"What a queer name, la roche de Meurs, commandant!" one of the soldiers remarked.
"My good fellow, it is the imperative of the verb mourir (to die)," answered Bourgeois.
"What in the world is an imperative?"
"I will show you when the time comes."
The Vendeans debouched from the Brissac road. There were twelve thousand of them, commanded by Bonchamp and supported by d'Autichamp and Scépeaux. The Lombard battalion, as we have said, only numbered four hundred men. The fight lasted five hours. When the redoubts of the camp had been carried and the camp stormed, d'Autichamp shouted, "Stop killing!" but there were priests in the Vendean ranks who cried, "Give no quarter!" Three hundred and ninety-six men perished in the massacre! Bourgeois flung himself into the river with his three remaining men, two of these men were killed in the river by his side and he and his companion were both wounded. But, wounded though he was, Bourgeois made his way along the Angers road and caught up at l'Image de Morus the 6th battalion of Paris which was also fleeing. He rallied the fugitives and stopped them. Just at that moment the Jemmapes battalion was marching out of Angers, and Bourgeois found himself at the head of a battalion and a half. He retraced his steps, in his turn attacked the Chouans and forced them to entrench themselves in the château and island. An eye-witness told me that, for more than a league, red serpents could be seen on the foam of the waves of the Loire! Whole squads were being carried by the river to the ocean.[5]
I left Meurs, as I have said, after a day's sojourn there.
On this journey through la Vendée, the same phenomenon occurred to me a second time as that during my Soissons excursion—namely, the farther the distance increased between me and Paris, the nearer did I seem to advance towards the North Pole. My uniform excited enthusiasm in the neighbourhood of Paris and at Blois I still found admirers; at Angers, this was reduced to mere curiosity; but at Meurs and Beaulieu and Beaumont I fell into frigid regions and felt that, as La Fayette had forewarned me, if it went on much longer there would be some danger in passing along within range of hedges and thickets. At Chemillé my uniform nearly caused a riot. As I have mentioned, I had with me a change of dress; it was a new shooting costume. After the three days and the journey to Soissons and the expedition to Rambouillet, the old one was not fit to wear again. Well, this costume was in a kind of long portmanteau, one compartment of which contained my rifle, which was taken to pieces. All I should have to do, then, would be to divest myself of my National Guard uniform, fold it up neatly and pack it into my portmanteau, in the place of my shooting suit, put that on my back and continue my journey, and, evidently, three-fourths of the dangers I might be running would disappear; but it seemed to me that to do such a thing would be an act of cowardice unworthy of one who had taken part in the fighting of July. So I stuck to my uniform and contented myself instead with airing my gun. Next day I ordered my horse for eight in the morning. I ostentatiously loaded my gun with two balls (which was a fresh imprudence), I slung it across my back, and I passed through half the town in the midst of what I felt was a distinctly menacing silence.
I did not mean to sleep at Chollet (it was hardly six leagues from Chemillé to Chollet), but to arrive at two in the afternoon and stop there until the following morning.
At eleven o'clock I had passed Saint-Georges-du-Puy, and Trémentines by noon; finally, about one o'clock, I approached a place which looked dangerous (should there be danger abroad at all), because the road I had to traverse ran between the wood of Saint-Léger and the forest of Breil-Lambert. I was debating in my mind whether it would be better to pass this malo sitio, as they say in Spain, at a foot pace or at a gallop, when I thought I heard my name pronounced behind me in a panting voice. Directly I heard my name called I felt no fear of the person who was uttering it. It was scarcely probable, however, that I had heard correctly. But I now heard it repeated a second time and more distinctly than the first. Who on earth could know me in the department of Maine-et-Loire, between Chemillé and Chollet? I turned my horse's head in the direction whence the voice came and soon saw a man running with breathless haste from the corner of the road to Nuaillé, signing to me with his hat that it was he was calling me to stop. There was no longer any doubt that the man wished to catch me up and that he was calling to me; but what could he possibly want? As he came nearer, I could distinguish his costume, which was that of a peasant. I waited, more puzzled than ever. The man ran as fast as his legs would carry him, and, as his voice failed him for want of breath, he put more and more expression into his gestures. At last he joined me, and flinging himself on my boot, began to kiss my knees.