The Last Vendée
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"Come, come," he said; "the safety of a poor little peasant must not be made an apple of discord between the noblest champions of the cause you mention. I see it is necessary that I should say a word; we have no time to lose in useless discussion. But I wish, in the first place, my friends," said Petit-Pierre, in a tone of grateful affection, "to ask your pardon for the disguise I have thought best to keep up, even with you, for one purpose only, that of hearing your real thoughts, your frank opinions, unaffected by your desire to comply with what is known to be my most ardent desire. Now that Petit-Pierre has gained the information he sought, the regent will take part in your discussions. Meantime, let us separate here; the poorest place is all I need to pass the rest of the night, and Monsieur de Bonneville, who knows the country well, can easily find it for me."
"When may we be admitted to confer with her Royal Highness?" asked Pascal, bowing low before Petit-Pierre.
"As soon as her Royal Highness can find a suitable abode for her wandering majesty, Petit-Pierre will summon you; it will not be long. Remember that Petit-Pierre is firmly resolved never to abandon his friends."
"Petit-Pierre is a gallant lad!" cried Gaspard, gayly, "and his friends will prove, I hope, that they are worthy of him."
"Farewell, then," said Petit-Pierre. "Now that the mask is off, I thank you heartily, my gallant Gaspard, for not being deceived by it. Come, it is time to shake hands and part."
Each gentleman, in turn, took the hand that Petit-Pierre held out to him and kissed it respectfully. Then they all separated on their different ways, some to the right, others to the left, and soon disappeared from sight. Bonneville and Petit-Pierre were left alone.
"Well, what shall we do?" said the latter.
"Follow a direction diametrically opposed to those gentlemen."
"Forward, then, without losing another minute," cried Petit-Pierre, running toward the road.
"Oh! wait, wait a moment!" cried Bonneville. "Not in that way, if you please. Your Highness must-"
"Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre, "don't forget our agreement."
"True; Madame must please excuse-"
"Again! why, you are incorrigible!"
"I was about to say that Petit-Pierre must allow me to take him on my back."
"Very good; here's a great stone that seems planted here for the very purpose. Come nearer, count; come nearer."
Petit-Pierre was already on the stone as he spoke. The young count approached, and Petit-Pierre mounted astride his shoulders.
"You take to it famously," said Bonneville, starting.
"Parbleu!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre. "Saddle-my-nag was a fashionable game when I was young; I have often played at it."
"A good education, you see, is never wasted," said Bonneville, laughing.
"Count," said Petit-Pierre, "it isn't forbidden to speak, is it?"
"On the contrary."
"Well, then, as you are an old Chouan, and I am only beginning my apprenticeship at Chouannerie, do tell me why I am perched on your shoulders."
"What an inquisitive little person is Petit-Pierre!" said Bonneville.
"No; for I did as you requested, instantly, without discussion, though the position is a rather questionable one, you must admit, for a princess of the House of Bourbon."
"A princess of the House of Bourbon! Is there any such person here?"
"Ah! true. Well then, please to tell me why Petit-Pierre, who can walk and run and jump ditches, is perched on the shoulders of his friend Bonneville, who can't do any of those things with Petit-Pierre on his back."
"Well, I'll tell you; it is because Petit-Pierre has such a tiny foot."
"Tiny, yes; but firm, too!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, as if his vanity was ruffled.
"Yes, but firm as it may be, it is too small not to be recognized."
"By whom?"
"By those who are on our traces."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, with comic sadness; "who would ever have told me that some day, or some night, I should regret that my foot was not as large as that of Madame la Duchesse de – "
"Poor Marquis de Souday, who was so fluttered by what you told him of your court acquaintances," said Bonneville, laughing, "what would he think now if he heard you talking with such assurance and experience of the feet of duchesses?"
"He would set it down to my rôle of page." Then after a moment's silence, "I understand very well that you should want them to lose my tracks; but you know we can't travel long in this way. Saint Christopher himself would get tired; and, sooner or later, that wretched little foot will leave its imprint on a patch of mud."
"We'll baffle the hounds for a short time, at any rate."
The young man bore to the left, attracted by the sound of a brook.
"What are you about?" asked Petit-Pierre. "You will lose the path; you are knee-deep in water now."
