'I told M. Plume that I should call again tonight,' said he, "and he'll know its me."

"And is M. Plume the baker?" asked Henri.

"He was a baker till two months since," answered Chapeau, "but now he's a soldier and an officer; and I can a.s.sure you, M. Henri, he doesn't think a little of himself. He's fully able to take the command-in-chief of the Breton army, when any accident of war shall have cut off his present Captain; at least, so he told me."

"You must have had a deal of conversation with him in a very short time, Chapeau."

"Oh, he talks very quick, M. Henri; but he wouldn't let himself down to speak a word to me till I told him I was aide-de-camp-in-chief to the generalissimo of the Vendean army; and then he took off the greasy little cap he wears, told me that his name was Auguste Emile Septimus Plume, and said he was most desirous to drink a cup of wine with me in the next estaminet. Then I ran off to you, telling him I would return again as soon as I had seen that all was right at the guard-house."

"Knock again, Chapeau," said Henri, "for I think your military friend must have turned in for the night."

Chapeau did knock, and as he did so, he put his mouth close to the door, and called out "M. Plume--Captain Plume--Captain Auguste Plume, a message--an important message from the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendean army. You'll get nothing from him, M. Henri, unless you talk about Generals, aide-de-camps, and despatches; advanced guards, flank movements, and light battalions."

M. Plume, or Captain Plume, as he preferred being called, now opened the door, and poking his head out, welcomed Chapeau, and a.s.sured him that if he would step round to the wine shop he would be with him in a moment.

"But, my dear friend Captain Plume, stop a moment," said Chapeau, fixing his foot in the open doorway, so as to prevent it being closed, "here is a gentleman--one of our officers--in fact, my friend," and he whispered very confidentially as he gave the important information, "here is the Commander-in-Chief, and he must see your General tonight; to arrange--to arrange the tactics of the united army for tomorrow."

Auguste Emile Septimus Plume, in spite of his own high standing, in what he was pleased to call the army of Brittany, felt himself rather confused at hearing that a General-in-Chief was standing at the door of his humble dwelling; and, as he again took off his cap, and putting his hand to his heart made a very low bow, he hesitated much as to what answer he should make; for he reflected within himself that the present quarters of his General, were hardly fitting for such an interview.

"The General upstairs," said he, "is s.n.a.t.c.hing a short repose after the labours of the day. Would not tomorrow morning--early tomorrow morning--"

"No," said Henri, advancing, and thrusting himself in at the open door, "tomorrow morning will be too late; and I am sure your General is too good a soldier to care for having his rest broken; tell me which is his room, and I'll step up to him. You needn't mind introducing me." And as he spoke he managed to pa.s.s by the baker, and ran up a few steps of the creaking, tottering stairs.

The poor baker was very much annoyed at this proceeding; for, in the first place, he had strict orders from his Commander to let no one up into his room; and, in the next place, his own wife and three children were in the opposite garret to that occupied by the Captain, and he was very unwilling that their poverty should be exposed. He could not, however, turn a Commander-in-Chief out of the house, nor could he positively refuse to give him the information required; so he hallooed out, "The top chamber to the right, General; the top chamber to the right. It's a poor place," he added, speaking to Chapeau; "but the truth is, he don't choose to have more comforts about him than what are enjoyed by the poorest soldier in his army."

"We won't think any the worse of him for that," said Chapeau. "We're badly enough off ourselves, sometimes--besides, your Captain is a very old friend of M. Henri."

"An old friend of whose?" said Plume.

"Of M. Henri Larochejaquelin--that gentleman who has now gone upstairs: they have known each other all their lives."

Auguste Plume became the picture of astonishment. "Known each other all their lives!" said he; "and what's his name, then?"

"Why, I told you: M. Henri Larochejaquelin."

"No, but the other," and he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder up the stairs. "My Captain, you know; if he's the friend of your Captain, I suppose you know what his name is?"

"And do you mean to say, you don't know yourself, your own Captain's name."

Plume felt the impropriety, in a military point of view, of the fact.

He felt that, as second in command, he ought to have been made acquainted with his General's name, and that it would have been difficult to find, in the history of all past wars, a parallel to his own ignorance. He also reflected, that if Chapeau knew that the two Generals had been friends all their lives, he must probably know both their names, and that therefore the information so very necessary might now be obtained.

"Well then, M. Chapeau," (he had learnt Chapeau's name), "I cannot say that I do exactly know how he was generally called before he joined us in Brittany. You know so many people have different names for different places. What used you to call him now when you knew him?"

