this.” Again he turned and looked at La Pelerine. “See!” he cried; “see there!”
Though they were now at a long distance from the fatal plateau, they could easily distinguish Marche-a-Terre and several Chouans who were again occupying it.
“Double-quick, march!” cried Hulot to his men, “open your compasses and trot the steeds faster than that! Are your legs frozen?”
These words drove the little troop into a rapid motion.
“There’s a mystery, and it’s hard to make out,” continued Hulot, speaking to his friends. “God grant it isn’t explained by muskets at Ernee. I’m very much afraid that we shall find the road to Mayenne cut off by the king’s men.”
The strategical problem which troubled the commandant was causing quite as much uneasiness to the persons whom he had just seen on the summit of Mont Pelerine. As soon as the drums of the National Guard were out of hearing and Marche-a-Terre had seen the Blues at the foot of the declivity, he gave the owl’s cry joyously, and the Chouans reappeared, but their numbers were less. Some were no doubt busy in taking care of the wounded in the little village of La Pelerine, situated on the side of the mountain which looks toward the valley of Couesnon. Two or three chiefs of what were called the “Chasseurs du Roi” clustered about Marche-a-Terre. A few feet apart sat the young noble called The Gars, on a granite rock, absorbed in thoughts excited by the difficulties of his enterprise, which now began to show themselves. Marche-a-Terre screened his forehead with his hand from the rays of the sun, and looked gloomily at the road by which the Blues were crossing the valley of La Pelerine. His small black eyes could see what was happening on the hill-slopes on the other side of the valley.
“The Blues will intercept the messenger,” said the angry voice of one of the leaders who stood near him.
“By Saint Anne of Auray!” exclaimed another. “Why did you make us fight? Was it to save your own skin from the Blues?”
Marche-a-Terre darted a venomous look at his questioner and struck the ground with his heavy carbine.
“Am I your leader?” he asked. Then after a pause he added, pointing to the remains of Hulot’s detachment, “If you had all fought as I did, not one of those Blues would have escaped, and the coach could have got here safely.”
“They’d never have thought of escorting it or holding it back if we had let them go by without a fight. No, you wanted to save your precious skin and get out of their hands — He has bled us for the sake of his own snout,” continued the orator, “and made us lose twenty thousand francs in good coin.”
“Snout yourself!” cried Marche-a-Terre, retreating three steps and aiming at his aggressor. “It isn’t that you hate the Blues, but you love the gold. Die without confession and be damned, for you haven’t taken the sacrament for a year.”
This insult so incensed the Chouan that he turned pale and a low growl came from his chest as he aimed in turn at Marche-a-Terre. The young chief sprang between them and struck their weapons from their hands with the barrel of his own carbine; then he demanded an explanation of the dispute, for the conversation had been carried on in the Breton dialect, an idiom with which he was not familiar.
“Monsieur le marquis,” said Marche-a-Terre, as he ended his account of the quarrel, “it is all the more unreasonable in them to find fault with me because I have left Pille-Miche behind me; he’ll know how to save the coach for us.”
“What!” exclaimed the young man, angrily, “are you waiting here, all of you, to pillage that coach? — a parcel of cowards who couldn’t win a victory in the first fight to which I led you! But why should you win if that’s your object? The defenders of God and the king are thieves, are they? By Saint Anne of Auray! I’d have you know, we are making war against the Republic, and not robbing travellers. Those who are guilty in future of such shameful actions shall not receive absolution, nor any of the favors reserved for the faithful servants of the king.”
A murmur came from the group of Chouans, and it was easy to see that the authority of the new chief was about to be disputed. The young man, on whom this effect of his words was by no means lost, was thinking of the best means of maintaining the dignity of his command, when the trot of a horse was heard in the vicinity. All heads turned in the direction from which the sound came. A lady appeared, sitting astride of a little Breton horse, which she put at a gallop as soon as she saw the young leader, so as to reach the group of Chouans as quickly as possible.
“What is the matter?” she said, looking first at the Chouans and then at their chief.
“Could you believe it, madame? they are waiting to rob the diligence from Mayenne to Fougeres when we have just had a skirmish, in order to release the conscripts of Fougeres, which has cost us a great many men without defeating the Blues.”
“Well, where’s the harm of that?” asked the young lady, to whom the natural shrewdness of a woman explained the whole scene. “You have lost men, but there’s no lack of others; the coach is bringing gold, and there’s always a lack of that. We bury men, who go to heaven, and we take money, which goes into the pockets of heroes. I don’t see the difficulty.”
The Chouans approved of her speech by unanimous smiles.
