"Good God!" exclaimed the Comte de Contades, Puisaye's chief of staff, hurrying past, "they will take us by assault! There are only fifty men on guard. M. d'Hervilly must be informed at once!"
René watched, horrified and fascinated, from the embrasure. As yet there was no sign of an enemy—only this panting multitude full of one desire, to find safety. And soon some of the younger and more agile fugitives were swarming unchecked over the palisades of the newly erected entrenchments, clambering up the counterscarps of the fort itself. They clung weeping round the legs of the officers whom they encountered, having completely lost their heads; and in the midst of the confusion arrived the Comte d'Hervilly, who seemed as completely to have lost his. At any rate he was in his usual state of ineffective irritation.
"In God's name, get rid of all these people!" de Flavigny heard him cry, striking out right and left. But thousands of terrified fugitives were not so easily to be disposed of, especially when all the passages were blocked up by the carts which they had brought with them. And on d'Hervilly's sending for the régiment du Dresnay to come in haste and turn them out, he learnt that his command could not be at once obeyed, since the regiment was dispersed securing provisions. The mixture of calamity and farce reached its climax when some of the invading fugitives cried out, "There are the Blues!" on which all who possessed muskets instantly fired them off in every direction, to the no small danger of everybody else. In fact, the Comte de Vauban, an officer of high rank, who was at the bottom of the revetments at the moment, had only just time to save himself by throwing himself off his horse.
At last appeared, marching in good order, the Chouans of Tinténiac and Cadoudal, who had not broken, then their rearguard, and finally, a good distance behind, a hundred or so of Republican sharpshooters. A salvo from the fort dispersed these latter, and mingled with its echoes came the sound of the drums of du Dresnay, arriving to bring some order into this scene of confusion. And thus, at last, the crowd of fugitives was expelled, and driven down towards the southern extremity of the peninsula.
During all this affair the Comte de Puisaye sat very composedly at his dinner.
When René de Flavigny was able to get free of the fort, thus carried by its own defenders, he went anxiously in search of his friend among the Chouan troops. He found him, but too busy to do more than exchange a word with him.
"Hoche attacked all along our line with about thirteen thousand men," said La Vireville, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Ouf, what an infernal day for a retreat! Well, I am afraid we have brought you no welcome present in all these useless mouths!"
"Why, oh why, were we not allowed to come to your support!" cried the Marquis.
La Vireville shrugged his shoulders. "Why indeed! At any rate I see the lilies, as I had hoped, blooming on Fort Penthièvre. Only the gardener, you know, is not far off. . . ."
Indeed, every émigré knew by nightfall that the victorious Republicans had established themselves in the important position of Ste. Barbe, a village which commanded the entry into the peninsula, where they could be seen feverishly working at entrenching themselves. The invaders were in danger of being penned, like trapped creatures, into that tongue of land on which they had attained a foothold.
(2)
The Marquis de Flavigny never sent his unfinished letters to England. If he had completed them they would not have been very pleasant reading. Even the Comte d'Hervilly realised the disastrous consequences of being shut into Quiberon. The night after the influx of the fugitives he attacked the Republicans (who were taken by surprise), pushed his onset up to their very outworks, lost his head, and abandoned the attack, for no apparent reason, just at the very moment of success. Quem Deus vult perdere . . .
After that abortive attack on Ste. Barbe things went quickly from bad to worse. The sixth of July had been on all counts an unmitigated disaster; the Chouan defeat did not fail to have a bad moral effect on the Bretons of the interior, and the useless mouths, as La Vireville had only too truly called them, brought the number of souls on the narrow strip of land up to fourteen thousand. It became a difficulty to feed the refugees; and most of them were not of the slightest military value. Old men, women, and children, they had to subsist as best they were able, shelterless, and cooking what they could get on fires of dung and seaweed. And even the Chouans were sullen and discontented; it was hard to make them work at the entrenchments with any zeal, and if they were reproached with their idleness they invariably replied that they had had nothing to eat for twenty-four hours. In fact, a small ration of salt meat and biscuit did seem insufficient to a peasant accustomed to more solid nourishment. The Comte de Puisaye, indeed, announced in the order of the day that he wished the brave Chouans, those dauntless supporters of the altar and the throne, to be particularly well treated, but as, this order once promulgated, he took no steps whatever to see that it was carried out, it frequently happened that the supporters of the altar and the throne went very hungry.
