"Merci, maman!" said the young man, without opening his eyes.
There was a depression in the dunes, a sort of corridor between two little eminences. Every clod of it, every blade of grass against the young sky, La Vireville could see now if he shut his eyes. For it was into that little sandy hollow of death, dominated as it was by three batteries at half-cannon shot, that he and his men had been obliged to follow the régiment d'Hector.
For a moment its image, as it rested with him, was blotted out by the picture of a whirlwind, the flying Chouan column, broken at the first thunder of the Republican guns. Fortuné saw again the Duc de Lévis on his horse in the midst of the torrent, trying vainly to rally the distracted peasants, and literally unable to keep up with them at the gallop, so fast did they flee. How La Vireville himself had succeeded in keeping his contingent together he scarcely knew—yet they had followed him. . . . There was cover of a sort here, in the ravine, and cover they knew instinctively how to utilise. But the fire was murderous.
"Courage, mes gars, this will soon be over, and then we can advance again!" he had shouted, believing anything but what he had said. It was worse, far worse, than the cannonade at Auray, but this time his men could not run. They fell instead, and, raging inwardly, he had watched one after another go down. . . . At last he saw Le Goffic throw out his arms and stagger. Hastily he threw down his empty musket (for he was firing like the rest) to go to him, and as he did so, heard a cry behind him:
"Look out, La Vireville, look out!" The voice was St. Four's. Concurrently there came the whistle of a shell, and Fortuné was sent reeling a couple of yards forward—the result, as he instantly realised, of a very rough push from his aide-de-camp. The next moment there was a violent explosion, and, amid showers of sand, he was hurled on to his back.
Half buried in sand and rubbish he struggled as quickly as he could to his feet, and, rather dazed, looked round. Several of his men began to run towards him, but his own gaze was fixed on the figure of St. Four in his red uniform, lying motionless a few yards away. La Vireville hurried to him. But there was no need of haste, nor possibility of aid. The back of his head was blown away.
Whether St. Four had actually saved his life or no, his intention of doing so seemed clear then to La Vireville, remembering how his enemy had thrown himself against him when he had heard the shell coming. He stood a second or two looking down at the man whom he could not forgive. The brain that had planned and carried out his betrayal now lay spilt on the sand at his feet. "But that does not undo what he did?" Who was it had said that? . . . He stooped and covered the terrible evidence of mortality with his handkerchief, a red trickle coursing down his own wrist the while. . . .
Le Goffic in his unconsciousness was moaning and muttering again. This time it was something about "Yvonne."