La Vendée

by Anthony Trollope

Barrère alone had no sword. His hand was constantly playing with a little double-barrelled pistol, which he continually cocked and uncocked, the fellow of which lay immediately before him. He was a tall, well built, handsome man, about thirty years of age, with straight black hair, brushed upright from his forehead; his countenance gave the idea of eagerness and impetuosity, rather than cruelty or brutality. He was, however, essentially egotistical and insincere; he was republican, not from conviction, but from prudential motives; he adhered to the throne a while, and deserted it only when he saw that it was tottering; for a time he belonged to the moderate party in the Republic, and voted with the Girondists; he gradually joined the Jacobins, as he saw that they were triumphing over their rivals, and afterwards was one of those who handed over the leaders of the Reign of Terror to the guillotine, and assisted in denouncing Robespierre and St. Just. He was one of the very few who managed to outlive the Revolution, which he did for nearly half a century.

His face was hardly to be termed prepossessing, but it certainly did not denote the ruthless ferocity which the nature of the task he had undertaken would require, and which he exercised in its accomplishment. Nature had not formed him to be a monster gloating in blood; the Republic had altered the disposition which nature had given him, and he learnt among those with whom he had associated, to delight in the work which they required at his hands. Before the Reign of Terror was over, he had become one of those who most loudly called for more blood, while blood was running in torrents on every side; it was he who demanded the murder of the Queen, when even Robespierre was willing to save her. It was he who declared in the Convention that the dead were the only enemies who never returned; and yet this same man lived to publish a pamphlet, in which he advocated the doctrine, that under no circumstances could one human being be justified in taking the life of another.

He was dressed in a blue dress-coat, which in spite of the heat of the weather, was buttoned close round his body; he was rather a dandy in his costume, for his tightly-fitted breeches were made to show the form of his well-formed leg, and his cravat was without a wrinkle. Before the Revolution, Barrère had been a wealthy aristocrat.

Santerre, who sat next to him, was in every respect unlike the ci-devant nobleman. He was a large, rough, burly man, about forty years of age; his brown hair was long and uncombed, his face was coarse and hot, and the perspiration was even now running down it, though drinking and smoking was at present his hardest work; his lips were thick and sensual, and his face was surrounded by huge whiskers, which made him look uncouth and savage; his cravat was thrown off, and his shirt was open at the neck, so as to show his brown throat and brawny chest; a huge horse pistol lay before him close to his glass, and a still huger sword stood up against his chair. He was drinking hard and talking loudly, and was evidently quite at ease with his company; he was as completely at home in the Mayor’s parlour at Angers, as when rushing into the Tuilleries at the head of his fellow citizens from the faubourg St. Antoine.

Santerre was of Flemish descent, and by trade a brewer. He was possessed of considerable wealth, which he freely spent among the poor, while famine pressed sore upon them; he was consequently loved, followed, and obeyed. He was the King of the Faubourgs; and though the most ruthless in his animosity to the royalists, he was not altogether a bad man, neither was he by nature absolutely cruel. He had adopted the Revolution from a belief that the great mass of the people would be better off in the world without kings, nobility, or aristocrats; and having made himself firm in this belief, he used to the utmost his coarse, huge, burly power in upsetting these encumbrances on the nation. His love of liberty had become a fanaticism. He had gone with the current, and he had no fine feelings to be distressed at the horrid work which he had to do, no humanity to be shocked; but he was not one of those who delighted in bloodshed and revelled in the tortures which he inflicted on others. He had been low in the world’s esteem, and the Revolution had raised him to a degree of eminence; this gratified his ambition, and made him a ready tool in the hands of those who knew how to use his well-known popularity, his wealth, his coarse courage and great physical powers.

Westerman sat at the window a little away from the others. He was a man of indomitable courage and undying perseverance. He was a German, who had been banished from Prussia, and having entered the French army as a private soldier had gradually risen to be an officer. A short time before the storming of the Tuilleries he had foreseen that the democratic party was prevailing, and he had joined it. Danton and Santerre had discovered and appreciated his courage and energy, and he soon found himself a leader of the people. It was he who directed the movements of the populace on the 10th of August, when the Tuilleries was sacked, and the Swiss guards were massacred on the steps of the King’s palace. Since that time Westerman had been a successful soldier in the republican army, not that he was by any means a vehement democrat: his object had been military success, and that only. He had neither political theories or political ambition. Chance had thrown him in the way of the Republic, and he had become a republican. He was then attached to the army of Dumourier as aide-de-camp to that General, and was in the confidence of him and of Danton, at the moment that Dumourier was endeavouring to hand over the armies of the Republic to the power of Prussia and of Austria. He again, however, was wise in time. Dumourier calculated too entirely on the affection of the army to himself and failed; but before he failed, Westerman had left him. He was now again a trustworthy servant of the Republic, and as such was sent to assist in the fearful work which the tyranny of the democrats required.

His unnatural ruthlessness and prompt obedience were of no avail to him. Soon after his return from the western provinces he perished under the guillotine.

“And so the good Cathelineau is dead,” said Santerre. “The invincible, the invulnerable, the saint! ha, ha! What sweet names these dear friends of ours have given themselves.”

“Yes,” said General Bourbotte; “the messenger who told me had come direct from their hospital; Cathelineau breathed his last the day before yesterday at St. Laurent.”

“Let us drink to his health, gentlemen; his spiritual health,” said Santerre; “and to his safe journey;” and the brewer raised his glass to his lips, and drank the toast which he had proposed.