The Chouans of the Chevalier de la Vireville's little band, however, never suffered from that particular privation; their leader saw to that. How he managed it, by what system of combined begging, storming, and cajoling, the young Le Goffic knew, but to de Flavigny it was a marvel how he contrived to procure rations for them. The two friends did not very often meet, for though de Flavigny, who was only attached to the régiment du Dresnay, had more leisure than most officers, La Vireville, whose men called for constant attention of a kind that disciplined troops hardly needed, had less. Yet, curiously enough, in those few days of breathing-space, while the Royalists were awaiting the moment for another attempt to free themselves of the snare in which Hoche held them, when the young Republican general indeed was writing, with cruel and justified metaphor, "The enemies are in the rat-trap, and I with divers cats at the door of it."—in those days, when every man's private affairs had sunk into relative unimportance, de Flavigny was to learn that concerning his comrade's personal history which, in spite of occasional speculation, he had never really sought to know. He was, in fact, himself an agent in the chance encounter—if there be such a thing—which brought about the disclosure.
It befell as follows: One afternoon, de Flavigny, who was billeted with some other gentlemen of like standing with himself in a cottage in the tiny village of Clouarnet, found himself in his quarters with a couple of these, and, in addition, an officer whom they had brought with them, a M. de St. Four, of the régiment de la marine, usually known, from the name of its colonel, as the regiment d'Hector. M. de St. Four was a person of agreeable address and appearance, about forty years of age, who, when younger, had evidently been very handsome. He had, it seemed, already 'chouanné' a little in southern Brittany under Cadoudal.
The Marquis was standing talking to the newcomer by the big, projecting, smoke-blackened hearth, when a tall figure suddenly darkened the doorway of the cottage.
"Is M. de Flavigny within?" it inquired, and René recognised the voice as La Vireville's.
"Yes, I am here. Do you want me, Fortuné?" he asked, turning round from the hearth. The visitor did the same. And, as La Vireville stooped his head to enter, it occurred to de Flavigny to introduce him and St. Four, Chouans both of them.
"Let me make you and this gentleman known to each other first," he began. "M. de St. Four of the régiment d'Hector, M. le Chevalier de la Vire——"
The name died on his lips. La Vireville's eyes were not on him at all, but on the stranger, yet the look he wore was enough to slay instantly any attempt at introduction. The naked hatred and contempt on his face seemed to have frozen equally the other man and himself; then, after two or three seconds of an intolerable silence, he turned without a word and walked straight out of the cottage.
The two other witnesses of this scene were also stricken dumb. M. de St. Four was the first to recover himself. He gave an uneasy laugh. De Flavigny, overwhelmed by the suddenness and inexplicability of the incident, began to stammer out some apology.
"It is of no consequence, Monsieur," said St. Four, shrugging his shoulders. "Your friend does not wish to know me, that is all." And he made an attempt to resume their conversation where it had been broken off, but, as was hardly surprising, without any marked success, and shortly afterwards he took his leave. De Flavigny also, as soon as he could, made an excuse to the others, and went in search of his friend.
(3)
La Vireville was not at his quarters, and it took some half-hour's search before the Marquis found him, sitting on a rock that faced the Atlantic on the side of the 'mer sauvage,' his chin on his clenched fists, staring out to sea.
At the sound of a step he turned round, and showed de Flavigny a face no longer, at least, like the Medusa's mask.
"Have you come for an apology, René? I owe you one, I admit."
"No; it is for me to apologise," said the Marquis, stepping on to the rock. "But I did not know——"
"Of course you did not. How could you? Fate is pleased to be humorous, but you could not realise to what degree. It was something of a pity that you could not." He laughed, a hard, mirthless laugh, and tearing off a piece of dried seaweed from the rock on which he sat, cast it towards the waves. The wind carried it away.
De Flavigny sat down by him. "Mon ami, the last thing I wish to do is to pry into your affairs. I can only repeat that I am exceedingly sorry I was so clumsy as to cause you pain, and that, since his presence is displeasing to you, I will make it my care, as far as I can, that you do not meet the gentleman in question again."
"I don't suppose," said Fortuné de la Vireville between his teeth, "that he will seek for a repetition of the interview."
He looked out to sea again in silence. René glanced at his set mouth. His friendship was of too recent a date for him to know much of La Vireville's private history, but he, like others, had heard the rumour of a tragedy in his past, and he guessed that he now stood on its threshold. He was silent, while the sea, all a-sparkle in the sun, came splashing in a little below them, and the gulls, uttering their fine-weather chuckle, sailed slantwise in the wind.
"I never thought I should see him again," said La Vireville to himself, after a moment "—least of all here." And he pulled off another piece of seaweed and examined it minutely.
"You need never come into contact with him," repeated the Marquis.
"A woman asked me not long ago," observed La Vireville inconsequently, still examining the seaweed, "whether I could readily forgive a mortal injury. I told her . . . the truth. Yes, by God, it was the truth! . . . I think you have never had cause to hate anyone overmuch, René? Destiny, perhaps"—his face softened for a moment as he glanced at him—"but not a man—nor a woman."
