“Corentin,” she said, with a sort of gayety, “I hope you are going to let me make my toilet?”
“Marie,” he said, — ”yes, permit me to call you so, — you don’t yet know me. Listen; a much less sagacious man than I would see your love for the Marquis de Montauran. I have several times offered you my heart and hand. You have never thought me worthy of you; and perhaps you are right. But however much you may feel yourself too high, too beautiful, too superior for me, I can compel you to come down to my level. My ambition and my maxims have given you a low opinion of me; frankly, you are mistaken. Men are not worth even what I rate them at, and that is next to nothing. I shall certainly attain a position which will gratify your pride. Who will ever love you better, or make you more absolutely mistress of yourself and of him, than the man who has loved you now for five years? Though I run the risk of exciting your suspicions, — for you cannot conceive that any one should renounce an idolized woman out of excessive love, — I will now prove to you the unselfishness of my passion. If the marquis loves you, marry him; but before you do so, make sure of his sincerity. I could not endure to see you deceived, for I do prefer your happiness to my own. My resolution may surprise you; lay it to the prudence of a man who is not so great a fool as to wish to possess a woman against her will. I blame myself, not you, for the failure of my efforts to win you. I hoped to do so by submission and devotion, for I have long, as you well know, tried to make you happy according to my lights; but you have never in any way rewarded me.”
“I have suffered you to be near me,” she said, haughtily.
“Add that you regret it.”
“After involving me in this infamous enterprise, do you think that I have any thanks to give you?”
“When I proposed to you an enterprise which was not exempt from blame to timid minds,” he replied, audaciously, “I had only your own prosperity in view. As for me, whether I succeed or fail, I can make all results further my ends. If you marry Montauran, I shall be delighted to serve the Bourbons in Paris, where I am already a member of the Clichy club. Now, if circumstances were to put me in correspondence with the princes I should abandon the interests of the Republic, which is already on its last legs. General Bonaparte is much too able a man not to know that he can’t be in England and in Italy at the same time, and that is how the Republic is about to fall. I have no doubt he made the 18th Brumaire to obtain greater advantages over the Bourbons when it came to treating with them. He is a long-headed fellow, and very keen; but the politicians will get the better of him on their own ground. The betrayal of France is another scruple which men of superiority leave to fools. I won’t conceal from you that I have come here with the necessary authority to open negotiations with the Chouans, or to further their destruction, as the case may be; for Fouche, my patron, is deep; he has always played a double part; during the Terror he was as much for Robespierre as for Danton — ”
“Whom you basely abandoned,” she said.
“Nonsense; he is dead, — forget him,” replied Corentin. “Come, speak honestly to me; I have set you the example. Old Hulot is deeper than he looks; if you want to escape his vigilance, I can help you. Remember that he holds all the valleys and will instantly detect a rendezvous. If you make one in Fougeres, under his very eyes, you are at the mercy of his patrols. See how quickly he knew that this Chouan had entered your house. His military sagacity will show him that your movements betray those of the Gars — if Montauran loves you.”
Mademoiselle de Verneuil had never listened to a more affectionate voice; Corentin certainly seemed sincere, and spoke confidingly. The poor girl’s heart was so open to generous impressions that she was on the point of betraying her secret to the serpent who had her in his folds, when it occurred to her that she had no proof beyond his own words of his sincerity, and she felt no scruple in blinding him.
“Yes,” she said, “you are right, Corentin. I do love the marquis, but he does not love me — at least, I fear so; I can’t help fearing that the appointment he wishes me to make with him is a trap.”
“But you said yesterday that he came as far as Fougeres with you,” returned Corentin. “If he had meant to do you bodily harm you wouldn’t be here now.”
“You’ve a cold heart, Corentin. You can draw shrewd conclusions as to the ordinary events of human life, but not on those of passion. Perhaps that is why you inspire me with such repulsion. As you are so clear-sighted, you may be able to tell me why a man from whom I separated myself violently two days ago now wishes me to meet him in a house at Florigny on the road to Mayenne.”