“Do you see nothing in all that to make you blush?” said the young man, in a low voice. “Are you in such need of money that you must pillage on the high-road?”
“I am so eager for it, marquis, that I should put my heart in pawn if it were not already captured,” she said, smiling coquettishly. “But where did you get the strange idea that you could manage Chouans without letting them rob a few Blues here and there? Don’t you know the saying, ‘Thieving as an owl’? — and that’s a Chouan. Besides,” she said, raising her voice to be heard by the men, “it is just; haven’t the Blues seized the property of the Church, and our own?”
Another murmur, very different from the growl with which the Chouans had answ
ered their leader, greeted these words. The young man’s face grew darker; he took the young lady aside and said in the annoyed tone of a well-bred man, “Will those gentlemen be at La Vivetiere on the appointed day?”
“Yes,” she replied, “all of them, the Claimant, Grand-Jacques, and perhaps Ferdinand.”
“Then allow me to return there. I cannot sanction such robbery. Yes, madame, I call it robbery. There may be honor in being robbed, but — ”
“Well, well,” she said, interrupting him, “then I shall have your share of the booty, and I am much obliged to you for giving it up to me; the extra sum will be extremely useful, for my mother has delayed sending me money, so that I am almost destitute.”
“Adieu!” cried the marquis.
He turned away, but the lady ran after him.
“Why won’t you stay with me?” she said, giving him the look, half-despotic, half-caressing, with which women who have a right to a man’s respect let him know their wishes.
“You are going to pillage that coach?”
“Pillage? what a word!” she said. “Let me explain to you — ”
“Explain nothing,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it with the superficial gallantry of a courtier. “Listen to me,” he added after a short pause: “if I were to stay here while they capture that diligence our people would kill me, for I should certainly — ”
“Not kill them,” she said quickly, “for they would bind your hands, with all the respect that is due to your rank; then, having levied the necessary contribution for their equipment, subsistence, and munitions from our enemies, they would unbind you and obey you blindly.”
“And you wish me to command such men under such circumstances? If my life is necessary to the cause which I defend allow me at any rate to save the honor of my position. If I withdraw now I can ignore this base act. I will return, in order to escort you.”
So saying, he rapidly disappeared. The young lady listened to his receding steps with evident displeasure. When the sound on the dried leaves ceased, she stood for a moment as if confounded, then she hastily returned to the Chouans. With a gesture of contempt she said to Marche-a-Terre, who helped her to dismount, “That young man wants to make regular war on the Republic! Ah, well! he’ll get over that in a few days. How he treated me!” she thought, presently.
She seated herself on the rock where the marquis had been sitting, and silently awaited the arrival of the coach. It was one of the phenomena of the times, and not the least of them, that this young and noble lady should be flung by violent partisanship into the struggle of monarchies against the spirit of the age, and be driven by the strength of her feelings into actions of which it may almost be said she was not conscious. In this she resembled others of her time who were led away by an enthusiasm which was often productive of noble deeds. Like her, many women played heroic or blameworthy parts in the fierce struggle. The royalist cause had no emissaries so devoted and so active as these women; but none of the heroines on that side paid for mistaken devotion or for actions forbidden to their sex, with a greater expiation than did this lady when, seated on that wayside rock, she was forced to admire the young leader’s noble disdain and loyalty to principle. Insensibly she dropped into reverie. Bitter memories made her long for the innocence of her early years, and regret that she had escaped being a victim of the Revolution whose victorious march could no longer be arrested by feeble hands.
The coach, which, as we now see, had much to do with the attack of the Chouans, had started from the little town of Ernee a few moments before the skirmishing began. Nothing pictures a region so well as the state of its social material. From this point of view the coach deserves a mention. The Revolution itself was powerless to destroy it; in fact, it still rolls to this present day. When Turgot bought up the privileges of a company, obtained under Louis XIV., for the exclusive right of transporting travellers from one part of the kingdom to another, and instituted the lines of coaches called the “turgotines,” all the old vehicles of the former company flocked into the provinces. One of these shabby coaches was now plying between Mayenne and Fougeres. A few objectors called it the “turgotine,” partly to mimic Paris and partly to deride a minister who attempted innovations. This turgotine was a wretched cabriolet on two high wheels, in the depths of which two persons, if rather fat, could with difficulty have stowed themselves. The narrow quarters of this rickety machine not admitting of any crowding, and the box which formed the seat being kept exclusively for the postal service, the travellers who had any baggage were forced to keep it between their legs, already tortured by being squeezed into a sort of little box in shape like a bellows. The original color of coach and running-gear was an insoluble enigma. Two leather curtains, very difficult to adjust in spite of their long service, were supposed to protect the occupants from cold and rain. The driver, perched on a plank seat like those of the worst Parisian “coucous,” shared in the conversation by reason of his position between his victims, biped and quadruped. The equipage presented various fantastic resemblances to decrepit old men who have gone through a goodly number of catarrhs and apoplexies and whom death respects; it moaned as it rolled, and squeaked spasmodically. Like a traveller overtaken by sleep, it rocked alternately forward and back, as though it tried to resist the violent action of two little Breton horses which dragged it along a road which was more than rough. This monument of a past era contained three travellers, who, on leaving Ernee, where they had changed horses, continued a conversation begun with the driver before reaching the little town.