"No," answered the Marquis. And he added, "Thank God!"
La Vireville threw him another glance, satirical this time. "Your pious ejaculation is quite justified. It is not an emotion to cultivate. Well, I suppose I ought to return to my flock, having sat on this promontory long enough." He dropped the piece of seaweed carefully into a pool. "Where is . . . your protégé gone to?"
"Back to his regiment, I presume," answered de Flavigny. "Hector is quartered at Port Haliguen, as you know." He hesitated, then laid his hand on the Chouan's shoulder. "Fortuné, my dear friend, forgive me for saying it, but if you meet him again you will not quarrel with him? After all, every man here——"
La Vireville's face hardened again as he broke in. "My dear René, I know perfectly well what you are going to say. Private enmities must be sunk for the common weal, is it not? I assure you I am fully of your opinion. And, to reassure your scrupulous mind, let me tell you that M. de St. Four and I settled our score in that way ten years ago. You see that mark?" He touched his cheek. "That is the proof of it. Come, let us go back." He scrambled to his feet, and Rene de Flavigny followed him.
CHAPTER XXV
History of a Scar
(1)
The gods, however, had not finished amusing themselves with the situation they had brought about, and planned an improvement on it. The very next day La Vireville was summoned to d'Hervilly's headquarters.
He found the general alone, in a room in a little house in Quiberon village, whose comfortable furniture, of English make, had obviously appeared there synchronously with its present occupant. The walls were impressively studded with maps, plans, and diagrams; the greatest military leader could not have got more of these into a smaller space. Unfortunately, La Vireville knew that M. d'Hervilly had never seen a shot fired until he came to Quiberon.
"I have sent for you, Monsieur," said the general, with the English accent that he always affected, "because I have come to the conclusion that the Chouan commanders who remain on the peninsula must have an officer from one of the émigré regiments attached to their corps to act as aide-de-camp, and, if necessary, as officier de liaison. I conceive that this plan will give more homogeneity to our forces, especially in view of the attack we shall shortly be making on the Republican position at Ste. Barbe."
He looked at the Chouan commander in question with angry eyes, as though both anticipating a criticism he would instantly resent, and demanding an approval he would consider impertinent. La Vireville lifted his eyebrows a trifle, and said nothing, but amid the surprise and distaste which this announcement roused in him he was visited by a consoling thought. The general could impose one of his nominees on him, but could not ensure his making use of that nominee unless he wished. Perhaps, too, he could ask for de Flavigny in that capacity.
"I have naturally selected for this post," went on d'Hervilly, "gentlemen who have some acquaintance with the Chouan methods of warfare. As you may imagine, this considerably restricts my choice. Your aide-de-camp, as we may call him, will be"—he turned to a list on the table—"an officer who has spent some weeks with the Chouans of the Morbihan—M. de St. Four of the régiment d'Hector."
His hearer suddenly clenched his hands.
"Well, M. de la Vireville?"
"You cannot, I suppose, mon général," said the émigré, speaking with great deliberation, "consider individual preferences in this matter?"
"Certainly not, sir," snapped d'Hervilly. And he added, not unreasonably, "For one thing, I have no more suitable candidates available." With a tapping forefinger he drew the objector's attention to the scored-out list, whereon his name and his worst enemy's figured alone, the last of their respective columns.
"Very good, mon général," said La Vireville impassively. "And what do you want me to do with this gentleman who has spent some weeks in the Morbihan when I have got him?"
D'Hervilly glanced at him sharply, but except that the tone was certainly not obsequious he could find nothing to take hold of. "I will tell you," he said; and proceeded to give a short summary of the duties which he expected the Chouan to assign to this new subordinate, ending by saying pompously, "And in view of the fact that when we attack Ste. Barbe I shall probably put most of the Chouan troops with Hector on the right wing, it will be very valuable to you to have an officer of Hector as your aide-de-camp."
"Certainly," agreed La Vireville. "And I am sure that I shall find M. de St. Four's services valuable in every respect. As soon, therefore, as you see fit to send him to me, mon général, I shall be ready to give him his instructions. May I ask if you have already informed him of his appointment?"
"No, not yet," replied d'Hervilly, running a pen through the two names. "That will do, M. de la Vireville."
But, happening to look up as La Vireville was saluting and turning away, he suddenly thumped the table and demanded in a furious voice, "What are you smiling like that for, sir?"
La Vireville committed the military and social breach of going out without answering.
(2)
About two hours afterwards, Charles le Goffic, former law-student, clad, as usual, in Breton costume, with an officer in English uniform behind him, knocked upon the door of a shed in the Chouan cantonments at St. Pierre, at the lower end of the peninsula, and, receiving a command to enter, did so. Inside were a trestle table, a couple of chairs, a bed of dried seaweed, and La Vireville.
