The Chouans

“No, no; a bath, a bath!” cried Mademoiselle de Verneuil. “I must dress at once.”

Francine was not a little surprised when her mistress required her to unpack the most elegant of the dresses she had brought with her. Having bathed and breakfasted, Marie made her toilet with all the minute care which a woman gives to that important act when she expects to meet the eyes of her lover in a ball-room. Francine could not explain to herself the mocking gaiety of her mistress. It was not the joy of love, – a woman never mistakes that; it was rather an expression of concentrated maliciousness, which to Francine’s mind boded evil. Marie herself drew the curtains of the window from which the glorious panorama could be seen, then she moved the sofa to the chimney corner, turning it so that the light would fall becomingly on her face; then she told Francine to fetch flowers, that the room might have a festive air; and when they came she herself directed their arrangement in a picturesque manner. Giving a last glance of satisfaction at these various preparations she sent Francine to the commandant with a request that he would bring her prisoner to her; then she lay down luxuriously on a sofa, partly to rest, and partly to throw herself into an attitude of graceful weakness, the power of which is irresistible in certain women. A soft languor, the seductive pose of her feet just seen below the drapery of her gown, the plastic ease of her body, the curving of the throat, – all, even the droop of her slender fingers as they hung from the pillow like the buds of a bunch of jasmine, combined with her eyes to produce seduction. She burned certain perfumes to fill the air with those subtle emanations which affect men’s fibres powerfully, and often prepare the way for conquests which women seek to make without seeming to desire them. Presently the heavy step of the old soldier resounded in the adjoining room.

“Well, commandant, where is my captive?” she said.

“I have just ordered a picket of twelve men to shoot him, being taken with arms in his hand.”

“Why have you disposed of my prisoner?” she asked. “Listen to me, commandant; surely, if I can trust your face, the death of a man after a fight is no particular satisfaction to you. Well, then, give my Chouan a reprieve, for which I will be responsible, and let me see him. I assure you that aristocrat has become essential to me, and he can be made to further the success of our plans. Besides, to shoot a mere amateur in Chouannerie would be as absurd as to fire on a balloon when a pinprick would disinflate it. For heaven’s sake leave cruelty to the aristocracy. Republicans ought to be generous. Wouldn’t you and yours have forgiven the victims of Quiberon? Come, send your twelve men to patrol the town, and dine with me and bring the prisoner. There is only an hour of daylight left, and don’t you see,” she added smiling, “that if you are too late, my toilet will have lost its effect?”

“But, mademoiselle,” said the commandant, amazed.

“Well, what? But I know what you mean. Don’t be anxious; the count shall not escape. Sooner or later that big butterfly will burn himself in your fire.”

The commandant shrugged his shoulders slightly, with the air of a man who is forced to obey, whether he will or no, the commands of a pretty woman; and he returned in about half an hour, followed by the Comte de Bauvan.

Mademoiselle de Verneuil feigned surprise and seemed confused that the count should see her in such a negligent attitude; then, after reading in his eyes that her first effect was produced, she rose and busied herself about her guests with well-bred courtesy. There was nothing studied or forced in her motions, smiles, behavior, or voice, nothing that betrayed premeditation or purpose. All was harmonious; no part was over-acted; an observer could not have supposed that she affected the manners of a society in which she had not lived. When the Royalist and the Republic were seated she looked sternly at the count. He, on his part, knew women sufficiently well to feel certain that the offence he had committed against this woman was equivalent to a sentence of death. But in spite of this conviction, and without seeming either gay or gloomy, he had the air of a man who did not take such serious results into consideration; in fact, he really thought it ridiculous to fear death in presence of a pretty woman. Marie’s stern manner roused ideas in his mind.

“Who knows,” thought he, “whether a count’s coronet wouldn’t please her as well as that of her lost marquis? Montauran is as lean as a nail, while I – ” and he looked himself over with an air of satisfaction. “At any rate I should save my head.”

These diplomatic revelations were wasted. The passion the count proposed to feign for Mademoiselle de Verneuil became a violent caprice, which the dangerous creature did her best to heighten.

