The immediate arrival of republican soldiers in the neighbourhood of Durbellière was neither expected, or even feared by the inhabitants of the château, or it would not have been left by Henri, as it had been, perfectly undefended. The truth was this: the royalists had hitherto been so very generally successful against the republicans; and that, when every odds of number, arms, and position had been in favour of their enemies, that they had learnt to look with contempt upon the blues, as they called them. Hitherto the royalists had always been the attacking party; the republicans had contented themselves with endeavouring to keep their position within the towns; and when driven from thence, had retreated altogether out of the revolted district. Except lately at Nantes, the Vendeans had as yet incurred no great reverse; they had not, therefore, learnt to fear that their houses would be attacked and burnt; their corn and cattle destroyed; and even their wives and children massacred. The troops which had now been dispatched by the Convention for the subjection of the country, were of a very different character from those with whom the Vendeans had as yet contended, and the royalists were not long before they experienced all the horrors of a civil war, in which quarter was refused them by their enemies, and mercy even to children was considered as a crime.
When Santerre rode up to the door of the château, ten men might have taken possession of Durbellière. It was a fine July evening, about seven o’clock. The old Marquis had been wheeled in his easy chair out of the house, to the top of the broad steps which led from the back of the château into the garden. Agatha was sitting at his feet on the top step, reading to him, and the little Chevalier Mondyon, who retained no semblance of the soldier about his person, except the red scarf round his waist, was seated straddle-legged atop of one of the huge white lions which guarded the entrance.
“Agatha, I hear horsemen,” said the boy, jumping off his seat. “There—there—quite plain!”
“It is Henri and Charles coming from Clisson,” said Agatha.
“If it be, they have a troop of cavalry with them,” said the Chevalier. “Perhaps it’s the Prince de Talmont, for I think they have not so many horsemen with them in the south,” and the little Chevalier ran out to greet, as he thought, his gallant friends.
“Whoever they be, Agatha,” said the old Marquis, “give them a warm welcome if they come in the King’s name. They will know that I cannot rise to meet them, but make them welcome to everything in and about the château.”
Agatha had closed her book, and was rising to execute her father’s wishes, when Momont, the grey-haired butler, hurrying round from the kitchen-door as fast his old legs would carry him, screamed out: “The blues! the blues!”
Agatha, who was in the act of entering the house as she heard the fearful cry, turned instantly back to her father’s side. She was deadly pale, but she spoke not a word. She grasped her father’s hand, and fixed herself close to his chair, determined in that position to await the worst that her enemies could do her.
“Run, Agatha, run,” said the Marquis, “into the garden, my dear love. The gate will be open at the back. Run, Agatha, for your life!” Agatha, however, did not stir.
“Do you hear me, Agatha?” continued the old man, wildly supplicating her to go from him. “Do you hear me, my daughter? If you would have my blessing before I die, do as I bid you now. What are my grey hairs to your young life, that you should sacrifice yourself for me?”