"Monsieur Augustin," said Le Goffic, "here is M. le Capitaine de St. Four, sent by the Général Comte d'Hervilly."
His leader, seated at the table in this his headquarters, looked up from his writing.
"I will see him at once," said he. "Be sure that the door is shut, Charles, and put a sentry outside."
And so Fortuné de la Vireville's one-time best friend, who had done him the worst injury, almost, that one man can do another, came in and saluted him, and they confronted one another as they had done ten years ago, when the scar on La Vireville's face was a bright wound. But if the thought of that meeting was in both their minds, La Vireville at least gave no sign of it. Standing by the table he punctiliously returned the newcomer's salute.
"I am glad to see you, M. de St. Four," he said, in level tones, "so that we can settle the little matter of our relations to each other at the outset, and have done with it. We shall almost certainly be attacking the Republican position in a day or two, therefore it is as well to have them defined, if only for that reason."
"You can disembarrass yourself of me then," said the other, in a scarcely audible voice.
La Vireville shook his head. "If you are going to have those ideas we shall never get on. As you may imagine, this situation is none of my seeking, as I am sure it is none of yours. But since we are now in an official relation to each other, I should wish, for the sake of our common aim, to behave to you exactly as I should to any other officer who had been assigned to me in this capacity. If I am always to feel that you are expecting to be treated as Uriah was treated by David, the state of affairs will become very difficult. Of course, I quite understand that you suspect me of such a design . . . though you must admit that I should not stand to gain, now, what David gained by it." A flash of bitter mockery passed over his face, and, brief as it was, seemed to sear the other's into agony.
"Yes!" he broke out passionately, "if you lost, I lost too! A year was all I had—and for that I threw away my honour—and your friendship. And then I in my turn was thrown away. God! God!" He turned away, shaking.
La Vireville stood like a statue, as he had stood all along, his finger-tips just resting on the table. His eyes indeed followed St. Four, who went at last to the little window, and stood by it with his back to him, pulling at a piece of loose planking. But the life in them was of an icy quality, and when he spoke it was as if the other man's outburst had never been.
"I am making for you, Monsieur," he said, "a memorandum of what the general tells me I may expect of you. I regret that it is not ready, but M. d'Hervilly somewhat sprang this upon me. My lieutenant, Le Goffic, will show you your quarters. That is all for the present." He sat down again at the table, and pulling his papers towards him bent over them.
St. Four stopped fidgetting with the woodwork and turned round. But he did not go. On the contrary, he came a little nearer, and spoke, not without dignity. "La Vireville, you were generous once. I acknowledge it. You gave me my life. . . . Is it any solace to you to know that I have often wished you had not made me that gift? I am not surprised that you would not take my hand. But is it possible that some day . . . for the sake of the cause, and because, as you know, I have suffered too . . . horribly . . . you might be able to forgive me, Fortuné?"
"I am not aware, Monsieur," returned La Vireville without looking up, "that I have authorised you to use my Christian name. There is, however, no objection to your calling me Augustin, as my men do. You will find Le Goffic outside."
And St. Four, making a hopeless gesture, turned and went out without a word. La Vireville looked after him a moment, dipped his pen in the ink, and resumed his writing.
(3)
That evening, as he was eating his solitary meal by the light of a candle stuck in a bottle, René de Flavigny suddenly appeared in the doorway of the shed.
"Come in, my friend," cried the Chouan cheerfully. "Are you proposing to share my modest repast?"
"No," replied the Marquis, entering. "I only came to ask you if this extraordinary report is true, and that the general has given you M. de St. Four, of all men, as an aide-de-camp?"
"Yes, it is quite true," replied La Vireville composedly. "I have seen M. d'Hervilly and I have seen St. Four—quite a peaceable interview, the latter, on my honour. Have some of this cheese, Marquis!"
"But—but it is intolerable!" stammered de Flavigny, sinking into the other chair.
"What—the cheese? Not at all; it is English. Try it!"
René looked at him, but could gather nothing. The single candle by his friend's elbow, ineffectual at its best in that dark place, flickered woefully in the strong draught. The Marquis had left the door of the shed ajar, and through it came, on the wind that smelt of seaweed, the sound that day and night was ever in their ears—the eternal recurrent plunge and retreat of the tide—and the glint of stars. He got up, shut it, and came back.
"Fortuné, what are you going to do with him?"
"Set him in the forefront of the battle, of course!"
This statement was to de Flavigny not susceptible of belief, though the speaker's smile in the now steadied candlelight was enough to give it credibility.
"At least, that is what he seems to expect," went on La Vireville, proceeding also with his meal. "And surely I could not do better than emulate the Psalmist King. I am sorry I have no wine to offer you, mon ami. Perhaps you have already supped, however. By the way, have you heard anything about the approaching arrival of a fresh division of émigré troops—Sombreuil's?"
