Marigny made a gesture. “Not enough! We are going to attack directly it is light. Since they are three to one it is better than waiting for them. If you had had fifty men I would have given you the forlorn hope. As it is you must stay here. I shall place a couple of guns in this corner of the wood, with your men and those of M. des Nouhes. You will not be able to hold it long, but remain as long as possible, and then—save the guns if you can.”
“Very good, mon général,” replied Louis tranquilly, though he was conscious of a surprisingly keen pang of disappointment. “Who will lead the forlorn hope then?”
“La Roche-Saint-André, probably.”
“Lucky devil!” observed Louis. “He will have a chance to get warm.”
Marigny turned his horse. “We shall all be equally cold to-night,” he said significantly. “Good-bye, Saint-Ermay.” He wrung Louis’ hand and rode back.
And as the light filtered a little more rapidly through the leafless tree, drawing on to the fatal dawn, the wood began to stir. Some even made shift to relight the dead fires and to cook their last meal. Louis’ outward preparation for death consisted in tearing a strip of shabby silver lace from his sleeve and tying back his hair with it. Marigny’s two cannons came up, and with them a score of Des Nouhes’ men from Les Aubiers, La Rochejaquelein’s country. Louis shook hands with their commander, who wore a woman’s petticoat pinned about his breast, and sabots. Then he went towards his own little contingent.
“My children,” he said, “we have come to our last fight. Let us show the Angevins here that we are as much men as they, and die as Monsieur le Marquis would have had us. For myself, I give you my word of honour that I will stay by the guns as long as there is ammunition left.”
He went round to shake hands with the little group, but they all demanded permission to embrace him, and Toussaint Lelièvre clung to him passionately, whispering hoarse and broken words: “If only I could die for you, M. Louis! . . .”
“Eh, mon ami,” said Saint-Ermay, disengaging himself, “we have all got to die some time, and this, apparently, is the hour. The only thing that matters is the manner of our dying.”
The young Vendean looked at him with his eyes full of tears. “If you fall,” he said almost fiercely, “I will save you. . . .”