"But you have some name for him, haven't you?" said the other, not answering the question.

"We call him General, or Captain, mostly," said Plume. "Those are the sort of names which come readiest to a soldier's mouth. In the same way, they don't call me Plume, or M. Plume, or Captain Plume, but just simply Lieutenant; and, do you know, I like it better."

The Lieutenant was a tall, lanky, bony man, from whose body the heat of the oven, at which he had always worked, seemed to have drawn every ounce of flesh. He was about forty, or forty-five, years of age. He was nearly bald, but a few light, long, straggling locks of hair stood out on each side of his head. He still wore most of the dress in which he had been accustomed to work, for proper military accoutrements had not yet come within his reach. He had, however, over his shoulder an old bawdrick, from which usually hung a huge sabre, with which he gallantly performed the duties of his present profession. It cannot be said the Lieutenant had none of the qualities of a soldier, for he was courageous enough; but, beyond that, his apt.i.tude for military duties was not pre-eminent. He always marched, or rather shuffled along, with a stoop in his back, which made his shoulders as high as his head. He had not the slightest idea of moving in time; but this was of little consequence, for none of his men could have moved with him if he had.

When on active duty, he rushed about with the point of his drawn sword on a level with his breast, as though he were searching for "blues" in every corner, with a fixed determination of instantly immolating any that he might find. He had large saucer eyes, with which he glared about him, and which gave him a peculiar look of insane enthusiasm, very fitted for the Lieutenant, first in command, under a mad Captain. Such was Auguste Plume, and such like were the men who so long held their own ground, not only against the military weakness of the Directory, but even against the military strength of Napoleon.

We will leave Chapeau and his new friend still standing in the pa.s.sage, for Plume could not invite him in, as none of the rooms were his own except the little garret upstairs; and we will follow Henri as he went in search of the Mad Captain, merely premising that all Plume's efforts to find out the name of his superior officer were unavailing. Without any farther invitation, Henri hurried up the stairs, s.n.a.t.c.hing as he went a glimmering rush-light out of the ci-devant baker's hands; and when he got to the top he knocked boldly at the right-hand door. No one answered him, however, and he repeated his knocks over and over again, and even kicked and hallooed at the door, but still without effect. He then tried to open it, but it was fastened on the inside: and then he kicked and hallooed again. He distinctly heard the hard breathing within of some one, as though in a heavy sleep; and be the sleeper who he might, he was determined not to leave the stairs without waking him; and, therefore, diligently sat to work to kick again.

"Is that you, Auguste?" said a hoa.r.s.e, sickly woman's voice, proceeding from the door of the opposite chamber. "Why don't you bring me the candle?"

"No, Madame," said Henri, "the gentleman is now downstairs. He lent me your candle for a minute or two, while I call upon my friend here. I hope you'll excuse the noise I make, but I find it very difficult to wake him."

"And why should you want to wake him?" said the woman. "It's three nights now since he stretched himself on a bed, and he'll be up again long before daylight. Give me the candle, and go away, and tell that unfortunate poor man below to come to his bed."

There was a tone of utter misery in the poor woman's voice, which touched Henri to the heart. She had uttered no complaint of her own sufferings; but the few words she had spoken made him feel all the wretchedness and the desolation of homes, which he and his friends had brought upon the people by the war; and he almost began to doubt whether even the cause of the King should have been supported at so terrible a cost. He could not, however, now go back, nor was he willing to abandon his present object, so he again shook and kicked the door.

"That'll never rouse him, though you should go on all night," said a little urchin about twelve years old, the eldest hope of M. and Madame Plume, who rushed out on the landing in his ragged shirt. "If Monsieur will give me a sou, I'll wake him." Henri engaged him at the price, and the boy, putting his mouth down to the key-hole, said, or rather whispered loudly, "Captain--Captain--Captain--the blues--the blues."

This shibboleth had the desired effect, for the man within was instantly heard to start from his bed, and to step out upon the floor.

"Yes, yes; I'm ready, I'm up," said he, in the confused voice of a man suddenly awoke from a sound sleep. "Where's Plume? send Plume to me at once."

Henri immediately recognized the voice of Adolphe Denot, and all doubt was at an end. Denot came to the door, and undid the wooden bolt within, to admit, as he thought, the poor zealous creature who had attached himself to him in his new career; and when the door opened, the friend of his youth--the man whom he had so deeply injured--stood before him.