"Yes, I have heard something," answered the Marquis absently. "I see that you do not want to speak of this business, Fortuné; you must forgive me for having referred to it."
La Vireville laid down his knife. "On the contrary, I am minded to tell you once for all why I do not find M. de St. Four's company congenial. Figure to yourself, my dear René, that ten years ago he ran off with my affianced wife."
"Bon Dieu!"
"It has occurred before in the history of the world," said La Vireville coolly and with a curling lip—sneering at himself, so de Flavigny thought. "Only he happened to be my best friend. That, as you may guess, made it much more . . . interesting. Also, it was but the day before my marriage. Now you know why I did not fall into his arms a short time ago when you wanted me to."
Beyond the fact that he was unusually pale, one thing alone betrayed that he was on the rack—his voice. Not that it was unsteady. René was almost as much in torture as he, but it seemed best to follow his lead and avoid at least the expression of emotion.
"You called him out?" he hazarded after a moment, thinking of the scar whose half-revealed history was now clear to him.
La Vireville nodded. "He gave me this memento, as I told you the other day." He poured out some cider, and added, "As for me, I was fool enough to fire in the air."
"You loved—her—as much as that!" cried the Marquis before he could stop himself.
The little remaining colour ebbed slowly from La Vireville's face, and, like a palimpsest, all the suffering written below its sardonic gaiety was abruptly visible. He did not answer, and René, ashamed to have unveiled it, put his own hand over his eyes as if to shade them from the candle. "He loves her still," he said to himself.
La Vireville suddenly laughed, and the sound made his companion jump.
"I might as well have shot him after all," he said, with cold levity.
"Why?"
"She left him after a year for another man. Dramatic justice, was it not?—and a lesson to me always to follow my first impulses! But I have bored you with my affairs long enough. As I have no wine, will you drink a glass of cider? There is little variety of vintage on this damned peninsula."
But René de Flavigny refused and, rising, flung his cloak about him. La Vireville surely was better alone. He longed to ask if the woman were still alive, but dared not.
La Vireville's face, however, was an enigma once more. He took the Marquis's outstretched hand across the table.
"You, at least, cannot betray me in that way. I am not affianced now!" he said; and with that bitter jest, which René pardoned for the pain still alive in the speaker's eyes, they parted.
Going back in the summer starlight, thinking of what had just passed, he overtook another officer of the régiment du Dresnay, also returning from St. Pierre.
"Have you heard," asked the latter, "that the attack is fixed for the night of the fifteenth?"
"But there is a fresh division on its way," objected de Flavigny—"the regiments with the black cockade. D'Hervilly will wait for them, of course."
His companion put his hand on his arm. "Young Sombreuil, who is in command, is senior in the English service to d'Hervilly."
"Well?"
"D'Hervilly will find that he cannot wait for them!"
"I cannot believe that!" exclaimed the Marquis, shocked.
"You will see," said his brother officer.
CHAPTER XXVI
Ste. Barbe—and Afterwards
(1)
Just as on the day when he had first entered the cottage in Clouarnet village to look for his friend, and had met his deadly foe, so now Fortuné de la Vireville stood hesitating on the same threshold, because he feared to find, already in possession, a Foe more deadly still. As on that day, too, it seemed dark within, coming from the brilliant sunshine outside. Was that why he put his hand for a moment over his eyes?
On the floor by the wall, at the left of the door, under a cloak, could be dimly seen the figure of an officer, lying very still. Another sat by the empty hearth with his head between his hands. Fortuné straightened himself, went in, and touched the man by the hearth on the shoulder.
And René de Flavigny lifted the face of one who has come from a great distance, across centuries of time, and saw him standing there, powder-grimed, with sand on his clothes and in his hair, and carrying his left hand thrust into his short blue embroidered Breton vest. The sleeve of his coat bore, high up, a dark red stain.
"I was afraid for you," said La Vireville abruptly and rather hoarsely. "I knew that your regiment. . . I went to Fort Penthièvre. I had to step over the wounded, they are lying so thick there. . . . Well, thank God you are safe!"
"Yes, I am safe," responded de Flavigny, in a dull voice.
"You are not touched at all?"
The Marquis shook his head. "What of you?" he asked.
La Vireville gave a sort of laugh. "Oh, as for us Chouans," he said, replying in general terms, though he must have known that the inquiry was particular, "those of us who did not run shared the fate of Hector, and you know what that fate was. . . . We had to go back with them under the range of the guns. God alone—if He—knows what possessed d'Hervilly to give that order. He is dying, they say——"
"Your arm!" exclaimed his friend, pointing to it. He seemed incapable of prolonged speech.
