Part 41 (1/2)

As they entered the chateau gates, they met Chapeau, who was at the bottom of the steps, waiting for them; and Henri immediately asked after his father.

”Monseigneur is much fatigued,” said Chapeau, ”but apparently well; he is, however, still in bed.”

”And my sister?” said Henri.

”Mademoiselle has of course been much fatigued, but she is well; she is with your father, M. Henri.”

”And tell me, Chapeau, is it true, is it really true that M. Denot brought the blues here, and that since he has been here he has treated my sister in the manner they describe?”

”It is true as gospel, M. Henri. I knew that this would be the worst of the whole affair to you. I knew you would sooner the chateau should have been burnt than have heard this. We are only waiting for you and M. de Lescure, to hang him as a traitor from the big chestnut out on the road-side. You might have seen as you came in, that they have the ropes and everything ready.”

Henri shuddered as he followed his cousin into the house. The steps were crowded with his own followers, who warmly welcomed him, and congratulated him on the safety of his father, his sister, and his property; but he said very little to them; he was thinking of the friend whom he had loved so well, who had so vilely disgraced himself, and whose life he now feared he should be unable to save.

”Where is he?” said he to Chapeau.

”Who--Monseigneur?”

”No--M. Denot.”

”He is in the great salon, with Santerre, and Father Jerome, and the Chevalier, and three or four of the lads from Echanbroignes.”

”Charles,” said he, as he reached the door of the salon, ”do you go in.

You are better able to say what should be said, and to do what must be done, than I am. I will go up to my father. But, Charles,” and he spoke into his ear, so that no one else should hear him, ”save his life--for my sake, save his life. He is mad, and does not know what he has been doing.” De Lescure pressed his cousin's hand, and as Henri ran up stairs to his father, he entered the room, where the party abovementioned were sitting.

The occupants of the room certainly formed a very remarkable group. The first person whom de Lescure saw was Adolphe Denot; he was seated in a large arm-chair, placed against the wall immediately opposite the door, and between the stove and the folding-doors which opened into the other room. His legs were stretched out to their full length before him his hands were clasped together between his legs; his head was bent down, so that his chin rested on his breast; he was scowling awfully, his eyebrows nearly met above his eyes, and he continued constantly curling and twisting his lips, sometimes shewing his teeth, and sometimes completely covering his under with his upper lip. He had sat twelve hours, since Agatha had left the room in the morning, without speaking a word, or once changing his position. He had refused food when it had been brought to him, with an indignant shake of the head; and when Santerre had once half jocularly told him to keep up his spirits, and prove himself a man, he had uttered a horrible sound, which he had meant for a laugh of derision, such as is sometimes heard to proceed from dark-haired, diabolical, provincial tragedians.

There were three men from Echanbroignes in the room, distinguished by the notable red scarf, acting as guards, to prevent the escape of the prisoners; but as the two objects of their care during the whole day had made no attempt at escaping, the guards had by degrees laid aside the eager watchfulness with which they had at first expressed their readiness to pounce upon their captives, should they by any motion have betrayed an intention to leave their seats, and were now resting on three chairs in a row, each man having his musket between his legs, and looking as though they were peculiarly tired of their long inactive services. Santerre and Father Jerome were seated together on a sofa, and the Chevalier occupied a chair on the other side of a table on which the prisoner and the priest were leaning. When Santerre found that he and his men were in the hands of the royalist peasants, he at first rather lost both his temper and his presence of mind. He saw at once that resistance was out of the question, and that there was very little chance that he would be able to escape; he began to accuse himself of rashness in having accepted from the Convention the very disagreeable commission which had brought him into his present plight, and to wish that he was once more among his legitimate adherents in the Quartier St.

Antoine. He soon, however, regained his equanimity. Those whom he had in his rough manner treated well, returned the compliment; and he perceived that, though he would probably be kept a prisoner, his life would not be in danger, and that the royalists were not inclined to treat him either with insult or severity.

He by degrees got into conversation with the Chevalier; and before the day was over, even Father Jerome, much as he abhorred a republican, and especially a leader of republicans, and an infidel, as he presumed Santerre to be, forgot his disgust, and chatted freely with the captive Commissioner. The three dined together in the afternoon, and when de Lescure entered the room, wine and gla.s.ses were still on the table. A crowd of the royalist peasants followed de Lescure to the door of the salon, and would have entered it with him, had not Chapeau, with much difficulty, restrained them. They were most anxious to hear sentence p.r.o.nounced on the traitor, who had betrayed their cause, and insulted the sister of their favourite leader; and could not understand why the punishment, which he had so richly merited, should be delayed. All that Chapeau and Father Jerome had ventured to ask of them was to wait till Henri himself should arrive; and now, that he had come, they conceived that judgment should at once be pa.s.sed, and sentence of death immediately executed.

When de Lescure entered the room, they all, except Denot, rose from their chairs; the three guards stood up, and shouldered their muskets, the Chevalier ran up to him to shake hands with him, and Father Jerome also came out into the middle of the room to meet him. He looked first at Denot, who kept his eyes steadily fixed on the ground; and then at Santerre, whom he had never, to his knowledge, seen before. Santerre, however, knew him, for he immediately called him by his name.

”My soldiers have met with a reverse, General de Lescure,” said he, ”which has thrown me and them into the power of your friends. I take the earliest opportunity of thanking you for the kind treatment we have received.”

”If, at some future time, when our soldiers may be in your power, you will remember it; the Marquis de Larochejaquelin will feel himself amply repaid for such attention as he has been able to shew you,” said de Lescure.

”You know we were in General Santerre's power last night,” said the Chevalier; ”and he could have shot us all had he pleased it; indeed we all expected it, when the blues came upon us.”

”They shall not find that we will be less merciful, Arthur,” said de Lescure. ”General Santerre knows that the Vendean royalists have never disgraced themselves by shedding the blood of the prisoners whom the chance of war may have thrown into their hands. He knows that they can be brave without being cruel. I grieve to say that the republicans have hitherto not often allowed us to repay mercy with mercy. We shall now be glad to take advantage of the opportunity of doing so.”

”What will you do with him, M. de Lescure,” said Father Jerome in a whisper, pointing to Denot. ”I never before saw the people greedy for blood; but now they declare that no mercy should be shown to a traitor.”

”We must teach them, Father Jerome, that it is G.o.d's will that those who wish to be pardoned themselves must pardon others. You have taught them lessons more difficult to learn than this; and I do not doubt that in this, as in other things, they will obey their priest.” And as he spoke de Lescure laid his hand on the Cure's shoulder.

”You won't hang him then?” whispered the Chevalier.

”You wouldn't have me do so, would you, Arthur?”

”Who--I?” said the boy. ”No--that is, I don't know. I wouldn't like to have to say that anybody should be hung; but if anybody ever did deserve it, he does.”

”And you, Father Jerome?” said de Lescure, ”you agree with me? You would not have us sully our pure cause with a cold-blooded execution?”