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

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.

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