"Only a flesh wound," replied La Vireville, glancing down at it indifferently. "A splinter of shell, I think; I was knocked down by one." He went and looked down at the dead officer by the wall, and came back without saying anything. "I must get back to what is left of my men. Poor Le Goffic is badly wounded. I only came to make sure of your safety, René."
The Marquis was on his feet now. "But for one thing," said he, suddenly finding speech, and pointing to the quiet figure under the cloak, "I would rather be in his place."
"I can guess what that thing is," returned La Vireville, making to go; "but though I have no son, like you, to live for, and the man I have hated so long is dead—I think he saved my life—yet I want to live . . . for to-morrow."
"Will there be a to-morrow?" asked the Marquis de Flavigny, with sombre emphasis.
La Vireville, who was already half-way to the door, stopped dead, and turned to face that question.
"No, René, perhaps not," said he very gravely, and there was a silence.
"There is now only the fort between us and Hoche's advance," went on the Marquis. "If that goes, we shall be swept into the sea."
"I know," replied the Chouan. He seemed to be waiting still for something else to be said.
De Flavigny came up to him and took his hand. "Fortuné, I have a great favour to ask of you, and I must ask you now, for I have a presentiment that I shall never have another chance to make the request."
"Ask," said his friend.
"I do not think that I shall ever see England again," went on the Marquis. "If I do not, and you escape, I want you to promise me to look after Anne. Don't refuse me, Fortuné! Mr. Elphinstone is an old man, and when he dies there will be nobody of my blood—nobody of our nationality even—about the boy, and he is French, and I should wish him to remain French, although in exile. By my will he inherits all I have, and nearly all his grandfather's property will eventually come to him, so he will be well provided for. There is no one in the world, after his grandfather, to whom I would rather commit him than you. He is very fond of you—and, Fortuné, he has a kind of claim on you already, since you did that for him which can never be forgotten, though you will not allow me even to thank you for it!"
La Vireville had heard him silently to the end, looking down at the beaten earth of the cottage floor. "But if we come to final disaster, which, God knows, seems probable enough," he said quietly, "it is not likely that I shall see England again either. Not that I have any special presentiments about my own fate—one soon gets rid of those en chouannant—but because I think, with you, that we are in a desperate strait. Unless Puisaye, now that d'Hervilly is dying . . . though I do not believe that Puisaye is the man to save us. Yet we may beat them off."
"Will you promise me, then, to do your utmost, if the worst happens, to save yourself, for Anne's sake, if not for your own? Will you promise me that, Fortuné?"
La Vireville looked him in the eyes and gripped the hand he held. "Yes, I promise you that, René. So it be not inconsistent with honour, I will do my best to save myself—and if you are killed, and I live to return, Anne shall be my . . . son."
But how far off, how incongruous, in the midst of this welter of blood and catastrophe, was the thought of that little boy, with his confiding ways! Outside his own quarters at St. Pierre, Fortuné met the surgeon who was attending to the Chouan wounded, and, going in with him, displaced Grain d'Orge, who, looking like a necromancer, was giving attentions of very doubtful value to the moaning Le Goffic on his heap of seaweed.
"Monsieur Augustin," whispered the self-constituted leech, while the surgeon examined the young Breton, "this is not a good place, this Quiberon!"
"Your remark is very just, mon vieux!" returned La Vireville, half sadly, half humorously. "You are not the first to make it, either. Do you want to go back to the Côtes-du-Nord? There is the devil of a deal of fighting before you if you wish to do that."
"Ma Doué, I am sure of it!" said Grain d'Orge with a chuckle. He rubbed off some blood, presumably Le Goffic's, from his hands on to his baggy breeches. "You and I, Monsieur Augustin, have seen much of that—and of this too," he added, laying a grimy finger on La Vireville's wounded arm. "And I know that I shall see my parish again, because the wise woman told me so before I left. But not many of the others, perhaps."
A sudden compunction invaded La Vireville. It was his influence which had led these children of Northern Brittany away from their homes to perish in what was, to them, almost a foreign land.
"Listen to me, mon gars," he said. "If ever I give the word for a sauve qui peut, for disbandment, in short, remember it is because I am convinced that each man, separately, has a better chance for his life than with the rest. If you gained the mainland, it would be difficult to distinguish any of you from the inhabitants there, to prove, indeed, that you had ever been in Quiberon at all."
Grain d'Orge's little eyes twinkled. "That is very true, Monsieur Augustin. I will remember."
And La Vireville, as he bent down to hear what the surgeon thought of Le Goffic, had a conviction that the wise woman had not been wrong about Grain d'Orge, who, of incorruptible fidelity though he was, had too much innate cunning not to succeed in saving his own skin.
"I think he will do," said the surgeon, and gave directions. "The rest—ah, but what have you there yourself, Monsieur? We will have your coat off at once, if you please!"
