Nothing, nothing was left save the desperate honour of having been the last to uphold the splendid hopes with which, in the autumn, this business had begun—that, and a woman’s love and admiration and succour. It was Valentine who saw the dark waters close above his head and went down with him to the depths; and, when the moment came that the words were wrenched from him, as from a man on the rack—“There is no way out of it—no possible way out; I must do it!” it was she who wrote at his dictation the letter to Brune saying that, for the sake of the lives of others, he agreed to the terms of surrender, would give the necessary orders, and afterwards, availing himself of the safe-conduct, would reach Vannes by the day appointed to give up his sword in person to the General-in-chief.
(3)
The same night that this letter arrived at its destination, a young Republican officer was lying in his bed at the Hôtel de l’Epée at Vannes, not unmindful of his good fortune in having it to himself. The town was crammed with Republican troops, and was likely to be even fuller in a few days, when the drafts en route for Finistère were recalled, as they presumably would be now that the Marquis de Kersaint had agreed to submit, which recent piece of news was known to the young officer—his name was Marcel Poulain—because he was on Brune’s staff.
He was nearly asleep when the door was suddenly opened, and the landlord’s apologetic voice informed him that an aide-de-camp of the First Consul’s had just come in dead-beat, and, having delivered his urgent despatches to the General, must be given a bed at once. Unfortunately there was not a bed in the place which had not two occupants already except——
“Yes there is,” interrupted the young man angrily, “Next door. Put him there!”
“I cannot, sir,” retorted the landlord. “The gentleman next door is indisposed, and is also, I think, a Royalist. And the aide-de-camp has scarcely drawn rein since leaving Paris. . . .”
“Oh, very well,” groaned Marcel resignedly, and almost immediately the heavy, stumbling steps of the exhausted courier could be heard along the corridor, and in another moment he staggered in and fell with a jangle of spurs and a groan on to a chair. Marcel, on his elbow, scrutinised him.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “I’m damned if it’s not Adolphe Bergeron!”
“I scarcely know who I am,” returned the other hoarsely. “I only know that I am absolutely in pieces. I killed one horse . . . and all for——” He did not say for what.
And presently, his friend having made room for him, he stretched himself out beside him with more groans, and complaints of the hardness of the bed.