"There are no terms to be kept with a traitor, Agatha. If we get the better of this, Santerre, as I am sure we shall now, you shall see that I know how to treat a generous foe generously."

When Santerre reached the front of the house, he at once saw that any attempt on his part to oppose the crowd of armed peasants who were now close upon him, would be futile. The only mode of escape which appeared to him at all practicable, was to attempt to ride through them. He gave the command "to horse," and got so far himself as to mount into his saddle; but it was of no use, he was surrounded by a crowd of peasants before he got to the gate, and he soon found himself on foot again, and unarmed. Some ten or twenty of his men, who were ready to jump into the saddle at the moment when they were first aware of the approach of the royalists, escaped, but the remainder in a few minutes found themselves prisoners in the chateau.

The peasants were headed by Father Jerome, the priest of St. Laud, and it was he who first mounted the steps leading up to the front door of the house. "Thank G.o.d," said he, speaking more to himself than to those around him. "Thank G.o.d!" and he stood up against the pedestal of one of the lions, the heavy wooden crucifix which he had carried in his hand as he marched, or rather ran, to the succour of his friends at Durbelliere; and then he took off his cap, and with the sleeve of his dusty grey coat he wiped the perspiration from off his brow. "And the Marquis and Mademoiselle are unhurt? Thank G.o.d--thank G.o.d! we were just in time, but we had a smart run for it."

Chapeau had already dived into the kitchen through the window, and had learnt that at any rate the republicans had as yet shed no blood.

"And how did the Marquis bear it, Momont?" said he. "It was enough to kill the old gentleman."

"'Why, yes," said Momont. "We had to bear a good deal, but we did bear it manfully and well. We were all led out to be shot, you know."

"What, the Marquis and Mademoiselle and all?" said Chapeau.

"No, not the Marquis and Mademoiselle; they were to be beheaded after us, but the rest of us were all taken out--the muskets loaded--the men to shoot us all in a line."

"Oh! Chapeau, it was so awfully dreadful," said the cook. "If I live a thousand years I shall never get over this night."

"Oh, yes! most dreadfully awful," said the laundress. "I was carried in from the spot, and have not been able to move a limb since. I doubt I never shall put a foot to the ground again."

"The muskets were to their shoulders," continued Momont. "We heard them c.o.c.ked: each man took deliberate aim; the women here were screeching and screaming."

"Of course we were," said the confidential maid. "Hadn't we good cause to scream, waiting to be killed every minute. I'm sure I wonder I ever came to my senses again. I declare when they came to pick me up, I thought it was all over, and that I'd been shot already."

"Well, I don't think anybody heard me scream," said Momont: "but there's a difference I know between a man and a woman. 'It's all for my King and my master,' said I to myself. Besides a man can die but once, and it's a great thing to die honourably." The old man turned round to receive the approbation, which he considered was due to the sentiment he had expressed, and found that Chapeau was gone. The kitchen, however, was filled with peasants, and in them Momont found ready listeners and warm admirers.

Both Chapeau and the priest had spent the greater portion of the night in collecting what they considered would be a sufficient number of men to enable them to attack, with any chance of success, the republican soldiers who had taken possession of Durbelliere. They had neither of them the slightest idea what amount of force had been brought against the chateau, and, consequently, wasted much time in procuring many more men than were necessary for the purpose. The three hundred, who were immediately got together on the sounding of the tocsin in the village of Echanbroignes, would have been sufficient to have done the work without further a.s.sistance, for they were all well armed, and, by this time, tolerably well trained in the use of their arms.

There was ten times more confusion now in the chateau, than there had been during the night: every room and pa.s.sage was crowded with peasants, who took up their positions there under the plea of guarding their prisoners, and with the girls and women of the neighbourhood who flocked to that place, as soon as they heard that the horrible blues were all prisoners, and that the Marquis and Mademoiselle were once more at liberty. Agatha's troubles were by no means ended. Provisions of some kind were to be procured for the friends who had come so far and done so much to relieve them; and she had no one on whom she could depend to a.s.sist her in procuring them: the servants all considered themselves utterly unfitted for anything, except talking of the events of the evening; and though every one was burning with affection and zeal for Monseigneur and Mademoiselle, no one appeared willing to make himself useful.