"I am not made of porcelain," protested La Vireville. "I know what it is—a flesh wound merely. I want my men all seen to first."
But to this the surgeon only responded by starting to slit up the stained sleeve himself.
(2)
Shortly afterwards, when his wound had been probed and dressed, and he found himself set, by the surgeon's orders, to sit a little beside Le Goffic, La Vireville had time to think—or rather, the scenes and sensations with which his brain was spinning began to unroll themselves before him again.
And first, he was marching with his men over the sand and coarse grass up towards Ste. Barbe. It was one o'clock in the morning, and very dark. Six hundred Chouans they were altogether, with the other bodies of the same composition, and, as d'Hervilly had told him it would be, they were on the extreme right of the émigré regiments. The régiment d'Hector—the régiment de la Marine—was next them, on their left.
The sand, fine and white, muffled their footfalls, light, in any case, as became those of intermittent poachers. Just behind La Vireville was St. Four, who never spoke, in his British uniform. But La Vireville had not thought of him; his brain had been busy with what they were doing, or hoping to do.
And hope, indeed, had obstacles to surmount. Where, for instance, were the large bodies of Chouans under Tinténiac and another, who had been despatched several days ago into the interior for the purpose of attacking Ste. Barbe simultaneously from the rear? To anyone who knew Tinténiac as La Vireville did, their non-appearance was very strange. They might yet come up in time. If they did not, then d'Hervilly's refusal to postpone the attack for twenty-four hours in order to allow of the landing of Sombreuil's division—still out there in their transports in the bay—was deprived of its only justification.
They marched on. Far away the fires of the Republican bivouacs were visible through the darkness, at the foot of the rising ground of Ste. Barbe. . . .
The scene shifted. It was dawn now. They were still advancing, having passed the Republican outposts with scarcely a struggle, for the enemy, acting no doubt on instructions, had abandoned them and had fallen back on the strong entrenched camp. In that uncompromising light of dawn La Vireville could see how strong they were—a long line of entrenchments with two redoubts and several batteries, bristling with four-pounders, and well provided with heavy guns and mortars. And he knew instinctively that his Chouans were casting sidelong glances at those sinister black mouths. It was not the kind of thing that they liked or were accustomed to.
But he also perceived, with a leap of the heart, that there was a much better thing to be done than attacking these in front. The tide was out, and for that reason they had only to go on as they were going, and they could turn the batteries and take them in the rear. If only d'Hervilly would send orders to that end! For d'Hervilly was away on the left with his own regiment, while Puisaye, strangely enough, was with the rearguard.
He was just thinking of communicating his hopes to St. Four when orders to halt came down from the head of the combined column, where the officer in command, a grand seigneur, the Duc de Lévis, could be seen on his horse. They halted.
La Vireville turned with a frown to St. Four, and read his own uneasiness in his enemy's eyes. He nodded, and the officer of Hector, saluting, disappeared.
"Are we going to attack now, Monsieur Augustin?" whispered Grain d'Orge, coming up, carrying his musket in a fashion peculiar to himself. "The sooner the better."
La Vireville knew that as well as he. He was quite aware that you must keep the Chouan on the move, or watching from behind a hedge—but not in the open, doing nothing, where his thoughts get too much for him.
"I expect so," he returned. "Go back to your place."
Minutes passed. The dawn grew brighter in a pale, clear, tender sky. The men began to fidget. Then—a relief—the order came to march on. The column moved on a little, then stopped again.
Le Goffic came up—he who lay, looking like death, beside him now. "Monsieur Augustin, the men are getting impatient—that is to say——"
"Tell them," interrupted La Vireville brutally, "that I have given you orders to shoot instantly anyone who either stirs now, or who refuses to stir when he is told to!"
For he knew what Le Goffic's euphemism meant.
And then at last St. Four came hurrying back, the sweat on his face and tears of wrath in his eyes.
"D'Hervilly is mad—mad!" he gasped. "He is going to attack away there on the left front by himself—with the left wing only. He says Hector can 'come on afterwards!' Hector will be wiped out if they go back now under the fire of the batteries to rejoin the left wing . . . and so shall we be! But go back they will—there is nothing else to do. My God, what insanity!"
If Hector went back, so must the Chouans, or be left in the air. It was the death-knell of the little irregular force. Both men knew it, and their faces were very grim as they stared at one another for a moment. Then La Vireville turned away to give his orders. So much for the sound, the obvious, plan of attacking the batteries in the rear!
Before he had finished, the drums of the régiment d'Hector, on their left, were beating the charge. . . .
Le Goffic groaned. His leader got up, and, as well as he could with one arm in a sling, gave him a drink.
"Merci, maman!" said the young man, without opening his eyes.
