"She is close to you now," said Agatha, sitting down on a low stool at the old woman's feet. "I told you her name a while since. It is I who loved your son: I, Agatha Larochejaquelin."

Francoise Cathelineau dropped from her hand the flax, which she had hitherto employed herself in preparing for the wheel, and pushing from her forehead her loose grey locks, and resting on her knees her two elbows, she gazed long and intently into Agatha's face.

"It is just the face he would have loved," said she aloud, yet speaking to herself. "Yes, it is the face of which he used to dream and talk--pale and sad, but very fair: and though I used to bid him mind his work, and bring down his heart to love some poor honest labouring girl, I did not the less often think over his strange fancies. And Jacques told you that he loved you, did he, Mademoiselle? I wonder at that--I wonder at that; it would have been more like himself to have carried his love a secret to the grave."

"He was dying when he told me that he regarded me above other women; and I am prouder of the dying hero's love, than I could have been had a Prince knelt at my feet."

"He was dying when he confessed his love! Yes, I understand it now: death will open the lips and bring forth the truth, when the dearest hopes of life, when the sharpest pang of the heart fail to do so. Had he not been sure that life with him was gone, he never would have spoken of his love. He was a weak, foolish man. Very weak in spite of all his courage; very weak and very foolish--very weak and very foolish."

She was talking more to herself than to Agatha, as she thus spoke of her son's character, and for a minute or two she continued in the same strain, speaking of him in a way that showed that every little action, every wish of his, had been to her a subject of thought and anxiety; and that she took a strange pride in those very qualities for which she blamed him.

"And did you come to me on purpose to tell me this, Mademoiselle?" she said after a while.

"I came to talk to you about your son, and to offer you, for his sake, the affection of a daughter."

"And when he told you that he loved you, what answer did you make him?

tell me: did you comfort him; did you say one word to make him happy?

I know, from your face, that you had not the heart to rebuke a dying man."

"Rebuke him! How could I have rebuked him? though I had never owned it to myself I now feel that I had loved him before he had ever spoken to me of love."

"But what did you say to him? tell me what you said to him. He was my own son, my only son. He was stubborn, and self-willed, but still he was my son; and his words were sweeter to me than music, and his face was brighter to me than the light of heaven. If you made him happy before he died, I will kneel down and worship you," and joining her skinny hands together, she laid them upon Agatha's knees. "Come, sweetest, tell me what answer you made my poor boy when he told you that he loved you."

"It is a fearful thing, you know, to speak to a dying man," answered Agatha. "You must not suppose that we were talking as though he were still in the prime of health and strength--"

"But what did you say to him? you said something. You did not, at any rate, bid him remember that he was a poor labouring man, and that you were a lady of high rank."

"We neither of us thought of those things then. I do not know what it was I said, but I strove to say the truth. I strove to make him understand how much I valued, esteemed--and loved him."

"You told him that you loved him; you are sure you told him that. I wish he had lived now. I wish he had lived and won more battles, and beat the blues for good and all, and then he would have married you, and brought you home as his wife to St. Florent, wouldn't he, love? There would have been something in that. There would have been something really grand in that. Such a beautiful bride! such a n.o.ble bride! so very, very beautiful!" and the old woman continued gazing at the face of her whom she was fancying to herself a daughter-in-law. "Real n.o.ble blood of the very highest. Had he married you, he would have been a Marquis, wouldn't he? I wish he had lived now, in spite of all I said. Why did he die when there was such fortune before him I Why did he die when there was such great fortune before him!"

"He was happy in his death," said Agatha. "I do not think he even wished to live. As it is, he has been spared much sorrow which we must all endure. Though I loved your son, I do not regret his death."

"But I do--but I do," said the old woman. "Had he only lived to call you his wife, there would have been honour in that--there would have been real glory in that. People would then not have dared to say that after all Cathelineau was only a postillion."

"Do not regard what people say. Had a Princess given him her hand, his fame could not be brighter than it was. There was no thought of marriage between us, since we first knew each other. There has been no time for such thoughts; but his memory to me is that of a dear--dear friend."

From the time when Cathelineau first went to Durbelliere, after the battle of St. Florent, his mother had expressed the greatest dislike at his attempting to a.s.sociate with those who were so much above himself in rank; with those who would, as she said, use him and scorn him. She had affected to feel, or perhaps really felt, a horror of the insolence of the great, and had quarrelled with her son for throwing himself among them. This feeling, however, arose, not from contempt, but from admiration and envy. In her secret soul the high and mighty seemed so infinitely superior to those in her own rank, that she had felt sure that her son could not be admitted among them as an equal, and she was too proud to wish that he should be admitted into their company as a humble hanger-on. What Agatha had now confessed to her had surprised and delighted her. There could be no doubt now; there was the daughter of one of the n.o.blest houses in Poitou sitting at her feet in her own cabin, owning her love for the poor postillion. Agatha Larochejaquelin, young, n.o.ble, beautiful, grandly beautiful as she was, had come to her to confess that she had given her heart to her son. There was, however, much pain mixed with her gratification. Cathelineau had gone, without enjoying the high honours which might have been his. Had he lived, Agatha Larochejaquelin would have been her daughter-in-law; but now the splendid vision could never be more than a vision. She could solace herself with thinking of the high position her son had won for himself, but she could never enjoy the palpable reality of his honours.

She sat, repeating to herself the same words, "Sad and pale, but very beautiful--sad and pale, but very beautiful; just as he used to dream.

Why did he die, when such fortune was before him! Why did he die, when such n.o.ble fortune was before him!"

