For a considerable time they said nothing to each other as to the probable events of the day, for they knew well that they could hear no news for some few hours to come. By degrees the cold grey dawn of an October morning broke into the room, and the candles were put out. Any ordinary employment at such a time was utterly out of the question, so they clustered together at the window and waited for such news as chance might bring them from time to time. Annot Stein, who was now living with them in the house, came in and joined them, and after a while the old Marquis was brought into the room, and took his station at the opposite window to that occupied by de Lescure.
The noises in the street were incessant. Soldiers on horseback and on foot; cannons and waggons passed on without a moment’s pause: the men shouted as they went by, eager for revenge against the enemy who had driven them from their homes; and women mixed themselves in the crowd, shrieking and screaming as they parted from their husbands or their lovers.
The morning air was cold and chill, but still de Lescure insisted on having the windows open, that he might cheer with his voice the men as they passed below him, and that he might call to those by name whom he might chance to know. His wife was astonished to find how many he remembered, and to perceive that every soldier, as he passed, recognized the wan face of his General, and expressed his sincere delight at again seeing his features.
“Well done, Forestier! well done, my gallant friend!” he exclaimed, as a tall, handsome man rode by, who, from his garb and arms, was evidently an officer. He had, however, like many of the officers, belonged to a lowly rank, and still looked up with reverence to those of his fellow-soldiers, whose blood was more noble than his own. “You are never missing when strong arms are wanted.”
The man took off his cap, and bowed low to the saddle bow. Had he been born to the manner, he could not have done it with more grace. “God bless you, General,” he said, “God grant that we may soon see you here among us again;” and a thousand loud clamorous voices echoed the wish. A tear rose to de Lescure’s eye, which none but his wife could mark: he knew that his friend’s kind wishes were vain; that he had now, personally, no hope except in death; and he could not entirely repress a vain regret that he might live to witness the success of his party, of which, since his sojourn in Laval, he had taught himself to be sanguine.
It was but a moment before the tear was gone, and his eyes were again on fire with enthusiasm. “Ah, de Bauge—good de Bauge!” he exclaimed, as a friend of his early youth passed by, using at the moment every effort to repress the wild clamouring hurry of his followers. “God prosper thee, dear friend! Oh, that we now had but a score or two such soldiers as thou art!”
“We have many hundreds here as good,” said de Bauge, pausing a moment from his work to salute the friends whom he recognized at the window.
“Thousands perhaps as brave, thousands as eager, if they did but know how to use their courage,” answered de Lescure.
After this there was a lull for a few moments, and then a troop of cuirassiers trotted down the street, jingling their bridles, swords, and spurs as they moved. This small body of cavalry had been, for some time, the pride and strongest hope of the Vendeans. They had been gradually armed, horsed, and trained during the war, by the greatest exertions of the wealthiest among their officers, and they had certainly proved to be worth all the trouble they had cost. They were now, alas! reduced to half the number, which had ridden out of Chatillon before the battle of Cholet; but the remnant were still full of spirit, and anxious to avenge their fallen brethren. Their bright trappings and complete accoutrements, afforded a strange contrast to the medley appearance of the footmen, who retreated back to the houses, to make way for the horses; and told more plainly than any words could do, the difference between an army of trained soldiers, and a band of brave, but tumultuous peasants.
It was now nine o’clock; and shortly after the horsemen had all passed through the street, the little Chevalier came in with the news, that they were immediately about to attack the blues; the republican army being already within a mile of the town; and that Henri was at that moment leaving the guard-house, and preparing to lead the attack; and when he had told so much aloud to them all, he stooped down to whisper to de Lescure, that Adolphe Denot was riding everywhere through the town at Henri’s right hand, and that he was the redoubtable Mad Captain, the leader of La Petite Vendée.