At this avowal, which seemed to escape her with a recklessness that was not unnatural in so passionate a creature, Corentin flushed, for he was still young; but he gave her a sidelong penetrating look, trying to search her soul. The girl’s artlessness was so well played, however, that she deceived the spy, and he answered with crafty good-humor, “Shall I accompany you at a distance? I can take a few solders with me, and be ready to help and obey you.”
“Very good,” she said; “but promise me, on your honor, — no, I don’t believe in it; by your salvation, — but you don’t believe in God; by your soul, — but I don’t suppose you have any! what pledge can you give me of your fidelity? and yet you expect me to trust you, and put more than my life — my love, my vengeance — into your hands?”
The slight smile which crossed the pallid lips of the spy showed Mademoiselle de Verneuil the danger she had just escaped. The man, whose nostrils contracted instead of dilating, took the hand of his victim, kissed it with every mark of the deepest respect, and left the room with a bow that was not devoid of grace.
Three hours after this scene Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who feared the man’s return, left the town furtively by the Porte Saint-Leonard, and made her way through the labyrinth of paths to the cottage of Galope-Chopine, led by the dream of at last finding happiness, and also by the purpose of saving her lover from the danger that threatened him.
During this time Corentin had gone to find the commandant. He had some difficulty in recognizing Hulot when he found him in a little square, where he was busy with certain military preparations. The brave veteran had made a sacrifice, the full merit of which may be difficult to appreciate. His queue and his moustache were cut off, and his hair had a sprinkling of powder. He had changed his uniform for a goatskin, wore hobnailed shoes, a belt full of pistols, and carried a heavy carbine. In this costume he was reviewing about two hundred of the natives of Fougeres, all in the same kind of dress, which was fitted to deceive the eye of the most practised Chouan. The warlike spirit of the little town and the Breton character were fully displayed in this scene, which was not at all uncommon. Here and there a few mothers and sisters were bringing to their sons and brothers gourds filled with brandy, or forgotten pistols. Several old men were examining into the number and condition of the cartridges of these young national guards dressed in the guise of Chouans, whose gaiety was more in keeping with a hunting expedition than the dangerous duty they were undertaking. To them, such encounters with Chouannerie, where the Breton of the town fought the Breton of the country district, had taken the place of the old chivalric tournaments. This patriotic enthusiasm may possibly have been connected with certain purchases of the “national domain.” Still, the benefits of the Revolution which were better understood and appreciated in the towns, party spirit, and a certain national delight in war, had a great deal to do with their ardor.
Hulot, much gratified, was going through the ranks and getting information from Gudin, on whom he was now bestowing the confidence and good-will he had formerly shown to Merle and Gerard. A number of the inhabitants stood about watching the preparations, and comparing the conduct of their tumultuous contingent with the regulars of Hulot’s brigade. Motionless and silent the Blues were awaiting, under control of their officers, the orders of the commandant, whose figure they followed with their eyes as he passed from rank to rank of the contingent. When Corentin came near the old warrior
he could not help smiling at the change which had taken place in him. He looked like a portrait that has little or no resemblance to the original.
“What’s all this?” asked Corentin.
“Come with us under fire, and you’ll find out,” replied Hulot.
“Oh! I’m not a Fougeres man,” said Corentin.
“Easy to see that, citizen,” retorted Gudin.
A few contemptuous laughs came from the nearest ranks.
“Do you think,” said Corentin, sharply, “that the only way to serve France is with bayonets?”
Then he turned his back to the laughers, and asked a woman beside him if she knew the object of the expedition.
“Hey! my good man, the Chouans are at Florigny. They say there are more than three thousand, and they are coming to take Fougeres.”
“Florigny?” cried Corentin, turning white; “then the rendezvous is not there! Is Florigny on the road to Mayenne?” he asked.
“There are not two Florignys,” replied the woman, pointing in the direction of the summit of La Pelerine.