“Monsieur le comte,” she said, “you are my prisoner, and I have the right to dispose of you. Your execution cannot take place without my consent, and I have too much curiosity to let them shoot you at present.”

“And suppose I am obstinate enough to keep silence?” he replied gaily.

“With an honest woman, perhaps, but with a woman of the town, no, no, monsieur le comte, impossible!” These words, full of bitter sarcasm, were hissed, as Sully says, in speaking of the Duchesse de Beaufort, from so sharp a beak that the count, amazed, merely looked at his antagonist. “But,” she continued, with a scornful glance, “not to contradict you, if I am a creature of that kind I will act like one. Here is your gun,” and she offered him his weapon with a mocking air.

“On the honor of a gentleman, mademoiselle – ”

“Ah!” she said, interrupting him, “I have had enough of the honor of gentlemen. It was on the faith of that that I went to La Vivetiere. Your leader had sworn to me that I and my escort should be safe there.”

“What an infamy!” cried Hulot, contracting his brows.

“The fault lies with monsieur le comte,” said Marie, addressing Hulot. “I have no doubt the Gars meant to keep his word, but this gentleman told some calumny about me which confirmed those that Charette’s mistress had already invented – ”

“Mademoiselle,” said the count, much troubled, “with my head under the axe I would swear that I said nothing but the truth.”

“In saying what?”

“That you were the – ”

“Say the word, mistress of – ”

“The Marquis de Lenoncourt, the present duke, a friend of mine,” replied the count.

“Now I can let you go to execution,” she said, without seeming at all agitated by the outspoken reply of the count, who was amazed at the real or pretended indifference with which she heard his statement. “However,” she added, laughing, “you have not wronged me more than that friend of whom you suppose me to have been the – Fie! monsieur le comte; surely you used to visit my father, the Duc de Verneuil? Yes? well then – ”

Evidently considering Hulot one too many for the confidence she was about to make, Mademoiselle de Verneuil motioned the count to her side, and said a few words in her ear. Monsieur de Bauvan gave a low ejaculation of surprise and looked with bewilderment at Marie, who completed the effect of her words by leaning against the chimney in the artless and innocent attitude of a child.

“Mademoiselle,” cried the count, “I entreat your forgiveness, unworthy as I am of it.”

“I have nothing to forgive,” she replied. “You have no more ground for repentance than you had for the insolent supposition you proclaimed at La Vivetiere. But this is a matter beyond your comprehension. Only, remember this, monsieur le comte, the daughter of the Duc de Verneuil has too generous a spirit not to take a lively interest in your fate.”

“Even after I have insulted you?” said the count, with a sort of regret.

“Some are placed so high that insult cannot touch them. Monsieur le comte, – I am one of them.”

As she said the words, the girl assumed an air of pride and nobility which impressed the prisoner and made the whole of this strange intrigue much less clear to Hulot than the old soldier had thought it. He twirled his moustache and looked uneasily at Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who made him a sign, as if to say she was still carrying out her plan.

“Now,” continued Marie, after a pause, “let us discuss these matters. Francine, my dear, bring lights.”

She adroitly led the conversation to the times which had now, within a few short years, become the “ancien regime.” She brought back that period to the count’s mind by the liveliness of her remarks and sketches, and gave him so many opportunities to display his wit, by cleverly throwing repartees in his way, that he ended by thinking he had never been so charming; and that idea having rejuvenated him, he endeavored to inspire this seductive young woman with his own good opinion of himself. The malicious creature practised, in return, every art of her coquetry upon him, all the more adroitly because it was mere play to her. Sometimes she let him think he was making rapid progress, and then, as if surprised at the sentiment she was feeling, she showed a sudden coolness which charmed him, and served to increase imperceptibly his impromptu passion. She was like a fisherman who lifts his line from time to time to see if the fish is biting. The poor count allowed himself to be deceived by the innocent air with which she accepted two or three neatly turned compliments. Emigration, Brittany, the Republic, and the Chouans were far indeed from his thoughts. Hulot sat erect and silent as the god Thermes. His want of education made him quite incapable of taking part in a conversation of this kind; he supposed that the talking pair were very witty, but his efforts at comprehension were limited to discovering whether they were plotting against the Republic in covert language.

