The Chouans

“It is fearfully hot here,” she said to the count. “Take me to the other side where I can breathe; I am stifling here.”

And she motioned towards a small room where a few card-players were assembled. The marquis followed her. He ventured to hope she had left the crowd to receive him, and this supposed favor roused his passion to extreme violence; for his love had only increased through the resistance he had made to it during the last few days. Mademoiselle de Verneuil still tormented him; her eyes, so soft and velvety for the count, were hard and stern when, as if by accident, they met his. Montauran at last made a painful effort and said, in a muffled voice, “Will you never forgive me?”

“Love forgives nothing, or it forgives all,” she said, coldly. “But,” she added, noticing his joyful look, “it must be love.”

She took the count’s arm once more and moved forward into a small boudoir which adjoined the cardroom. The marquis followed her.

“Will you not hear me?” he said.

“One would really think, monsieur,” she replied, “that I had come here to meet you, and not to vindicate my own self-respect. If you do not cease this odious pursuit I shall leave the ballroom.”

“Ah!” he cried, recollecting one of the crazy actions of the last Duc de Lorraine, “let me speak to you so long as I can hold this live coal in my hand.”

He stooped to the hearth and picking up a brand held it tightly. Mademoiselle de Verneuil flushed, took her arm from that of the count, and looked at the marquis in amazement. The count softly withdrew, leaving them alone together. So crazy an action shook Marie’s heart, for there is nothing so persuasive in love as courageous folly.

“You only prove to me,” she said, trying to make him throw away the brand, “that you are willing to make me suffer cruelly. You are extreme in everything. On the word of a fool and the slander of a woman you suspected that one who had just saved your life was capable of betraying you.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling, “I have been very cruel to you; but nevertheless, forget it; I shall never forget it. Hear me. I have been shamefully deceived; but so many circumstances on that fatal day told against you – ”

“And those circumstances were stronger than your love?”

He hesitated; she made a motion of contempt, and rose.

“Oh, Marie. I shall never cease to believe in you now.”

“Then throw that fire away. You are mad. Open your hand; I insist upon it.”

He took delight in still resisting the soft efforts of her fingers, but she succeeded in opening the hand she would fain have kissed.

“What good did that do you?” she said, as she tore her handkerchief and laid it on the burn, which the marquis covered with his glove.

Madame du Gua had stolen softly into the cardroom, watching the lovers with furtive eyes, but escaping theirs adroitly; it was, however, impossible for her to understand their conversation from their actions.

“If all that they said of me was true you must admit that I am avenged at this moment,” said Marie, with a look of malignity which startled the marquis.

“What feeling brought you here?” he asked.

“Do you suppose, my dear friend, that you can despise a woman like me with impunity? I came here for your sake and for my own,” she continued, after a pause, laying her hand on the hilt of rubies in her bosom and showing him the blade of her dagger.

“What does all that mean?” thought Madame du Gua.

“But,” she continued, “you still love me; at any rate, you desire me, and the folly you have just committed,” she added, taking his hand, “proves it to me. I will again be that I desired to be; and I return to Fougeres happy. Love absolves everything. You love me; I have regained the respect of the man who represents to me the whole world, and I can die.”

“Then you still love me?” said the marquis.

“Have I said so?” she replied with a scornful look, delighting in the torture she was making him endure. “I have run many risks to come here. I have saved Monsieur de Bauvan’s life, and he, more grateful than others, offers me in return his fortune and his name. You have never even thought of doing that.”

The marquis, bewildered by these words, stifled the worst anger he had ever felt, supposing that the count had played him false. He made no answer.

“Ah! you reflect,” she said, bitterly.

“Mademoiselle,” replied the young man, “your doubts justify mine.”

“Let us leave this room,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, catching sight of a corner of Madame du Gua’s gown, and rising. But the wish to reduce her rival to despair was too strong, and she made no further motion to go.

“Do you mean to drive me to hell?” cried the marquis, seizing her hand and pressing it violently.

“Did you not drive me to hell five days ago? are you not leaving me at this very moment uncertain whether your love is sincere or not?”