Henri, in his anxiety to find out the truth of Chapeau's surmise, had energetically and, as it turned out, successfully pursued the object of his search; but he had not for a moment turned over in his mind, what he would say to Denot if he found him; how he would contrive to tell him that he forgave him all his faults; how he would explain to him that he was willing again to receive him into his arms as a friend and a brother. The moment was now come, when he must find words to say all this; and as the awkward bolt was being drawn, Henri felt that he was hardly equal to the difficulties of his position.

If Henri found it difficult to speak, with Denot the difficulty was much greater. The injuries which he had inflicted on his friend, the insults which he had heaped on his sister, rushed to his mind. He thought of his own deep treachery, his black ingrat.i.tude; and his disordered imagination could only conceive that Henri had chosen the present moment to secure a b.l.o.o.d.y vengeance. He forgot that he had already been forgiven for what he had done: that his life had been in the hands of those he had injured, and had then been spared by them, when their resentment was fresh and hot, and when he had done nothing to redeem his treason. He had, he thought, reconciled himself to the cause of La Vendee; but still he felt that he could not dare to look on Larochejaquelin as other than an enemy.

Denot started back as he recognized his visitor, and Henri's first object was to close and re-bolt the door, so that their interview might not be interrupted. "Adolphe," he said, in a voice intended to express all the tenderness which he felt, "I am delighted to have found you."

Denot had rushed to a miserable deal table which stood near his bed, and seized his sword, which stood upon it; and now stood armed and ready for a.s.sault, opposite to the man who loved him so dearly. His figure and appearance had always been singular, but now it was more so than ever.

He had been sleeping in his clothes, and he had that peculiar look of discomfort which always accompanies such rest. His black, elfish, uncombed locks, had not been cut since he left Durbelliere, and his beard for many days had not been shorn. He was wretchedly thin and gaunt; indeed, his hollow, yellow cheeks, and cadaverous jaws, almost told a tale of utter starvation. Across his face he had an ugly cicatrice, not the relic of any honourable wound, but given him by the Chevalier's stick, when he struck him in the parlour at Durbelliere.

Nothing could be more wretched than his appearance; but the most lamentable thing of all, was the wild wandering of his eyes, which too plainly told that the mind was not master of itself.

Henri was awe-stricken, and cut to the heart. What was he to say to the poor wretch, who stood there upon his guard, glaring at him with those wild eyes from behind his sword! Besides, how was he to defend himself if he were attacked?

"Adolphe," he said, "why do you raise your sword against your friend?

Don't you see that I have come as your friend: don't you see that I have no sword?"

The other hesitated for a moment, with the weapon still raised as though for defence; and then flinging it behind him on the floor, exclaimed: "There, there--you may kill me, if you will," and having said so, he threw himself on the bed, and sobbed aloud, and wailed like an infant.

Henri knelt down on the floor, by the side of the low wooden stretcher, and putting his arm over Adolphe's shoulder, thought for a while what he could say to comfort the crushed spirit of the poor wretch, whose insanity had not the usual effect of protecting him from misery. It occurred to him that his late achievements, as leader of the Breton peasants, in which, at any rate, he had been successful, would be the subject at present most agreeable to him, and he determined, therefore, to question him as to what he had done.

"Come, Adolphe," he said, "get up; we have much to say to each other, my friend. I have heard much of what you have done here, in Laval and in Brittany. You have been of great service to us; but we must act together for the future. Of course you know that there are 80,000 Vendeans on this side of the river: men, women, and children together."

For some minutes Denot still lay with his face buried in the bed, without answering, and Henri knelt beside him in silence, trying to comfort him rather by the pressure of his hand, Than by the sound of his voice; but then he raised himself up, and sitting erect, with his face turned away from his friend, he said:

"It's no use for you to try to speak of what I have done in Brittany, when we both know that your heart is full of what I did in Poitou."

"By the G.o.d of heaven, from whom I hope for mercy," said Henri, solemnly, "I have freely, entirely forgiven you all cause of anger I ever had against you."

Denot still sat with his face averted, and he withdrew his hand from Henri's grasp, as he muttered between his teeth: "I have not asked for forgiveness; I do not want forgiveness;" and then starting up on his feet, he exclaimed almost with a shriek: "How dare you to talk to me, Sir, of forgiveness? Forgiveness! I suppose you think I have nothing to forgive! I suppose you think I have no injuries which rankle in my breast! A broken heart is nothing! Shattered ambition is nothing! A tortured, lingering, wretched life is nothing! I suppose you will offer me your pity next; but know, Sir, that I despise both your forgiveness and your pity."

"I will offer you nothing but my friendship, Adolphe," said Henri. "You will not refuse my friendship, will you? We were brothers always, you know; at least in affection."