“Montauran,” the count was saying, “has birth and breeding, he is a charming fellow, but he doesn’t understand gallantry. He is too young to have seen Versailles. His education is deficient. Instead of diplomatically defaming, he strikes a blow. He may be able to love violently, but he will never have that fine flower of breeding in his gallantry which distinguished Lauzun, Adhemar, Coigny, and so many others! He hasn’t the winning art of saying those pretty nothings to women which, after all, they like better than bursts of passion, which soon weary them. Yes, though he has undoubtedly had many love-affairs, he has neither the grace nor the ease that should belong to them.”

“I have noticed that myself,” said Marie.

“Ah!” thought the count, “there’s an inflection in her voice, and a look in her eye which shows me plainly I shall soon be on terms with her; and faith! to get her, I’ll believe all she wants me to.”

He offered her his hand, for dinner was now announced. Mademoiselle de Verneuil did the honors with a politeness and tact which could only have been acquired by the life and training of a court.

“Leave us,” she whispered to Hulot as they left the table. “You will only frighten him; whereas, if I am alone with him I shall soon find out all I want to know; he has reached the point where a man tells me everything he thinks, and sees through my eyes only.”

“But afterwards?” said Hulot, evidently intending to claim the prisoner.

“Afterwards, he is to be free – free as air,” she replied.

“But he was taken with arms in his hand.”

“No,” she said, making one of those sophistical jokes with which women parry unanswerable arguments, “I had disarmed him. Count,” she said, turning back to him as Hulot departed, “I have just obtained your liberty, but – nothing for nothing,” she added, laughing, with her head on one side as if to interrogate him.

“Ask all, even my name and my honor,” he cried, intoxicated. “I lay them at your feet.”

He advanced to seize her hand, trying to make her take his passion for gratitude; but Mademoiselle de Verneuil was not a woman to be thus misled. So, smiling in a way to give some hope to this new lover, she drew back a few steps and said: “You might make me regret my confidence.”

“The imagination of a young girl is more rapid than that of a woman,” he answered, laughing.

“A young girl has more to lose than a woman.”

“True; those who carry a treasure ought to be distrustful.”

“Let us quit such conventional language,” she said, “and talk seriously. You are to give a ball at Saint-James. I hear that your headquarters, arsenals, and base of supplies are there. When is the ball to be?”

“To-morrow evening.”

“You will not be surprised if a slandered woman desires, with a woman’s obstinacy, to obtain a public reparation for the insults offered to her, in presence of those who witnessed them. I shall go to your ball. I ask you to give me your protection from the moment I enter the room until I leave it. I ask nothing more than a promise,” she added, as he laid his hand on his heart. “I abhor oaths; they are too like precautions. Tell me only that you engage to protect my person from all dangers, criminal or shameful. Promise to repair the wrong you did me, by openly acknowledging that I am the daughter of the Duc de Verneuil; but say nothing of the trials I have borne in being illegitimate, – this will pay your debt to me. Ha! two hours’ attendance on a woman in a ball-room is not so dear a ransom for your life, is it? You are not worth a ducat more.” Her smile took the insult from her words.

“What do you ask for the gun?” said the count, laughing.

“Oh! more than I do for you.”

“What is it?”

“Secrecy. Believe me, my dear count, a woman is never fathomed except by a woman. I am certain that if you say one word of this, I shall be murdered on my way to that ball. Yesterday I had warning enough. Yes, that woman is quick to act. Ah! I implore you,” she said, “contrive that no harm shall come to me at the ball.”

“You will be there under my protection,” said the count, proudly. “But,” he added, with a doubtful air, “are you coming for the sake of Montauran?”

“You wish to know more than I know myself,” she answered, laughing. “Now go,” she added, after a pause. “I will take you to the gate of the town myself, for this seems to me a cannibal warfare.”

“Then you do feel some interest in me?” exclaimed the count. “Ah! mademoiselle, permit me to hope that you will not be insensible to my friendship – for that sentiment must content me, must it not?” he added with a conceited air.

“Ah! diviner!” she said, putting on the gay expression a woman assumes when she makes an avowal which compromises neither her dignity nor her secret sentiments.