“But how do I know whether your revenge may not lead you to obtain my life to tarnish it, instead of killing me?”

“Ah! you do not love me! you think of yourself and not of me!” she said angrily, shedding a few tears.

The coquettish creature well knew the power of her eyes when moistened by tears.

“Well, then,” he cried, beside himself, “take my life, but dry those tears.”

“Oh, my love! my love!” she exclaimed in a stifled voice: “those are the words, the accents, the looks I have longed for, to allow me to prefer your happiness to mine. But,” she added, “I ask one more proof of your love, which you say is so great. I wish to stay here only so long as may be needed to show the company that you are mine. I will not even drink a glass of water in the house of a woman who has twice tried to kill me, who is now, perhaps, plotting mischief against us,” and she showed the marquis the floating corner of Madame du Gua’s drapery. Then she dried her eyes and put her lips to the ear of the young man, who quivered as he felt the caress of her warm breath. “See that everything is prepared for my departure,” she said; “you shall take me yourself to Fougeres and there only will I tell you if I love you. For the second time I trust you. Will you trust me a second time?”

“Ah, Marie, you have brought me to a point where I know not what I do. I am intoxicated by your words, your looks, by you – by you, and I am ready to obey you.”

“Well, then, make me for an instant very happy. Let me enjoy the only triumph I desire. I want to breathe freely, to drink of the life I have dreamed, to feed my illusions before they are gone forever. Come – come into the ballroom and dance with me.”

They re-entered the room together, and though Mademoiselle de Verneuil was as completely satisfied in heart and vanity as any woman ever could be, the unfathomable gentleness of her eyes, the demure smile on her lips, the rapidity of the motions of a gay dance, kept the secret of her thoughts as the sea swallows those of the criminal who casts a weighted body into its depths. But a murmur of admiration ran through the company as, circling in each other’s arms, voluptuously interlaced, with heavy heads, and dimmed sight, they waltzed with a sort of frenzy, dreaming of the pleasures they hoped to find in a future union.

A few moments later Mademoiselle de Verneuil and the marquis were in the latter’s travelling-carriage drawn by four horses. Surprised to see these enemies hand in hand, and evidently understanding each other, Francine kept silence, not daring to ask her mistress whether her conduct was that of treachery or love. Thanks to the darkness, the marquis did not observe Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s agitation as they neared Fougeres. The first flush of dawn showed the towers of Saint-Leonard in the distance. At that moment Marie was saying to herself: “I am going to my death.”

As they ascended the first hill the lovers had the same thought; they left the carriage and mounted the rise on foot, in memory of their first meeting. When Marie took the young man’s arm she thanked him by a smile for respecting her silence; then, as they reached the summit of the plateau and looked at Fougeres, she threw off her reverie.

“Don’t come any farther,” she said; “my authority cannot save you from the Blues to-day.”

Montauran showed some surprise. She smiled sadly and pointed to a block of granite, as if to tell him to sit down, while she herself stood before him in a melancholy attitude. The rending emotions of her soul no longer permitted her to play a part. At that moment she would have knelt on red-hot coals without feeling them any more than the marquis had felt the fire-brand he had taken in his hand to prove the strength of his passion. It was not until she had contemplated her lover with a look of the deepest anguish that she said to him, at last: —

“All that you have suspected of me is true.”

The marquis started.