"Of course I am," said Bonneville, hoisting Petit-Pierre a little higher on his shoulders; "and now let thou look for our traces!" he cried, hurrying up the bed of the brook.
"Ha, ha! that is clever of you!" cried Petit-Pierre. "You have missed your vocation, Bonneville; you ought to have been born in a primeval forest, or on the pampas of South America. The fact is that, to follow us, a trail is needed, and here there is none."
"Don't laugh. The man who is after us is an old hand at such pursuits; he fought in La Vendée in the days when Charette, almost single-handed, gave the Blues a terrible piece of work to do."
"Well, so much the better," cried Petit-Pierre, gayly; "better far to fight with those who are worth the trouble."
But in spite of the confidence he thus expressed, Petit-Pierre, after uttering the words, grew thoughtful, while Bonneville struggled bravely against the rolling stones and fallen branches which impeded him greatly, for he still followed the course of the brook.
After another quarter of an hour of such advance the brook fell into a second and a wider stream, which was really the one that circles at the base of the Viette des Biques. Here the water came to Bonneville's waist, and presently, to his great regret, he was forced to land and continue his way along one or the other bank of the little stream.
But the fugitives had only gone from Scylla to Charybdis, for the shores of the mountain-torrent, bristling with thorns, interlaced with trunks and roots of fallen trees, soon became impassable.
Bonneville placed Petit-Pierre on the ground, finding it impossible to carry him further, and struck boldly into the thicket, requesting Petit-Pierre to follow closely through the opening made by his body; and thus, in spite of all obstacles, in spite too of the darkness of the night and the deeper darkness of the woods, he advanced in a straight line, as none but those who have constant experience in forests can succeed in doing.
The plan succeeded well, for after going some fifty yards they struck one of those paths called "lines," which are cut parallel to each other through forests, partly to mark the limits of felling, and partly to facilitate the transportation of the wood.
"Oh, what a good find!" said Petit-Pierre, who found it hard to walk through the tangle of underbrush and briers which rose at times above his head. "Here, at least, we can stretch our legs."
"Yes, and without leaving tracks," replied Bonneville, striking the ground, which was hard and rocky.
"Now all we want to know is which way to go," said Petit-Pierre.
"As we have, I believe, thrown those who are after us off the scent, we can now go whichever way you think best," replied Bonneville.
"You know that to-morrow night I have a rendezvous at La Cloutière with our friends from Paris."
"We can get to La Cloutière from here almost without leaving the woods, where we are safer than we should be in the open. We can take a path I know of to the forest of Touvois and the Grandes-Landes, to the west of which is La Cloutière; only, it is impossible for us to get there to-day."
"Why not?"
"Because we should have to make a number of detours, which would take us at least six hours; and that is very much more than you have strength for."
Petit-Pierre stamped his foot impatiently.
"I know a farmhouse," continued Bonneville, "about three miles this side of La Benaste, where we should be welcome, and where you could rest awhile before doing the remainder of the way."
"Very good," said Petit-Pierre; "then let us start at once. Which way?"
"Let me precede you," said Bonneville. "We must go to the right."
Bonneville took the direction he named, and stalked on with the persistency he had shown on leaving the banks of the stream. Petit-Pierre followed him.
From time to time the Comte de Bonneville stopped to reconnoitre the way and give his companion time to breathe. He warned him of the various obstacles in the path before they came to them, with a minuteness which showed how thoroughly familiar he was with the forest of Machecoul.
"You see I am avoiding the paths," he said to his companion, during one of their halts.
"Yes; and why do you do so?"
"Because they will be certain to look for us in the paths where the ground is soft; whereas here, where there has not been so much trampling, our steps are less likely to be observed."
"But perhaps this way is the longer."
"Yes, but safer."
They walked on for ten minutes in silence, when Bonneville stopped and caught his companion by the arm. The latter asked what the trouble was.
"Hush! or speak very low," said Bonneville.
"Why?"
"Don't you hear anything?"
"No."
"I hear voices."
"Where?"
"There, about five hundred yards in that direction. I fancy I can distinguish through the branches a ruddy gleam of light."
"Yes, and so can I."
"What do you suppose it is?"
"I ask you that."
"The devil!"