“What makes you think the Chouans are hereabouts?” said the coachman. “The Ernee people tell me that Commandant Hulot has not yet started from Fougeres.”
“Ho, ho, friend driver!” said the youngest of the travellers, “you risk nothing but your own carcass! If you had a thousand francs about you, as I have, and were known to be a good patriot, you wouldn’t take it so easy.”
“You are pretty free with your tongue, any way,” said the driver, shaking his head.
“Count your lambs, and the wolf will eat them,” remarked another of the travellers.
This man, who was dressed in black, seemed to be about forty years old, and was, probably, the rector of some parish in the neighborhood. His chin rested on a double fold of flesh, and his florid complexion indicated a priest. Though short and fat, he displayed some agility when required to get in or out of the vehicle.
“Perhaps you are both Chouans!” cried the man of the thousand francs, whose ample goatskin, covering trousers of good cloth and a clean waistcoat, bespoke a rich farmer. “By the soul of Saint Robespierre! I swear you shall be roughly handled.”
He turned his gray eyes from the driver to his fellow-travellers and showed them a pistol in his belt.
“Bretons are not afraid of that,” said the rector, disdainfully. “Besides, do we look like men who want your money?”
Every time the word “money” was mentioned the driver was silent, and the rector had wit enough to doubt whether the patriot had any at all, and to suspect that the driver was carrying a good deal.
“Are you well laden, Coupiau?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Monsieur Gudin,” replied the coachman. “I’m carrying next to nothing.”
The priest watched the faces of the patriot and Coupiau as the latter made this answer, and both were imperturbable.
“So much the better for you,” remarked the patriot. “I can now take measures to save my property in case of danger.”
Such despotic assumption nettled Coupiau, who answered gruffly: “I am the master of my own carriage, and so long as I drive you — ”
“Are you a patriot, or are you a Chouan?” said the other, sharply interrupting him.
“Neither the one nor the other,” replied Coupiau. “I’m a postilion, and, what is more, a Breton, — consequently, I fear neither Blues nor nobles.”
“Noble thieves!” cried the patriot, ironically.
“They only take back what was sto
len from them,” said the rector, vehemently.
The two men looked at each other in the whites of their eyes, if we may use a phrase so colloquial. Sitting back in the vehicle was a third traveller who took no part in the discussion, and preserved a deep silence. The driver and the patriot and even Gudin paid no attention to this mute individual; he was, in truth, one of those uncomfortable, unsocial travellers who are found sometimes in a stage-coach, like a patient calf that is being carried, bound, to the nearest market. Such travellers begin by filling their legal space, and end by sleeping, without the smallest respect for their fellow-beings, on a neighbor’s shoulder. The patriot, Gudin, and the driver had let him alone, thinking him asleep, after discovering that it was useless to talk to a man whose stolid face betrayed an existence spent in measuring yards of linen, and an intellect employed in selling them at a good percentage above cost. This fat little man, doubled-up in his corner, opened his porcelain-blue eyes every now and then, and looked at each speaker with a sort of terror. He appeared to be afraid of his fellow-travellers and to care very little about the Chouans. When he looked at the driver, however, they seemed to be a pair of free-masons. Just then the first volley of musketry was heard on La Pelerine. Coupiau, frightened, stopped the coach.
“Oh! oh!” said the priest, as if he had some means of judging, “it is a serious engagement; there are many men.”
“The trouble for us, Monsieur Gudin,” cried Coupiau, “is to know which side will win.”
The faces of all became unanimously anxious.
“Let us put up the coach at that inn which I see over there,” said the patriot; “we can hide it till we know the result of the fight.”
The advice seemed so good that Coupiau followed it. The patriot helped him to conceal the coach behind a wood-pile; the abbe seized the occasion to pull Coupiau aside and say to him, in a low voice: “Has he really any money?”
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 943
