The Chouans by Honoré de Balzac (chrysanthemum read aloud .txt) 📗

her triumph, a look in which mischief was mingled with an expression of love. Their brows cleared, joy flushed each agitated face, and a thousand contradictory thoughts rose in their hearts. Madame du Gua noted in that one look far more of love than of pity in Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s intervention; and she was right. The handsome creature blushed beneath the other woman’s gaze, understanding its meaning, and dropped her eyelids; then, as if aware of some threatening accusation, she raised her head proudly and defied all eyes. The commandant, petrified, returned the paper, countersigned by ministers, which enjoined all authorities to obey the orders of this mysterious lady. Having done so, he drew his sword, laid it across his knees, broke the blade, and flung away the pieces.

“Mademoiselle, you probably know what you are about; but a Republican has his own ideas, and his own dignity. I cannot serve where women command. The First Consul will receive my resignation to-morrow; others, who are not of my stripe, may obey you. I do not understand my orders and therefore I stop short,—all the more because I am supposed to understand them.”

There was silence for a moment, but it was soon broken by the young lady, who went up to the commandant and held out her hand, saying, “Colonel, though your beard is somewhat long, you may kiss my hand; you are, indeed, a man!”

“I flatter myself I am, mademoiselle,” he replied, depositing a kiss upon the hand of this singular young woman rather awkwardly. “As for you, friend,” he said, threatening the young man with his finger, “you have had a narrow escape this time.”

“Commandant,” said the youth, “it is time all this nonsense should cease; I am ready to go with you, if you like, to headquarters.”

“And bring your invisible owl, Marche-a-Terre?”

“Who is Marche-a-Terre?” asked the young man, showing all the signs of genuine surprise.

“Didn’t he hoot just now?”

“What did that hooting have to do with me, I should like to know? I supposed it was your soldiers letting you know of their arrival.”

“Nonsense, you did not think that.”

“Yes, I did. But do drink that glass of Bordeaux; the wine is good.”

Surprised at the natural behaviour of the youth and also by the frivolity of his manners and the youthfulness of his face, made even more juvenile by the careful curling of his fair hair, the commandant hesitated in the midst of his suspicions. He noticed that Madame du Gua was intently watching the glances that her son gave to Mademoiselle de Verneuil, and he asked her abruptly: “How old are you, citoyenne?”

“Ah, Monsieur l’officier,” she said, “the rules of the Republic are very severe; must I tell you that I am thirty-eight?”

“May I be shot if I believe it! Marche-a-Terre is here; it was he who gave that cry; you are Chouans in disguise. God’s thunder! I’ll search the inn and make sure of it!”

Just then a hoot, somewhat like those that preceded it, came from the courtyard; the commandant rushed out, and missed seeing the pallor that covered Madame du Gua’s face as he spoke. Hulot saw at once that the sound came from a postilion harnessing his horses to the coach, and he cast aside his suspicions, all the more because it seemed absurd to suppose that the Chouans would risk themselves in Alencon. He returned to the house confounded.

“I forgive him now, but later he shall pay dear for the anxiety he has given us,” said the mother to the son, in a low voice, as Hulot re-entered the room.

The brave old officer showed on his worried face the struggle that went on in his mind betwixt a stern sense of duty and the natural kindness of his heart. He kept his gruff air, partly, perhaps, because he fancied he had deceived himself, but he took the glass of Bordeaux, and said: “Excuse me, comrade, but your Polytechnique does send such young officers—”

“The Chouans have younger ones,” said the youth, laughing.

“For whom did you take my son?” asked Madame du Gua.

“For the Gars, the leader sent to the Chouans and the Vendeans by the British cabinet; his real name is Marquis de Montauran.”

The commandant watched the faces of the suspected pair, who looked at each other with a puzzled expression that seemed to say: “Do you know that name?” “No, do you?” “What is he talking about?” “He’s dreaming.”

The sudden change in the manner of Marie de Verneuil, and her torpor as she heard the name of the royalist general was observed by no one but Francine, the only person to whom the least shade on that young face was visible. Completely routed, the commandant picked up the bits of his broken sword, looked at Mademoiselle de Verneuil, whose ardent beauty was beginning to find its way to his heart, and said: “As for you, mademoiselle, I take nothing back, and to-morrow these fragments of my sword will reach Bonaparte, unless—”

“Pooh! what do I care for Bonaparte, or your republic, or the king, or the Gars?” she cried, scarcely repressing an explosion of ill-bred temper.

A mysterious emotion, the passion of which gave to her face a dazzling color, showed that the whole world was nothing to the girl the moment that one individual was all in all to her. But she suddenly subdued herself into forced calmness, observing, like a trained actor, that the spectators were watching her. The commandant rose hastily and went out. Anxious and agitated, Mademoiselle de Verneuil followed him, stopped him in the corridor, and said, in an almost solemn tone: “Have you any good reason to suspect that young man of being the Gars?”

“God’s thunder! mademoiselle, that fellow who rode here with you came back to warn me that the travellers in the mail-coach had all been murdered by the Chouans; I knew that, but what I didn’t know was the name of the murdered persons,—it was Gua de Saint-Cyr!”

“Oh! if Corentin is at the bottom of all this, nothing surprises me,” she cried, with a gesture of disgust.

The commandant went his way without daring to look at Mademoiselle de Verneuil, whose dangerous beauty began to affect him.

“If I had stayed two minutes longer I should have committed the folly of taking back my sword and escorting her,” he was saying to himself as he went down the stairs.

As Madame du Gua watched the young man, whose eyes were fixed on the door through which Mademoiselle de Verneuil had passed, she said to him in a low voice: “You are incorrigible. You will perish through a woman. A doll can make you forget everything. Why did you allow her to breakfast with us? Who is a Demoiselle de Verneuil escorted by the Blues, who accepts a breakfast from strangers and disarms an officer with a piece of paper hidden in the bosom of her gown like a love-letter? She is one of those contemptible creatures by whose aid Fouche expects to lay hold of you, and the paper she showed the commandant ordered the Blues to assist her against you.”

“Eh!