"Can it be charcoal-burners?"
"No; this is not the time of year when they start their kilns. And if they were charcoal-burners, I should not like to trust them; I have no right, being your guide, to run any risks."
"Is there any other road we could take?"
"Yes."
"Then suppose we try it."
"I don't want to take it till reduced to the last extremity."
"Why not?"
"Because it crosses a marsh."
"Pooh! you who can walk on the water like Saint Peter! Don't you know the marsh?"
"I know it very well. I have often shot snipe there; but-"
"But?"
"It was by daylight."
"And this marsh-"
"Is a bog where, even in the daytime, I have come near sinking."
"Then let us risk an encounter with these worthy people. I should not be sorry to warm myself at their fire."
"Stay here; and let me go and reconnoitre."
"But-"
"Don't be afraid."
So saying, Bonneville disappeared noiselessly in the darkness.
XXXIX.
PETIT-PIERRE MAKES THE BEST MEAL HE EVER MADE IN HIS LIFE
Petit-Pierre, left alone, leaned against a tree, and there, silent, motionless, with fixed eyes and straining ears, he waited, striving to catch every sound as it passed him. For five minutes he heard nothing except a sort of hum which came from the direction of the lights.
Suddenly the neighing of a horse echoed through the forest. Petit-Pierre trembled. Almost at the same moment a light sound came from the bushes, and a shadow rose before him; it was Bonneville.
Bonneville, who did not see Petit-Pierre leaning against the trunk of a tree, called him twice gently. Petit-Pierre bounded toward him.
"Quick! quick!" said Bonneville, dragging Petit-Pierre away.
"What is it?"
"Not an instant to lose! Come! come!"
Then, as he ran, he said: -
"A camp of soldiers. If there were men only I might have warmed myself at their fire without their seeing or hearing me; but a horse smelt me out and neighed."
"I heard it."
"Then you understand; not a word. We must take to our legs, that's all."
As he spoke they were running along a wood-road, which fortunately came in their way. After a time Bonneville drew Petit-Pierre into the bushes.
"Get your breath," he said.
While Petit-Pierre rested, Bonneville tried to make out where they were.
"Are we lost?" asked Petit-Pierre, uneasily.
"Oh, no danger of that!" said Bonneville. "I'm only looking for a way to avoid that horrid marsh."
"If it leads us straight to our object we had better take it," said Petit-Pierre.
"We must," replied Bonneville; "I don't see any other way."
"Forward, then!" cried Petit-Pierre; "only, you must guide me."
Bonneville made no answer; but in proof of urgency, he started at once, and instead of following the "line" path on which they were, he turned to the right and plunged into the thicket. At the end of ten minutes' march the underbrush lessened. They were nearing the edge of the forest, and they could hear before them the swishing of the reeds in the wind.
"Aha!" cried Petit-Pierre, recognizing the sound; "we are close to the marsh now."
"Yes," said Bonneville; "and I ought not to conceal from you that this is the most critical moment of our flight."
So saying, the young man took from his pocket a knife, which might, if necessary, be used as a dagger, and cut down a sapling, removing all the branches, but taking care to hide each one as he lopped it off.
"Now," he said, "my poor Petit-Pierre, you must resign yourself and go back to your former place on my shoulders."
Petit-Pierre instantly did as he was told, and Bonneville went forward toward the marsh. His advance under the weight he carried, hindered by the long sapling which he used to test the condition of the ground at every step, was horribly difficult. Often he sank into the slough almost to his knees, and the earth, which seemed soft enough as it gave way under him, offered a positive resistance when he sought to extricate himself. It was, in fact, with the utmost difficulty that he could get his legs out of it; it seemed as though the gulf that opened at their feet was unwilling to relinquish its prey.
"Let me give you some advice, my dear count," said Petit-Pierre.
Bonneville stopped and wiped his brow.
"If, instead of paddling in this mire, you stepped from tuft to tuft of those reeds which are growing here, I think you would find a better foothold."
"Yes," said Bonneville, "I should; but we should leave more visible traces." Then, a moment later, he added, "No matter. You are right; it is best."
And changing his direction a little, Bonneville took to the reeds. The matted roots of the water-plants had, in fact, made little islets of a foot or more in circumference, which gave a fairly good foothold over the boggy ground. The young man felt them, one after the other, with the end of his stick and stepped from each to each.