Then, having slipped on a pelisse, she accompanied him as far as the Nid-aux-Crocs. When they reached the end of the path she said, “Monsieur, be absolutely silent on all this; even to the marquis”; and she laid her finger on both lips.

The count, emboldened by so much kindness, took her hand; she let him do so as though it were a great favor, and he kissed it tenderly.

“Oh! mademoiselle,” he cried, on knowing himself beyond all danger, “rely on me for life, for death. Though I owe you a gratitude equal to that I owe my mother, it will be very difficult to restrain my feelings to mere respect.”

He sprang into the narrow pathway. After watching him till he reached the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, Marie nodded her head in sign of satisfaction, saying to herself in a low voice: “That fat fellow has given me more than his life for his life! I can make him my creator at a very little cost! Creature or creator, that’s all the difference there is between one man and another – ”

She did not finish her thought, but with a look of despair she turned and re-entered the Porte Saint-Leonard, where Hulot and Corentin were awaiting her.

“Two more days,” she cried, “and then – ” She stopped, observing that they were not alone – “he shall fall under your guns,” she whispered to Hulot.

The commandant recoiled a step and looked with a jeering contempt, impossible to render, at the woman whose features and expression gave no sign whatever of relenting. There is one thing remarkable about women: they never reason about their blameworthy actions, – feeling carries them off their feet; even in their dissimulation there is an element of sincerity; and in women alone crime may exist without baseness, for it often happens that they do not know how it came about that they committed it.

“I am going to Saint-James, to a ball the Chouans give to-morrow night, and – ”

“But,” said Corentin, interrupting her, “that is fifteen miles distant; had I not better accompany you?”

“You think a great deal too much of something I never think of at all,” she replied, “and that is yourself.”

Marie’s contempt for Corentin was extremely pleasing to Hulot, who made his well-known grimace as she turned away in the direction of her own house. Corentin followed her with his eyes, letting his face express a consciousness of the fatal power he knew he could exercise over the charming creature, by working upon the passions which sooner or later, he believed, would give her to him.

As soon as Mademoiselle de Verneuil reached home she began to deliberate on her ball-dress. Francine, accustomed to obey without understanding her mistress’s motives, opened the trunks, and suggested a Greek costume. The Republican fashions of those days were all Greek in style. Marie chose one which could be put in a box that was easy to carry.

“Francine, my dear, I am going on an excursion into the country; do you want to go with me, or will you stay behind?”

“Stay behind!” exclaimed Francine; “then who would dress you?”

“Where have you put that glove I gave you this morning?”

“Here it is.”

“Sew this green ribbon into it, and, above all, take plenty of money.” Then noticing that Francine was taking out a number of the new Republican coins, she cried out, “Not those; they would get us murdered. Send Jeremie to Corentin – no, stay, the wretch would follow me – send to the commandant; ask him from me for some six-franc crowns.”

With the feminine sagacity which takes in the smallest detail, she thought of everything. While Francine was completing the arrangements for this extraordinary trip, Marie practised the art of imitating an owl, and so far succeeded in rivalling Marche-a-Terre that the illusion was a good one. At midnight she left Fougeres by the gate of Saint-Leonard, took the little path to Nid-aux-Crocs, and started, followed by Francine, to cross the Val de Gibarry with a firm step, under the impulse of that strong will which gives to the body and its bearing such an expression of force. To leave a ball-room with sufficient care to avoid a cold is an important affair to the health of a woman; but let her have a passion in her heart, and her body becomes adamant. Such an enterprise as Marie had now undertaken would have floated in a bold man’s mind for a long time; but Mademoiselle de Verneuil had no sooner thought of it than its dangers became to her attractions.

“You are starting without asking God to bless you,” said Francine, turning to look at the tower of Saint-Leonard.

The pious Breton stopped, clasped her hands, and said an “Ave” to Saint Anne of Auray, imploring her to bless their expedition; during which time her mistress waited pensively, looking first at the artless attitude of her maid who was praying fervently, and then at the effects of the vaporous moonlight as it glided among the traceries of the church building, giving to the granite all the delicacy of filagree. The pair soon reached the hut of Galope-Chopine. Light as their steps were they roused one of those huge watch-dogs on whose fidelity the Bretons rely, putting no fastening to their doors but a simple latch. The dog ran to the strangers, and his bark became so threatening that they were forced to retreat a few steps and call for help. But no one came. Mademoiselle de Verneuil then gave the owl’s cry, and instantly the rusty hinges of the door made a creaking sound, and Galope-Chopine, who had risen hastily, put out his head.