“Ah! I pray you,” she said, clasping her hands, “listen to me without interruption. I am indeed the daughter of the Duc de Verneuil, – but his natural daughter. My mother, a Demoiselle de Casteran, who became a nun to escape the reproaches of her family, expiated her fault by fifteen years of sorrow, and died at Seez, where she was abbess. On her death-bed she implored, for the first time and only for me, the help of the man who had betrayed her, for she knew she was leaving me without friends, without fortune, without a future. The duke accepted the charge, and took me from the roof of Francine’s mother, who had hitherto taken care of me; perhaps he liked me because I was beautiful; possibly I reminded him of his youth. He was one of those great lords of the old regime, who took pride in showing how they could get their crimes forgiven by committing them with grace. I will say no more, he was my father. But let me explain to you how my life in Paris injured my soul. The society of the Duc de Verneuil, to which he introduced me, was bitten by that scoffing philosophy about which all France was then enthusiastic because it was wittily professed. The brilliant conversations which charmed my ear were marked by subtlety of perception and by witty contempt for all that was true and spiritual. Men laughed at sentiments, and pictured them all the better because they did not feel them; their satirical epigrams were as fascinating as the light-hearted humor with which they could put a whole adventure into a word; and yet they had sometimes too much wit, and wearied women by making love an art, and not a matter of feeling. I could not resist the tide. And yet my soul was too ardent – forgive this pride – not to feel that their minds had withered their hearts; and the life I led resulted in a perpetual struggle between my natural feelings and beliefs and the vicious habits of mind which I there contracted. Several superior men took pleasure in developing in me that liberty of thought and contempt for public opinion which do tear from a woman her modesty of soul, robbed of which she loses her charm. Alas! my subsequent misfortunes have failed to lessen the faults I learned through opulence. My father,” she continued, with a sigh, “the Duc de Verneuil, died, after duly recognizing me as his daughter and making provisions for me by his will, which considerably reduced the fortune of my brother, his legitimate son. I found myself one day without a home and without a protector. My brother contested the will which made me rich. Three years of my late life had developed my vanity. By satisfying all my fancies my father had created in my nature a need of luxury, and given me habits of self-indulgence of which my own mind, young and artless as it then was, could not perceive either the danger or the tyranny. A friend of my father, the Marechal Duc de Lenoncourt, then seventy years old, offered to become my guardian, and I found myself, soon after the termination of the odious suit, in a brilliant home, where I enjoyed all the advantages of which my brother’s cruelty had deprived me. Every evening the old marechal came to sit with me and comfort me with kind and consoling words. His white hair and the many proofs he gave me of paternal tenderness led me to turn all the feelings of my heart upon him, and I felt myself his daughter. I accepted his presents, hiding none of my caprices from him, for I saw how he loved to gratify them. I heard one fatal evening that all Paris believed me the mistress of the poor old man. I was told that it was then beyond my power to recover an innocence thus gratuitously denied me. They said that the man who had abused my inexperience could not be lover, and would not be my husband. The week in which I made this horrible discovery the duke left Paris. I was shamefully ejected from the house where he had placed me, and which did not belong to him. Up to this point I have told you the truth as though I stood before God; but now, do not ask a wretched woman to give account of sufferings which are buried in her heart. The time came when I found myself married to Danton. A few days later the storm uprooted the mighty oak around which I had thrown my arms. Again I was plunged into the worst distress, and I resolved to kill myself. I don’t know whether love of life, or the hope of wearying ill-fortune and of finding at the bottom of the abyss the happiness which had always escaped me were, unconsciously to myself, my advisers, or whether I was fascinated by the arguments of a young man from Vendome, who, for the last two years, has wound himself about me like a serpent round a tree, – in short, I know not how it is that I accepted, for a payment of three hundred thousand francs, the odious mission of making an unknown man fall in love with me and then betraying him. I met you; I knew you at once by one of those presentiments which never mislead us; yet I tried to doubt my recognition, for the more I came to love you, the more the certainty appalled me. When I saved you from the hands of Hulot, I abjured the part I had taken; I resolved to betray the slaughterers, and not their victim. I did wrong to play with men, with their lives, their principles, with myself, like a thoughtless girl who sees only sentiments in this life. I believed you loved me; I let myself cling to the hope that my life might begin anew; but all things have revealed my past, – even I myself, perhaps, for you must have distrusted a woman so passionate as you have found me. Alas! is there no excuse for my love and my deception? My life was like a troubled sleep; I woke and thought myself a girl; I was in Alencon, where all my memories were pure and chaste. I had the mad simplicity to think that love would baptize me into innocence. For a moment I thought myself pure, for I had never loved. But last night your passion seemed to me true, and a voice cried to me, ‘Do not deceive him.’ Monsieur le marquis,” she said, in a guttural voice which haughtily challenged condemnation, “know this; I am a dishonored creature, unworthy of you. From this hour I accept my fate as a lost woman. I am weary of playing a part, – the part of a woman to whom you had brought back the sanctities of her soul. Virtue is a burden to me. I should despise you if you were weak enough to marry me. The Comte de Bauvan might commit that folly, but you – you must be worthy of your future and leave me without regret. A courtesan is too exacting; I should not love you like the simple, artless girl who felt for a moment the delightful hope of being your companion, of making you happy, of doing you honor, of becoming a noble wife. But I gather from that futile hope the courage to return to a life of vice and infamy, that I may put an eternal barrier between us. I sacrifice both honor and fortune to you. The pride I take in that sacrifice will support me in my wretchedness, – fate may dispose of me as it will. I will never betray you. I shall return to Paris. There your name will be to me a part of myself, and the glory you win will console my grief. As for you, you are a man, and you will forget me. Farewell.”

