There was a little crowd round the smith’s house, and in spite of his unmilitary predilections, he could not help feeling proud at the public testimony that was paid to his sons’ merits: he showed this by the tear that stood in his eye, as he said:
“They are welcome too, M. Chapeau; they are very welcome too. I am glad to see ye, safe and sound from the wars, lads. I am glad to see thee, Jean: I am glad to see thee, Peter,” and he gave a hand to each of the two young men, who were delighted with their unexpected kind reception. “And this I will say before the neighbours here, as ye would go to the wars, and make soldiers of yourselves, I am well pleased to hear ye behaved yourselves like gallant brave men should do. I’d sooner that your friends should have had to tell me that ye were both stiff and cold, than that ye should have returned yourselves with shamed faces to own that ye had disgraced the trade ye have chosen to take up with.”
“Bravo! Bravo!” said Chapeau, “I am glad in my heart, Michael Stein, to hear you speak so kindly to the lads; and so will M. Henri be glad to hear it, for they are two of his own especial troop—they are two of the gallant red scarfs, who swam into Saumur with their muskets tucked under their arms.”
“But understand me, boys,” continued the smith, still speaking so that the neighbours standing round could hear him. “I am right glad to see both of you, as I am to see M. Chapeau, or any other gallant friend who is kind enough to visit me and Annot. But mind, it is as visitors I receive you; in a few days, doubtless, you must go away to the wars again; till then ye shall have the best I can give, both to eat and to drink. Ye shall have your own way, and never be asked to do a turn of work. Ye shall have gay holyday times, and holyday fare, and anything the old man can do, and anything the old man can give to make you merry, he will do, and he will give, because you have come back gallantly, and have not brought dishonour to the roost where ye were hatched—but more than this I will not agree to. Ye would not abide at home, as I desired, and this therefore is no longer a home for you; ye would not be content to be forgers of weapons, but ye must e’en use them too, and ye have had your way. Now, lads, I must have my way; and for the rest of the time I must have it alone. This is no longer your home, lads, and I am no longer your master. Ye would be soldiers when I did not wish it; now let ye be soldiers, and I’m the less sorry for it, as it seems like that you’ll prove good soldiers. And now, Peter and Jean, you’re welcome both of you. Jacques Chapeau you are most heartily welcome—come Annot, let the lads have a swinging breakfast, for I know these soldiers fight not well unless they be fed well,” and so finishing his speech, he led the way into the cottage.
The three men were too well pleased with their reception to grumble at the smith’s mode of expressing his feeling. Jean and Peter were delighted to find that they were to be entertained with the best their father could afford, instead of with black looks and hard words, and that the only punishment to be immediately inflicted on them, was that they were to do no work; the party, therefore, entered the cottage tolerably well pleased with each other.
It is not to be supposed that Annot remained in the back-ground during the whole of her father’s oration. She had come out of the cottage, and kissed her two brothers, and shaken hands with her lover; she then returned in again, and Chapeau had followed her, and as the two were left alone together, for a minute or two, I think it very probable that she kissed him also; but I cannot speak positively on this point.
Then they all sat down to breakfast, and Paul Rouel and old Gobelin, who had contrived to be of the party, were greatly surprised to hear and to see how civil Michael was to his sons. He pressed them to eat of the very best, as he did to Chapeau, and talked to them about the war, listened to all their tales, and had altogether lost the domineering authoritative tone of voice, with which he usually addressed his own family; it was only in talking to Annot that he was the same hot-tempered old man as ever. The two young men themselves were hardly at their ease; but they eat their breakfast, and made the best they could of it.
“Smothered fire burns longest, neighbour Gobelin,” said Rouel, as he left the house. “Take my word, Michael will never forgive those two boys of his the longest day he has to live.”
After breakfast, Michael Stein and his whole party went to mass, as did all the soldier peasants, who had returned from Saumur; and the old Curé of the parish, who had now recovered possession of his own church, with much solemnity returned thanks to God for the great victory which the Vendeans had gained, and sung a requiem for the souls of the royalists who had fallen in the battle. When they left the church, the peasants all formed themselves into a procession, the girls going first, and the men following them; and in this manner they paraded round the green, carrying a huge white flag, which had been embroidered in the village, and which bore in its centre, in conspicuous letters of gold, those three words, the loyal Shibboleth of La Vendée, “Vive le Roi!”
This flag they fixed on a pole erected in the centre of the green, and then they set to work to amuse themselves with twenty different games. The games, however, did not flourish—the men were too eager to talk of what they had done, and the girls were too willing to listen—they divided themselves into fifty little parties, in which fifty different accounts were given of the taking of Saumur, and in each party three or four different warriors were named as having been the most conspicuous heroes of the siege. Each narrator had some especially esteemed leader or chief, who in his eyes greatly exceeded the other leaders, and the prodigious feats of valour performed by this favoured warrior was the first and most wonderful subject of discourse. Then, but at a modest distance, as regards the glory of the achievements related, each peasant told what he had done himself; two or three probably made out their little history together, and told of each other’s valour: that homely and somewhat vulgar Scotch proverb, “you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours,” was certainly unknown to them, but nevertheless they fully recognized the wise principle of mutual accommodation which that proverb teaches.