Nevertheless, he slipped constantly. Burdened with Petit-Pierre's weight, he had great difficulty in recovering himself; and before long this toilsome struggle so completely exhausted him he was forced to ask Petit-Pierre to get down and let him rest awhile.
"You are worn out, my poor Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre. "Is it very much farther, this marsh of yours?"
"Two or three hundred yards more, and then we re-enter the forest as far as the line-path to Benaste, which will take us direct to the farm."
"Can you go as far as that?"
"I hope so."
"Good God! how I wish I could carry you myself, or at any rate, walk beside you."
These words restored the count's courage. Giving up his second method of advancing from tuft to tuft, he plunged resolutely into the mire. But the more he advanced, the more the slough appeared to move and deepen. Suddenly Bonneville, who had made a mistake and placed his foot on a spot he had not had time to sound, felt himself sinking rapidly and likely to disappear.
"If I sink altogether," he said, "fling yourself either to right or left. These dangerous places are never very wide."
Petit-Pierre sprang off at once, not to save himself, but to lighten Bonneville of the additional weight.
"Oh, my friend!" he cried, with an aching heart and eyes wet with tears as he listened to that generous cry of devotion and self-forgetfulness, "think only of yourself, I command you."
The young count had already sunk to the waist. Fortunately, he had time to put his sapling across the bog before him; and as each end rested on a tuft of reeds sufficiently strong to bear a weight, he was able, thanks to the support they gave, and aided by Petit-Pierre, who held him by the collar of his coat, to extricate himself from the dangerous place.
Soon the ground became more solid; the black line of the woods which had all along marked the horizon came nearer and increased in height. The fugitives were evidently approaching the end of the bog.
"At last!" cried Bonneville.
"Ouf!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, slipping off Bonneville's shoulders as soon as he felt that the earth was solid beneath their feet. "Ouf! you must be worn out, my dear count."
"Out of breath, that's all," replied Bonneville.
"Good heavens!" cried Petit-Pierre; "to think that I should have nothing to give you, – not even the flask of a soldier or pilgrim, or the crust of a beggar's loaf!"
"Pooh!" said the count; "my strength doesn't come from my stomach."
"Tell me where it does come from, my dear count, and I will try to be as strong as you."
"Are you hungry?"
"I'll admit that I could eat something."
"Alas!" said the count; "you make me regret now what I cared little for a moment ago."
Petit-Pierre laughed; and then, for the purpose of keeping up his companion's heart, he cried out gayly: -
"Bonneville, call the usher and let him notify the chamberlain on duty to order the stewards to bring my lunch-basket. I would like one of those snipe I hear whistling about us."
"Her Royal Highness is served," said the count, kneeling on one knee, and offering on the top of his hat an object which Petit-Pierre seized eagerly.
"Bread!" he cried.
"Black bread," said Bonneville.
"Oh, no matter! I can't see the color at night."
"Dry bread! doubly dry!"
"But it is bread, at any rate."
And Petit-Pierre set his handsome teeth into the crust, which had been drying in the count's pocket for the last two days.
"And when I think," said Petit-Pierre, "that General Dermoncourt is probably at this moment eating my supper at Souday, isn't it aggravating?" Then, suddenly, "Oh! forgive me, my dear guide," he went on, "but my stomach got the better of my heart; I forgot to offer you half my supper."
"Thanks," replied Bonneville; "but my appetite isn't strong enough yet to munch stones. In return for your gracious offer, I'll show you how to make your poor supper less husky."
Bonneville took the bread, broke it, not without difficulty, into little bits, soaked it in a brook that was flowing quite near them, called Petit-Pierre, sat down himself on one side the brook, while Petit-Pierre sat on the other, and taking out one by one the softened crusts, presented them to his famished companion.
"Upon my honor!" said the latter, when he came to the last crumb, "I haven't eaten such a good supper for twenty years. Bonneville, I appoint you steward of my household."
"Meantime," said the count, "I am your guide. Come, luxury enough; we must continue our way."
"I'm ready," said Petit-Pierre, springing gayly to his feet.