“Are you going in search of the Marquis de Montauran?” said Corentin to Hulot.
“Perhaps I am,” answered the commandant, curtly.
“He is not at Florigny,” said Corentin. “Send your troops there by all means; but keep a few of those imitation Chouans of yours with you, and wait for me.”
“He is too malignant not to know what he’s about,” thought Hulot as Corentin made off rapidly, “he’s the king of spies.”
Hulot ordered the battalion to start. The republican soldiers marched without drums and silently through the narrow suburb which led to the Mayenne high-road, forming a blue and red line among the trees and houses. The disguised guard followed them; but Hulot, detaining Gudin and about a score of the smartest young fellows of the town, remained in the little square, awaiting Corentin, whose mysterious manner had piqued his curiosity. Francine herself told the astute spy, whose suspicions she changed into certainty, of her mistress’s departure. Inquiring of the post guard at the Porte Saint-Leonard, he learned that Mademoiselle de Verneuil had passed that way. Rushing to the Promenade, he was, unfortunately, in time to see her movements. Though she was wearing a green dress and hood, to be less easily distinguished, the rapidity of her almost distracted step enabled him to follow her with his eye through the leafless hedges, and to guess the point towards which she was hurrying.
“Ha!” he cried, “you said you were going to Florigny, but you are in the valley of Gibarry! I am a fool, she has tricked me! No matter, I can light my lamp by day as well as by night.”
Corentin, satisfied that he knew the place of the lovers’ rendezvous, returned in all haste to the little square, which Hulot, resolved not to wait any longer, was just quitting to rejoin his troops.
“Halt, general!” he cried to the commandant, who turned round.
He then told Hulot the events relating to the marquis and Mademoiselle de Verneuil, and showed him the scheme of which he held a thread. Hulot, struck by his perspicacity, seized him by the arm.
“God’s thunder! citizen, you are right,” he cried. “The brigands are making a false attack over there to keep the coast clear; but the two columns I sent to scour the environs between Antrain and Vitre have not yet returned, so we shall have plenty of reinforcements if we need them; and I dare say we shall, for the Gars is not such a fool as to risk his life without a bodyguard of those damned owls. Gudin,” he added, “go and tell Captain Lebrun that he must rub those fellows’ noses at Florigny without me, and come back yourself in a flash. You know the paths. I’ll wait till you return, and then — we’ll avenge those murders at La Vivetiere. Thunder! how he runs,” he added, seeing Gudin disappear as if by magic. “Gerard would have loved him.”
On his return Gudin found Hulot’s little band increased in numbers by the arrival of several soldiers taken from the various posts in the town. The commandant ordered him to choose a dozen of his compatriots who could best counterfeit the Chouans, and take them out by the Porte Saint-Leonard, so as to creep round the side of the Saint-Sulpice rocks which overlooks the valley of Couesnon and on which was the hovel of Galope-Chopine. Hulot himself went out with the rest of his troop by the Porte Saint-Sulpice, to reach the summit of the same rocks, where, according to his calculations, he ought to meet the men under Beau-Pied, whom he meant to use as a line of sentinels from the suburb of Saint-Sulpice to the Nid-aux-Crocs.
Corentin, satisfied with having delivered over the fate of the Gars to his implacable enemies, went with all speed to the Promenade, so as to follow with his eyes the military arrangements of the commandant. He soon saw Gudin’s little squad issuing from the valley of the Nancon and following the line of the rocks to the great valley, while Hulot, creeping round the castle of Fougeres, was mounting the dangerous path which leads to the summit of Saint-Sulpice. The two companies were therefore advancing on parallel lines. The trees and shrubs, draped by the rich arabesques of the hoarfrost, threw whitish reflections which enabled the watcher to see the gray lines of the squads in motion. When Hulot reached the summit of the rocks, he detached all the soldiers in uniform from his main body, and made them into a line of sentinels, each communicating with the other, the first with Gudin, the last with Hulot; so that no shrub could escape the bayonets of the three lines which were now in a position to hunt the Gars across field and mountain.