She darted away in the direction of the gorges of Saint-Sulpice, and disappeared before the marquis could rise to detain her. But she came back unseen, hid herself in a cavity of the rocks, and examined the young man with a curiosity mingled with doubt. Presently she saw him walking like a man overwhelmed, without seeming to know where he went.

“Can he be weak?” she thought, when he had disappeared, and she felt she was parted from him. “Will he understand me?” She quivered. Then she turned and went rapidly towards Fougeres, as though she feared the marquis might follow her into the town, where certain death awaited him.

“Francine, what did he say to you?” she asked, when the faithful girl rejoined her.

“Ah! Marie, how I pitied him. You great ladies stab a man with your tongues.”

“How did he seem when he came up to you?”

“As if he saw me not at all! Oh, Marie, he loves you!”

“Yes, he loves me, or he does not love me – there is heaven or hell for me in that,” she answered. “Between the two extremes there is no spot where I can set my foot.”

After thus carrying out her resolution, Marie gave way to grief, and her face, beautified till then by these conflicting sentiments, changed for the worse so rapidly that in a single day, during which she floated incessantly between hope and despair, she lost the glow of beauty, and the freshness which has its source in the absence of passion or the ardor of joy. Anxious to ascertain the result of her mad enterprise, Hulot and Corentin came to see her soon after her return. She received them smiling.

“Well,” she said to the commandant, whose care-worn face had a questioning expression, “the fox is coming within range of your guns; you will soon have a glorious triumph over him.”

“What happened?” asked Corentin, carelessly, giving Mademoiselle de Verneuil one of those oblique glances with which diplomatists of his class spy on thought.

“Ah!” she said, “the Gars is more in love than ever; I made him come with me to the gates of Fougeres.”

“Your power seems to have stopped there,” remarked Corentin; “the fears of your ci-devant are greater than the love you inspire.”

“You judge him by yourself,” she replied, with a contemptuous look.

“Well, then,” said he, unmoved, “why did you not bring him here to your own house?”

“Commandant,” she said to Hulot, with a coaxing smile, “if he really loves me, would you blame me for saving his life and getting him to leave France?”

The old soldier came quickly up to her, took her hand, and kissed it with a sort of enthusiasm. Then he looked at her fixedly and said in a gloomy tone: “You forget my two friends and my sixty-three men.”

“Ah, commandant,” she cried, with all the naivete of passion, “he was not accountable for that; he was deceived by a bad woman, Charette’s mistress, who would, I do believe, drink the blood of the Blues.”

“Come, Marie,” said Corentin, “don’t tease the commandant; he does not understand such jokes.”

“Hold your tongue,” she answered, “and remember that the day when you displease me too much will have no morrow for you.”

“I see, mademoiselle,” said Hulot, without bitterness, “that I must prepare for a fight.”

“You are not strong enough, my dear colonel. I saw more than six thousand men at Saint-James, – regular troops, artillery, and English officers. But they cannot do much unless he leads them? I agree with Fouche, his presence is the head and front of everything.”

“Are we to get his head? – that’s the point,” said Corentin, impatiently.

“I don’t know,” she answered, carelessly.

“English officers!” cried Hulot, angrily, “that’s all that was wanting to make a regular brigand of him. Ha! ha! I’ll give him English, I will!”