Again they started through the woods, and half an hour's walking brought them to a river which they were forced to cross. Bonneville tried his usual method; but at the first step, the water came to his waist, at the second to his shoulders. Feeling himself dragged by the current he caught at the branch of a tree and returned to the bank.
It was necessary to find a way to cross. At a distance of about three hundred yards Bonneville thought he had found one; but it was nothing more than the trunk of a tree lately blown down by the wind, and still bearing all its branches.
"Do you think you can walk over that?" he asked Petit-Pierre.
"If you can, I can," replied the latter.
"Hold on to the branches, and don't have any conceit about your powers; don't raise one foot till you are quite sure the other is firm," said Bonneville, climbing first on to the trunk of the tree.
"I'm to follow, I suppose?"
"Wait till I can give you a hand."
"Here I am! Goodness! what a number of things one ought to know in order to roam the wilds; I never should have thought it."
"Don't talk, for God's sake! pay attention to your feet. One moment! Stop where you are; don't move. Here's a branch you can't get by; I'll cut it."
Just as he stooped to do as he said, the count heard a smothered cry behind him and the fall of a body into the water. He looked back. Petit-Pierre had disappeared.
Without losing a second, Bonneville dropped into the same place; and his luck served him well, for going to the bottom of the river, which was not more than eight feet deep at this place, his hand came in contact with Petit-Pierre's leg.
He seized it, trembling with emotion, and paying no heed to the uncomfortable position in which he held the body he struck out for the bank of the stream, which was, happily, as narrow as it was deep. Petit-Pierre made no movement. Bonneville took him in his arms and laid him on the dry leaves, calling, entreating, even shaking him.
Petit-Pierre continued silent and motionless. The count tore his hair in his anguish.
"Oh, it is my fault! my fault!" he cried. "O God, you have punished my pride! I counted too much on myself; I thought I could save her. Oh, my life, – take my life, God! for one sigh, one breath-"
The cool night air did more to bring Petit-Pierre to life than all Bonneville's lamentations; at the end of a few minutes he opened his eyes and sneezed.
Bonneville, who, in his paroxysm of grief, swore not to survive the being whose death he thought he had caused, gave a cry of joy and fell on his knees by Petit-Pierre, who was now sufficiently recovered to understand his last words.
"Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre, "you didn't say 'God bless you!' when I sneezed, and now I shall have a cold in my head."
"Living! living! living!" cried Bonneville, as exuberant in his joy as he was in his grief.
"Yes, living enough, thanks to you. If you were any other than you are, I would swear to you never to forget it."
"You are soaked!"
"Yes, my shoes especially, Bonneville. The water keeps running down, running down in a most disagreeable manner."
"And no fire! no means to make one!"
"Pooh! we shall get warm in walking. I speak in the plural, for you must be as wet as I am; in fact, it's your third bath, – one was of mud."
"Oh, don't think of me! Can you walk?"
"I believe so, as soon as I empty my shoes."
Bonneville helped Petit-Pierre to get rid of the water which filled her shoes. Then he took off his own thick jacket, and having wrung the water from it, he put it over her shoulders, saying: -
"Now for Benaste, and fast, too!"
"Ha! Bonneville," exclaimed Petit-Pierre; "a fine gain we have made by trying to avoid that camp-fire which would be everything to us just now!"
"We can't go back and deliver ourselves up," said Bonneville, with a look of despair.
"Nonsense! don't take my little joke as a reproach. What an ill-regulated mind you have! Come, let us march, march! Now that I use my legs I feel I am drying up; in ten minutes I shall begin to perspire."
There was no need to hasten Bonneville. He advanced so rapidly that Petit-Pierre could barely keep up with him; and from time to time she was forced to remind him that her legs were not as long as his.
But Bonneville could not recover from the shock of emotion caused by the accident to his young companion, and he now completely lost his head on discovering that, among these bushes he once knew so well, he had missed his way. A dozen times he had stopped as he entered a "line" path and looked about him, and each time, after shaking his head, he plunged onward in a sort of frenzy.
At last Petit-Pierre, who could scarcely keep up with him, except by running, said, as she noticed his increasing agitation: -
"Tell me what is the matter, dear count."
"The matter is that I am a wretched man," said Bonneville. "I relied too much on my knowledge of these localities, and-and-"