“The sly old wolf!” thought Corentin, as the shining muzzle of the last gun disappeared in the bushes. “The Gars is done for. If Marie had only betrayed that damned marquis, she and I would have been united in the strongest of all bonds — a vile deed. But she’s mine, in any case.”
The twelve young men under Gudin soon reached the base of the rocks of Saint-Sulpice. Here Gudin himself left the road with six of them, jumping the stiff hedge into the first field of gorse that he came to, while the other six by his orders did the same on the other side of the road. Gudin advanced to an apple-tree which happened to be in the middle of the field. Hearing the rustle of this movement through the gorse, seven or eight men, at the head of whom was Beau-Pied, hastily hid behind some chestnut-trees which topped the bank of this particular field. Gudin’s men did not see them, in spite of the white reflections of the hoar-frost and their own practised sight.
“Hush! here they are,” said Beau-Pied, cautiously putting out his head. “The brigands have more men than we, but we have ‘em at the muzzles of our guns, and we mustn’t miss them, or, by the Lord, we are not fit to be soldiers of the pope.”
By this time Gudin’s keen eyes had discovered a few muzzles pointing through the branches at his little squad. Just then eight voices cried in derision, “Qui vive?” and eight shots followed. The balls whistled round Gudin and his men. One fell, another was shot in the arm. The five others who were safe and sound replied with a volley and the cry, “Friends!” Then they marched rapidly on their assailants so as to reach them before they had time to reload.
“We did not know how true we spoke,” cried Gudin, as he recognized the uniforms and the battered hats of his own brigade. “Well, we behaved like Bretons, and fought before explaining.”
The other men were stupefied on recognizing the little company.
“Who the devil would have known them in those goatskins?” cried Beau-Pied, dismally.
“It is a misfortune,” said Gudin, “but we are all innocent if you were not informed of the sortie. What are you doing here?” he asked.
“A dozen of those Chouans are amusing themselves by picking us off, and we are getting away as best we can, like poisoned rats; but by dint of scrambling over these hedges and rocks — may the lightning blast ‘em! — our compasses have got so rusty we are forced to take a rest. I think those brigands are now somewhere near the old hovel where you see that smoke.”
“Good!” cried Gudin. “You,” he added to Beau-Pied and his men, “fall back towards the rocks through the fields, and join the line of sentinels you’ll find there. You c
an’t go with us, because you are in uniform. We mean to make an end of those curs now; the Gars is with them. I can’t stop to tell you more. To the right, march! and don’t administer any more shots to our own goatskins; you’ll know ours by their cravats, which they twist round their necks and don’t tie.”
Gudin left his two wounded men under the apple-tree, and marched towards Galope-Chopine’s cottage, which Beau-Pied had pointed out to him, the smoke from the chimney serving as a guide.
While the young officer was thus closing in upon the Chouans, the little detachment under Hulot had reached a point still parallel with that at which Gudin had arrived. The old soldier, at the head of his men, was silently gliding along the hedges with the ardor of a young man; he jumped them from time to time actively enough, casting his wary eyes to the heights and listening with the ear of a hunter to every noise. In the third field to which he came he found a woman about thirty years old, with bent back, hoeing the ground vigorously, while a small boy with a sickle in his hand was knocking the hoarfrost from the rushes, which he cut and laid in a heap. At the noise Hulot made in jumping the hedge, the boy and his mother raised their heads. Hulot mistook the young woman for an old one, naturally enough. Wrinkles, coming long before their time, furrowed her face and neck; she was clothed so grotesquely in a worn-out goatskin that if it had not been for a dirty yellow petticoat, a distinctive mark of sex, Hulot would hardly have known the gender she belonged to; for the meshes of her long black hair were twisted up and hidden by a red worsted cap. The tatters of the little boy did not cover him, but left his skin exposed.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 966