“It seems to me, citizen-diplomat,” said Hulot to Corentin, after the two had taken leave and were at some distance from the house, “that you allow that girl to send you to the right-about when she pleases.”

“It is quite natural for you, commandant,” replied Corentin, with a thoughtful air, “to see nothing but fighting in what she said to us. You soldiers never seem to know there are various ways of making war. To use the passions of men and women like wires to be pulled for the benefit of the State; to keep the running-gear of the great machine we call government in good order, and fasten to it the desires of human nature, like baited traps which it is fun to watch, – I call that creating a world, like God, and putting ourselves at the centre of it!”

“You will please allow me to prefer my calling to yours,” said the soldier, curtly. “You can do as you like with your running-gear; I recognize no authority but that of the minister of war. I have my orders; I shall take the field with veterans who don’t skulk, and face an enemy you want to catch behind.”

“Oh, you can fight if you want to,” replied Corentin. “From what that girl has dropped, close-mouthed as you think she is, I can tell you that you’ll have to skirmish about, and I myself will give you the pleasure of an interview with the Gars before long.”

“How so?” asked Hulot, moving back a step to get a better view of this strange individual.

“Mademoiselle de Verneuil is in love with him,” replied Corentin, in a thick voice, “and perhaps he loves her. A marquis, a knight of Saint-Louis, young, brilliant, perhaps rich, – what a list of temptations! She would be foolish indeed not to look after her own interests and try to marry him rather than betray him. The girl is attempting to fool us. But I saw hesitation in her eyes. They probably have a rendezvous; perhaps they’ve met already. Well, to-morrow I shall have him by the forelock. Yesterday he was nothing more than the enemy of the Republic, to-day he is mine; and I tell you this, every man who has been so rash as to come between that girl and me has died upon the scaffold.”

So saying, Corentin dropped into a reverie which hindered him from observing the disgust on the face of the honest soldier as he discovered the depths of this intrigue, and the mechanism of the means employed by Fouche. Hulot resolved on the spot to thwart Corentin in every way that did not conflict essentially with the success of the government, and to give the Gars a fair chance of dying honorably, sword in hand, before he could fall a prey to the executioner, for whom this agent of the detective police acknowledged himself the purveyor.

“If the First Consul would listen to me,” thought Hulot, as he turned his back on Corentin, “he would leave those foxes to fight aristocrats, and send his solders on other business.”

Corentin looked coldly after the old soldier, whose face had brightened at the resolve, and his eyes gleamed with a sardonic expression, which showed the mental superiority of this subaltern Machiavelli.

“Give an ell of blue cloth to those fellows, and hang a bit of iron at their waists,” he said to himself, “and they’ll think there’s but one way to kill people.” Then, after walking up and down awhile very slowly, he exclaimed suddenly, “Yes, the time has come, that woman shall be mine! For five years I’ve been drawing the net round her, and I have her now; with her, I can be a greater man in the government than Fouche himself. Yes, if she loses the only man she has ever loved, grief will give her to me, body and soul; but I must be on the watch night and day.”

A few moments later the pale face of this man might have been seen through the window of a house, from which he could observe all who entered the cul-de-sac formed by the line of houses running parallel with Saint-Leonard, one of those houses being that now occupied by Mademoiselle de Verneuil. With the patience of a cat watching a mouse Corentin was there in the same place on the following morning, attentive to the slightest noise, and subjecting the passers-by to the closest examination. The day that was now beginning was a market-day. Although in these calamitous times the peasants rarely risked themselves in the towns, Corentin presently noticed a small man with a gloomy face, wrapped in a goatskin, and carrying on his arm a small flat basket; he was making his way in the direction of Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s house, casting careless glances about him. Corentin watched him enter the house; then he ran down into the street, meaning to waylay the man as he left; but on second thoughts it occurred to him that if he called unexpectedly on Mademoiselle de Verneuil he might surprise by a single glance the secret that was hidden in the basket of the emissary. Besides, he had already learned that it was impossible to extract anything from the inscrutable answers of Bretons and Normans.