“I wish to go to Saint-James,” said Marie, showing the Gars’ glove. “Monsieur le Comte de Bauvan told me that you would take me there and protect me on the way. Therefore be good enough to get us two riding donkeys, and make yourself ready to go with us. Time is precious, for if we do not get to Saint-James before to-morrow night I can neither see the ball nor the Gars.”

Galope-Chopine, completely bewildered, took the glove and turned it over and over, after lighting a pitch candle about a finger thick and the color of gingerbread. This article of consumption, imported into Brittany from the North, was only one more proof to the eyes in this strange country of a utter ignorance of all commercial principles, even the commonest. After seeing the green ribbon, staring at Mademoiselle de Verneuil, scratching his ear, and drinking a beaker of cider (having first offered a glass to the beautiful lady), Galope-Chopine left her seated before the table and went to fetch the required donkeys.

The violet gleam cast by the pitch candle was not powerful enough to counteract the fitful moonlight, which touched the dark floor and furniture of the smoke-blackened cottage with luminous points. The little boy had lifted his pretty head inquisitively, and above it two cows were poking their rosy muzzles and brilliant eyes through the holes in the stable wall. The big dog, whose countenance was by no means the least intelligent of the family, seemed to be examining the strangers with as much curiosity as the little boy. A painter would have stopped to admire the night effects of this scene, but Marie, not wishing to enter into conversation with Barbette, who sat up in bed and began to show signs of amazement at recognizing her, left the hovel to escape its fetid air and the questions of its mistress. She ran quickly up the stone staircase behind the cottage, admiring the vast details of the landscape, the aspect of which underwent as many changes as spectators made steps either upward to the summits or downward to the valleys. The moonlight was now enveloping like a luminous mist the valley of Couesnon. Certainly a woman whose heart was burdened with a despised love would be sensitive to the melancholy which that soft brilliancy inspires in the soul, by the weird appearance it gives to objects and the colors with which it tints the streams.

The silence was presently broken by the braying of a donkey. Marie went quickly back to the hut, and the party started. Galope-Chopine, armed with a double-barrelled gun, wore a long goatskin, which gave him something the look of Robinson Crusoe. His blotched face, seamed with wrinkles, was scarcely visible under the broad-brimmed hat which the Breton peasants still retain as a tradition of the olden time; proud to have won, after their servitude, the right to wear the former ornament of seignorial heads. This nocturnal caravan, protected by a guide whose clothing, attitudes, and person had something patriarchal about them, bore no little resemblance to the Flight into Egypt as we see it represented by the sombre brush of Rembrandt. Galope-Chopine carefully avoided the main-road and guided the two women through the labyrinth of by-ways which intersect Brittany.

Mademoiselle de Verneuil then understood the Chouan warfare. In threading these complicated paths, she could better appreciate the condition of a country which when she saw it from an elevation had seemed to her so charming, but into which it was necessary to penetrate before the dangers and inextricable difficulties of it could be understood. Round each field, and from time immemorial, the peasants have piled mud walls, about six feet high, and prismatic in shape; on the top of which grow chestnuts, oaks and beeches. The walls thus planted are called hedges (Norman hedges) and the long branches of the trees sweeping over the pathways arch them. Sunken between these walls (made of a clay soil) the paths are like the covered ways of a fortification, and where the granite rock, which in these regions comes to the surface of the ground, does not make a sort of rugged natural pavement, they become so impracticable that the smallest vehicles can only be drawn over them by two pairs of oxen or Breton horses, which are small but usually vigorous. These by-ways are so swampy that foot-passengers have gradually by long usage made other paths beside them on the hedge-banks which are called “rotes”; and these begin and end with each division into fields. In order to cross from one field to another it is necessary to climb the clay banks by means of steps which are often very slippery after a rain.