It is true about M. du Ménars. He was a brave man and a good officer. R.I.P. His men no longer exist as a force.
I want Gaston to make for La Vergne. But he will not, principally, I think, because all his desire is there. But it would be an excellent headquarters—or more accurately, I fear, place of retreat—for a time.
February 4.—Cadoudal is reported to be actually treating with Brune, and the terms, alas, include disarmament. In a day or two Gaston will find himself literally alone, with his mere handful of men, against Brune’s whole army. He still hopes for help from England, and for some outcome of those ambitious plans which—too late—the Prince’s council have made, and says that so long as he can keep open a part of the coast of Finistère for that purpose, so long he is doing his duty and not sacrificing men uselessly; and that it will take Brune considerable time to advance across the Morbihan into Finistère. This is true. I start for England with his despatches to-morrow morning. My admiration for him knows no bounds; he has broken those “aspera fata.”
But this evening I had a letter from Paris, from “Paul Berry,” which has made me very uneasy. He says—and he should know, if anyone—that the First Consul is furious against the “Marquis de Kersaint,”—“that insolent without an army who still holds out”—and they say that he has sworn to make an example of one Chouan leader at least. A horrible fear possesses me that that example may be made of the last in arms, the highest in rank, and . . . his foe of Rivoli. Does Bonaparte remember that, I wonder?
Much troubled by this letter, which I received after seeing Gaston and getting my last instructions I went to him again. The Allée des Vieilles has such a bad reputation after dark in the district that we have been able to use it undisturbed as a bivouac. (It makes a detestable one, owing to the wind on the lande.) I found Gaston walking up and down in the darkness by the ghostly stones, muffled in his cloak. I told him what I had just heard from Paris. He laughed.
“Is the young man from Corsica a bugbear who has frightened even you, Pierre?” he asked. “I promise you he shall not have me to ‘make an example of,’ if that is his phrase, till the last possible moment. And when I have done all I can—what does it matter if he succeeds?”
Seeing him in that mood, and feeling that I was leaving him—with what a heavy heart!—to I know not what imminent perils, I said, “You need never fall into his hands, Gaston, whatever of defeat happens. Here the door is always open behind you. The sea——”
He interrupted me, in that suddenly freezing voice he has when he is displeased. “I am surprised at you, Pierre,” he said, and turned his back on me.
I was a little hurt; of course I knew better than to insult him by suggesting that he should desert his men. I only meant to remind him that should it come to submission—and in my heart, I can see nothing else before him—once the formalities over, he can so easily take ship for England. I explained this, and, though I did not like using this weapon, I am so afraid of what I may be leaving him to—and most of all his own indomitable pride—that I added, “Gaston, remember that you would not sail alone!”
A little quiver went through him, almost as if I had struck him. He said never a word, but I saw his face for a second in the light of the camp fire. I presumed, I daresay, for there is perfect understanding between them on all things—yet, for all that, surely she should have some consideration shown her! In that thought lies my best hope.