Their suspense was at length broken; not by any visit or message from their own party, but by a most unexpected and unwelcome sight. On a sudden, they again heard the tumultuous noise of troops coming down the street; but, on this occasion, they were entering, instead of leaving the town; and as the rushing body of men turned a corner in the street, it was seen that they all wore the well-known blue uniform of the republican regiments. Yes, there in truth were the blues, now immediately under the house they were occupying: file after file of sturdy, grizzled veteran soldiers, hurried through the streets in quick, but regular time. Men quite unlike their own dear peasant soldiers; men with muskets in their hands, shakos on their heads, and cartouche boxes slung behind their backs. The three ladies, before whose sight this horrid reality of a danger, so long apprehended, suddenly appeared, had never been so near a scene of absolute battle. Agatha, it is true, had had to endure through one long and dreadful night the presence of Santerre and his men in the château of Durbellière; but then she had no active part to play; she had only to sit in quiet, and wait for her doom: now they all felt that something should be done, some means should be tried to escape from the danger which was so close to them.
The women immediately withdrew from the window, and wheeled away the couch on which the Marquis was lying, but nothing would induce de Lescure to allow himself to be stirred; in fixed silence, with his head resting low on the window sill, he gazed on the crowded soldiers, as they poured thick and numerous into the town.
“Oh, where is Henri now?” said Madame de Lescure. “What shall we do—where are we to go? Speak, Charles, for heaven’s sake, speak!”
Marie had opened the door, and now stood with it in her hands, wishing to run, and yet not choosing to leave her companions in misfortune; while Agatha vainly endeavoured with her unassisted strength to remove her father from the room.
“Henri is just where he ought to be,” said de Lescure. “There—there—now they come—now they come. By heavens, there’s Denot leading—and see, there’s de Bauge and Arthur—dear boy, gallant boy. Well done, Henri Larochejaquelin: had you been grey it could not have been better done; he has got the blues as it were into a wine-press; poor devils, not one can escape alive.”
De Lescure, when he first saw the republicans coming down the street, had for a moment thought that the town was in their hands; but a minute’s reflection served to show him, that were such really the case, they would have driven before them hundreds of the retreating Vendeans. The peasants had never yet so utterly forgotten their courage, as to throw down their weapons at the first sight of their enemy, and fly without making an effort for victory, and de Lescure was sure that such could not now have been the case. It immediately occurred to him, that the passage of the gate must have been purposely left free to the devoted blues, and that Henri and his men would fall upon them in the town, where their discipline and superior arms, would be but of comparatively little use to them.
He was right; for while the women were yet trembling, panic-struck at the first sight of their enemies, Henri and his party had entered the long street from the market-place, and with a fierce yell of defiance, the Vendean cavalry rushed upon the astonished blues, meeting them almost beneath the very window from which de Lescure was looking.
The three women crouched round the aged Marquis in the farthest corner of the room, comforted to find that he whom they so trusted still expected victory; but nearly fainting with fear, and deafened with the sounds of the conflict. To de Lescure the sight was pleasure itself; as he could not be in the fight, the next thing was to see the combatants and cheer his friends. The foremost of the republican soldiers soon gave way beneath the weight of the attack; though they fought sturdily, and did their best to keep their ground. They could not, however, retreat far; their own men still advancing behind blocked up the way; and after a while, that which De Lescure had predicted took place: another party of Vendeans had attacked them in the rear, and occupied the only gate through which they could leave the city.
And now the slaughter in the street was dreadful, and the blues hemmed in on every side fought desperately for their lives, like beasts at bay. Every now and again the Vendeans retreated a step or two, driven back by the fury of their foes, and then again regained their ground, advancing over the bodies of the slain. No one in the strange medley on which he was looking, was more conspicuous to de Lescure’s eyes than Adolphe Denot; he had lost his cap in the confusion of the fight, and his thin, wan face, disfigured by the wound which the Chevalier had given him, was plainly to be seen; and de Lescure was shocked by the change which he saw there: the only weapon he bore was a huge sabre, which he swung round his head with a strength which could not have been expected from his attenuated frame; he was often the most forward, always among the first of the assailants; and frequently became surrounded by the blues, who were prevented by the closeness of the crowd from using their arms. He had caught de Lescure’s eye, and from time to time turned his face up toward the window, as though anxious to discover whether he who had before witnessed his cowardice was now looking upon his prowess.
“By heavens! he fights well,” said de Lescure to his wife, who was gradually creeping somewhat nearer to her husband, but still unable to face the horrors of that open window. “He is greatly changed—look—look at him now; well done, Adolphe—well done: there, there; he’s down! Poor fellow, I fear he has struck his last blow: gallant Henri, brave Henri—there, they are up again together; but Denot’s face is covered with blood. He still has his sword, however—well done, Denot: bravely done Denot: no man of those living or dead, ever struck a better blow than that.”