There was a depression in the dunes, a sort of corridor between two little eminences. Every clod of it, every blade of grass against the young sky, La Vireville could see now if he shut his eyes. For it was into that little sandy hollow of death, dominated as it was by three batteries at half-cannon shot, that he and his men had been obliged to follow the régiment d'Hector.
For a moment its image, as it rested with him, was blotted out by the picture of a whirlwind, the flying Chouan column, broken at the first thunder of the Republican guns. Fortuné saw again the Duc de Lévis on his horse in the midst of the torrent, trying vainly to rally the distracted peasants, and literally unable to keep up with them at the gallop, so fast did they flee. How La Vireville himself had succeeded in keeping his contingent together he scarcely knew—yet they had followed him. . . . There was cover of a sort here, in the ravine, and cover they knew instinctively how to utilise. But the fire was murderous.
"Courage, mes gars, this will soon be over, and then we can advance again!" he had shouted, believing anything but what he had said. It was worse, far worse, than the cannonade at Auray, but this time his men could not run. They fell instead, and, raging inwardly, he had watched one after another go down. . . . At last he saw Le Goffic throw out his arms and stagger. Hastily he threw down his empty musket (for he was firing like the rest) to go to him, and as he did so, heard a cry behind him:
"Look out, La Vireville, look out!" The voice was St. Four's. Concurrently there came the whistle of a shell, and Fortuné was sent reeling a couple of yards forward—the result, as he instantly realised, of a very rough push from his aide-de-camp. The next moment there was a violent explosion, and, amid showers of sand, he was hurled on to his back.
Half buried in sand and rubbish he struggled as quickly as he could to his feet, and, rather dazed, looked round. Several of his men began to run towards him, but his own gaze was fixed on the figure of St. Four in his red uniform, lying motionless a few yards away. La Vireville hurried to him. But there was no need of haste, nor possibility of aid. The back of his head was blown away.
Whether St. Four had actually saved his life or no, his intention of doing so seemed clear then to La Vireville, remembering how his enemy had thrown himself against him when he had heard the shell coming. He stood a second or two looking down at the man whom he could not forgive. The brain that had planned and carried out his betrayal now lay spilt on the sand at his feet. "But that does not undo what he did?" Who was it had said that? . . . He stooped and covered the terrible evidence of mortality with his handkerchief, a red trickle coursing down his own wrist the while. . . .
Le Goffic in his unconsciousness was moaning and muttering again. This time it was something about "Yvonne."
"Mon pauvre gars!" murmured La Vireville, bending over him. "I am afraid you have your marching orders, whatever the surgeon may say."
How had Le Goffic been got here—how had any of them come alive out of that place, where the sand was pitted with grapeshot like dust after a thunderstorm? He could hardly tell even now. Long after the order to retire should have come, the régiment d'Hector and the little Chouan contingent, both fearfully reduced, had gone on stoically firing and falling. . . . La Vireville had heard since that d'Hervilly, the author of the disaster, had given the word for retirement earlier, but that aide-de-camp after aide-de-camp to whom it was entrusted had been shot down, and then d'Hervilly himself received his own mortal wound. And when at last the order reached them, the régiment d'Hector, whose losses had already been so great, was obliged to sacrifice its company of cadets, boys of fifteen and sixteen, before the manœuvre could be carried out.
Well, somehow they had got out of the slaughter. And, afterwards, the cost of failure was counted—du Dresnay (René's regiment) fearfully cut up, its lieutenant-colonel in command killed; Hector—so valuable a corps by reason of the experienced naval officers which it contained—reduced to half its effectives; and in Loyal-Emigrant, out of a hundred and twenty veteran chevaliers de St. Louis, only forty-five returned from the attack. Other regiments had been less exposed—but all had suffered. . . .
La Vireville, still kneeling by Le Goffic, passed his hand over his eyes as though to wipe away a vision. Seasoned as he was, the past twelve hours had provided him with rather more in the way of sensation than he could stomach. St. Four was dead. He himself had promised, in certain circumstances, to be responsible for Anne-Hilarion. Lastly, irretrievable disaster was moving swiftly upon them. There was only Fort Penthièvre, as René had said, between them and Hoche's advance.
And, suddenly, a couple of snatches of Anne-Hilarion's favourite ballad floated up to Fortuné's brain from the region where, all unconsciously, he must have stored them that afternoon when he had heard it from the child's lips in the cave by Kerdronan. The first related to some man, whose name did not revisit him, lying drowned, fifty fathoms down, 'with the Scots lords at his feet.' The second brought with it the same picture which it had conjured up for him then—of the fisherman's young wife waiting in vain, in her cottage on the shore, for the husband who had been sacrificed, really, on the same altar as to-day's victims—and to-morrow's.