The reaction on his feelings was too much for the poor Marquis. During the long evening and night, in which he had been a prisoner and looking forward to nothing but death; in which he had sat beside his fondly-loved daughter, whose fate he feared would be so much more horrible than death itself, he had patiently and manfully born his sufferings; he had even displayed a spirit for which few gave him credit, who were accustomed to his gentle temper and mild manners; but the unexpected recovery of his own and his daughter's liberty upset him entirely. As soon as he had pressed Father Jerome's hand, and thanked Chapeau fur what he had done, he begged that he might be carried off to his bed, and left there quietly till the return of his son, for whom, he was told, a messenger had been sent.

Santerre and Denot were both kept under a strong guard in the saloon in which they had pa.s.sed the night; and there the priest, Chapeau, and the young Chevalier pa.s.sed the greater part of the day, anxiously waiting the arrival of Henri Larochejaquelin.

"I never liked that man," said the priest, whispering to Arthur and Chapeau, for the latter, from his exertion and zeal was looked upon rather as an officer in the royalist army, than as a servant. "I never liked Adolphe Denot, but I could never say why. The tone of his voice was disagreeable to me, and the expression of his features aroused in me both dislike and distrust. It is not long since M. Henri rebuked me for being hard on him, and judging him harshly; and I was angry with myself for having done so. I knew, however, there was something wrong within him. He has turned out to be as base a creature as ever trod the earth."

"It will be a desperate blow to M. Henri," said Chapeau, "for he loved him as though he were his brother."

"I will be his brother now," said Arthur; "he shall love me in his place."

"Ah! M. Arthur," said Chapeau, "his heart is large enough to love us both; but when he hears how n.o.bly you behaved last night, how you stood by Mademoiselle Agatha, and protected her, you will be his real brother indeed."

The little Chevalier's heart rose high within him, as he attempted to speak slightingly of his own services. "Oh!" said he, "I couldn't do much, you know, for I had only a stick; but of course we red scarfs will always stick to each other. Denot, you know, never was a red scarf Well, thank heaven for that; but I tell you what, Father Jerome, that Santerre is not such a bad fellow; and so I shall tell Henri; he is not a bad fellow at all, and he scorns Denot as he deserves to be scorned."

CHAPTER XI.

ANNOT STEIN.

It will be remembered that the party escaping from the Chateau of Clisson met Jean Stein, when they had come within four or five leagues of Durbelliere. He had been sent from Echanbroignes, by Chapeau, to tell Henri what had happened, to a.s.sure him that every possible effort would be made to rescue his father and sister from the republicans, and if possible to save the chateau, and to beg him to return home as speedily as he possibly could. Jean was spared the greatest portion of his journey, and having told his tale, added that perhaps "Messieurs would not think it prudent to take the ladies with them to Durbelliere just at present."

"Oh heavens! what are we to do?" said Madame de Lescure; "we are running from one hostile army into the middle of another. Poor Agatha! my poor Agatha! what will become of her?"

"Had we not better send them to Chatillon?" said Henri, speaking to de Lescure. "They will, at any rate, be safe there for a time."

"We won't be sent any where--indeed we won't--will we, Marie?" said Madame de Lescure. "Pray, Charles, pray do not send us away. Let us go where you go. It cannot be worse for us than it is for you."

"You cannot go to the chateau, dearest, when we have every reason to suppose it is in the hands of the republicans, and more than probably burnt to the ground by this time."

"Oh! don't send me back to Chatillon," said Marie; "it would be hours and hours before we should hear what happens to you, and what has happened to Agatha."