Agatha suffered her to go on for a while before she interrupted her, and then she came to the real purport of her visit. She offered the old woman her a.s.sistance and protection, and begged her to pa.s.s over with the others into Brittany, a.s.suring her that she should want for nothing as long as Henri or her father had the means of subsistence, and that she should live among them as an honoured guest, loved and revered as the mother of Cathelineau.

On this point, however, she remained obstinate. Whether she still fancied that she would be despised by her new friends, or whether, as she said, she was indifferent to life, and felt herself too old to move from the spot where she had pa.s.sed so many years, she resolutely held her purpose to await the coming of the republicans. "They will hardly put forth their strength to crush such a worm as me," she said; "and if they do, it will be for the better."

Agatha then offered her money, but this she refused, a.s.suring her that she did not want it.

"You shall give me one thing though, if you will, sweet lady, that I may think of you often, and have something to remind me of you; nay, you shall give me two things--one is a lock of your soft brown hair, the other is a kiss."

Agatha undid the braid which held up her rich tresses, and severing from her head a lock of the full length to which her hair grew, tied it in a portion of the braid, and put it into the old woman's hand; then she stooped down and kissed her skinny lips, and having blessed her, and bid her cherish the memory of her son with a holy love, as she herself did and always would, Agatha. Larochejaquelin left the cabin, and returned to her father.

CHAPTER VIII.

"WHAT GOOD HAS THE WAR DONE?"

The raft which Chapeau had made was by degrees enlarged and improved, and the great ma.s.s of the Vendeans pa.s.sed the river slowly, but safely.

As soon as the bulk of the people was over, Henri Larochejaquelin left the southern sh.o.r.e, and crossed over to marshal the heterogeneous troops on their route towards Laval, leaving Chapeau and Arthur Mondyon to superintend and complete the transit of those who remained.

It was a beautiful October evening, and as the sun was setting, the two were standing close to the edge of the water, congratulating themselves that their dirty and disagreeable toil was well nigh over. From time to time stragglers were still coming down to the river-side, begging for a pa.s.sage, and imploring that they might not be abandoned to the cruelty of the blues, and as they came they were shipped off on the raft. There were now, however, no more than would make one fair load, and Chapeau and Arthur were determined that it was full time for them both to leave the Anjou side of the river, and follow the main body of the army towards Laval.

"We might remain here for ever, Chapeau, if we stayed for the very last of all," said the Chevalier, as he jumped on the raft. "Come, man, get on, we've our number now, and we couldn't take more, if they come.

There's some one hallooing up there, and we'll leave the little boat for them. Come, I want to get over and have a run on dry land, for I'm as cold as a stone. This living like a duck, half in the water and half out, don't suit me at all. The next river we cross over, I'll make Henri get another ferryman."

Chapeau still lingered on the sh.o.r.e, and putting his hand up to his ear, listened to the voice of some one who was calling from a distance. It was too dark for him to distinguish any one, but the voice of a woman hallooing loudly, but with difficulty, as though she were out of breath with running, was plainly audible.

"If you mean to wait here all night, I don't," said the Chevalier, "so good night to you, and if you don't get on, I'll push off without you."

"Stop a moment, M. Arthur, there's a woman there."

"I've no doubt there is--there are fifty women there--fifty hundred women, I dare say; but we can't wait while they all drop in one by one.

Don't be a fool, Jacques; is not there the small boat left for them?"

Chapeau still listened. "Stop a moment, M. Arthur, for heaven's sake stop one moment," and then jumping on to the raft, he clung hold of the rope, and moored it fast to the sh.o.r.e. "They're friends of my own, M.

Arthur; most particular friends, or I wouldn't ask to keep you. Don't go now; after all we've gone through together, you won't leave my friends behind, if I go on sh.o.r.e, will you, M. Arthur?"

"Oh, I'm a good comrade; if they're private friends, I'll wait all night. Only I hope there ain't a great many of them."

"Only two; I think there are only two," and Chapeau once more jumped on sh.o.r.e, and ran to meet his friends. He had not far to go, for the party was now close to the water's edge. As he had supposed, it consisted only of two, an old man and a girl: Michael Stein and his daughter Annot.

Annot had been running; and dragging her father by the hand, had hallooed with all her breath, for she had heard from some of those who still dared to trust themselves to the blues, that the last boat was on the point of leaving the sh.o.r.e. The old man had disdained to halloo, and had almost disdained to run; but he had suffered himself to be hurried into a shambling kind of gait, and when he was met by Chapeau, he was almost as much out of breath as his daughter.

"Oh, oh! for mercy's sake--for heaven's sake--kind Sir, dear Sir,"

sobbed Annot, as she saw a man approaching her; and then when he was near enough to her to be distinguished through the evening gloom, she exclaimed:

"Mercy on us, mercy on us, its Jacques Chapeau!" and sank to the ground, as though she had no further power to take care of herself now that she had found one who was bound to take care of her.

"You're just in time, Michael Stein; thank G.o.d, you're just in time!

Annot, come on, its only a dozen yards to the raft, and we'll be off at once. Well, this is the luckiest chance: come on, before a whole crowd are down upon us, and swamp us all."

"Oh me! oh me!" sobbed Annot, still sitting on the ground, as though she had not the slightest intention of stirring another step that night: "to be left and deserted in this way by one's friends--and one's brothers--and--and--one's--" she didn't finish the list, for she felt sure that she had said enough to cut Chapeau to the inmost heart, if he still had a heart.

"Come, dearest girl, come; I'll explain it all by-and-bye. We have not a moment to spare. Come, I'll lift you," and he stooped to raise her from the ground.

"Thank you, M. Chapeau, thank you, Sir; but pray leave me. I shall be better tomorrow morning; that is, if I'm not dead, or killed, or worse.

The blues are close behind us; ain't they, father?"