"If the ladies wouldn't think ill of going to Echanbroignes," said Jean Stein, "they would be safe there, and near at hand to learn all as it goes on at Durbelliere. I am sure father and Annot would do their best to make the ladies comfortable, as long as they might be pleased to stay there."

After considerable discussion this plan was adopted. The party travelled on together, till the roads to Durbelliere and Echanbroignes separated; and then, with many charges, the two ladies were entrusted to the care of the smith's son.

"We will come to you, or send to you the moment we are able," said de Lescure, "whether our news be good or bad. I trust we shall find them safe, and that we shall all be together tomorrow at Durbelliere."

Marie and Madame de Lescure reached the village safely late in the evening, and found no one in the smith's house but Annot. Even Michael Stein himself had been moved by hearing that the republicans were absolutely in possession of the chateau, and, old as he was, he had made his way over to Durbelliere, and had not yet returned. Annot, however, received them with good news; she had heard different messages from the chateau during the day, and was able to tell them not only that the Marquis, Agatha, and the house were safe, but that the republican soldiers were all prisoners, and that Santerre--that object of horror to many Vendean royalists, had himself been captured by the strong hand and bold heart of Jacques Chapeau.

Neither of the ladies knew Annot Stein, or had even heard of her; but Annot, though at present she was rather doleful, was not long in making herself known to them, and explaining to them her own particular connexion with the chateau.

She made up her own bed for one of them, and her father's for the other.

They were not, she said, such as ladies like them were accustomed to sleep on, but the sheets were clean, and perhaps for one night they would excuse the want of better accommodation. Madame de Lescure and Marie declared that they were only too happy in being able to rest quietly, with the knowledge that their friends were in safety. Poor ladies! they were destined before long to encounter worse hardships than Annot Stein's little bed, and frugal supper.

"But, Madame," said Annot, as she sat demurely on the corner of her chair, "this Santerre is not the sort of man at all we all took him to be. Peter was over here, though he has gone back again now, and Peter says he is quite a good fellow in his way."

"What, Santerre!" said Marie, shuddering. "Oh! he is a most horrid monster! It was he that led out our dear sainted King to be murdered; it was he that urged on the furious mob to spill so much blood. They say that in all Paris there is not a greater wretch than this Santerre."

"I don't know, Mademoiselle," said Annot, "but he certainly wasn't so bad last night, for he might have killed them all had he chosen: and instead of that he didn't kill any one, or let any of his party kill them either, only he frightened poor old Momont nearly to death."

"G.o.d may have softened his heart," said Madame de Lescure; "if he has really spared our friends, we will not speak ill of him."

"If he has done so," said Marie, "he will have his reward; for I am sure Charles and Henri will spare him now that he is in their power."

"That's just what the people say," said Annot; "they say that it's M.

Henri's turn to be generous now, and that they're sure he won't hurt a hair of this Santerre. Only they're determined on one thing--and it was all Chapeau and Father Jerome could do to stop them till M. Henri came home--they are determined to hang that horrid wretch Denot, the monster! I shouldn't wonder if he were swinging by this time."

"And is it really true," said Madame de Lescure, "that it was M. Denot who led the republicans to Durbelliere?"

"Oh! that's a positive fact," said Annot, "there's no doubt on earth about that; and behaved most brutally to Mademoiselle Agatha. He would have killed her with his own hand, before her father, only M. Santerre wouldn't let him. He had his dagger out and all, and M. Santerre took it from him with his own hand, and wouldn't let him speak another word.

Oh! indeed, ladies, M. Santerre is not half so bad as he looks to be."

"People say that the father of evil himself is painted blacker than he really is," said Marie.

"I don't know about that, Mademoiselle, and I didn't hear that this Santerre was painted black at all; and if he were so, I think Peter would have told me. But then, ladies, the little Chevalier Mondyon came in in the middle. It was he that sent Chapeau over here to bring the red scarfs to the rescue. He is a little darling, is the Chevalier. I suppose you know him, Mademoiselle?"

"Indeed I do, Annot, and love him dearly; he is an old sweetheart of mine."