"Impossible, my love; we must have heard of him on the way; had he gone round by Montrenil, he must still have pa.s.sed over the bridge of Fouchard, and we should have heard of him there."

"He must have ridden over in the night; you see he so evidently wanted to conceal from you where he was going."

"My own impression is, that he is gone to Paris," said Henri; "but let him have gone where he may, of one thing I am sure; he was not in his right senses when he left the council-room, nor yet when he was speaking to me in the street; poor Adolphe! I pity him with all my heart. I can feel how miserable he must be."

"Why should he be miserable, Henri? The truth is, you mistake his character. I do not wish to make you think ill of your friend; but Adolphe is one of those men whom adversity will improve. You and our father have rather spoilt him between you; he is too proud, too apt to think that everything should bend to his wishes: he has yet to learn that in this world he must endure to have his dearest wishes thwarted; and till adversity has taught him that, his feelings will not be manly, nor his conduct sensible."

"Poor fellow!" said Henri, "if adversity will teach him, he is likely to get his lesson now. Did he part quietly with you, Agatha, on the day before we started to Saumur?"

"Anything but quietly," said she. "I would not tell you all he said, for on the eve of a battle in which you were to fight side by side, I did not wish to make you angry with your friend and companion: but had a raging madman, just escaped from his keepers, come to offer me his hand, his conduct could not have been worse than Adolphe Denot's."

"Was he violent with you, Agatha?"

"He did not offer to strike me, nor yet to touch me, if you mean that: but he threatened me; and that in such awful sounding, and yet ridiculous language, that you would hardly know whether to laugh or to be angry if I could repeat it."

"What did he say, Agatha?"

"Say! it would be impossible for me to tell you; he swung his arms like a country actor in a village barn, and declared that if he were not killed at Saumur, he would carry me away in spite of all that my friends could do to hinder him."

"Poor fellow! poor Adolphe!" said Henri.

"You are not sorry I refused him? You would, indeed, have had to say, poor Agatha! had I done otherwise."

"I am not sorry that you refused him, but I am sorry you could not love him."

"Why you say yourself he is mad: would you wish me to love a madman?"

"It is love that has made him mad. Adolphe is not like other men; his pa.s.sions are stronger; his feelings more acute; his regrets more poignant."

"He should control his pa.s.sions as other men must do," said Agatha: "all men who do not, are madmen." She remained silent for a few moments, and then added, "you are right in saying that love has made him mad; but it is the meanest of all love that has done so--it is self-love."

"I think you are too hard upon him, Agatha; but it is over now, and cannot be helped."

"What did he say to you, Henri, when he left you in Saurnur?"

"His name had been mentioned you know in the council as one of the leaders: Bonchamps, I believe, proposed it; but Charles objected, and named Charette in his place, and Cathelineau and the rest agreed to it.

This angered Adolphe, and no wonder, for he is ambitious, and impatient of neglect. I wish they would have let him been named instead of me, but they would not, and when the list was finished, he was not on it. He got up and said something; I hardly know what, but he complained of Stofflet being one of the Generals; and then Charles rebuked him, and Adolphe in a pa.s.sion left the room."

"And you followed him?" asked Agatha.

"Yes, I followed him; but he was like a raging madman. I don't know how it was; but instead of complaining about the Generals, he began complaining about you. I don't know exactly whether I ought to tell you what he said--indeed I had not intended to have done so."

"Nay, Henri; now you have raised my woman's curiosity, and you positively must tell me."

"I hardly know how to tell you," said Henri, "for I really forget how he said it. I don't know on earth how he introduced your name at all; but he ended in accusing you of having a more favoured lover."

Agatha blushed slightly as she answered:

"He has no right whatever to ask the question; nor if I have a favoured lover, should it be any ground of complaint to him. But to you, Henri, if you wish a promise from me on the subject, I will readily and willingly promise, that I will receive no man's love, and, far as I can master my own heart, I will myself entertain no pa.s.sion without your sanction: and you, dear brother, you shall make me a return for my confidence; you shall ask me to marry no man whom I cannot love."

"Don't for a moment think, dearest, that what he said, made me uneasy as regarded you: but whom do you think he selected for you--of whom do you think he is jealous?"

"I cannot attempt to guess a madman's thoughts, Henri."

"I will tell you then," said he; "but you will be shocked as well as surprised. He is jealous of Cathelineau!"

"Cathelineau?" said Agatha, blushing now much more deeply than she had done before.

"Yes, Cathelineau, the postillion."

"No, not Cathelineau the postillion; but Cathelineau the Saint of Anjou, and the hero of St. Florent, and of Saumur. He at any rate has linked my name with that of a man worthy of a woman's love."

"Worthy, Agatha, had his birth and early years been different from what they were."

"Worthy as he is of any woman's love," said Agatha. "Great deeds and n.o.ble conduct make birth of no avail, to give either honour or disgrace."

"But, Agatha, surely you would not wed Cathelineau, were he to ask you?"

"Why should you ask that question, Henri?" said she: "are the words which Adolphe Denot has uttered in his wild insanity of such weight, as to make you regard as possible such an event? Have I not told you I would wed no one without your sanction? Do you not know that Cathelineau has never spoken to me but the coldest words of most distant respect?

Do you not know that his heart and soul are intent on other things than woman's love? I, too, feel that this is not the time for love. While I live in continual dread that those I most value may fall in battle; while I fear that every messenger who comes to me in your absence, may have some fatal news to tell, I do not wish to take upon me a fresh burden of affection. Am I not best as I am, Henri, at present?" And she put her arm affectionately through his. "When the wars are over, and the King is on his throne, you shall bring me home a lover; some brave friend of your's who has proved himself a gallant knight."

"I would have him be a gallant knight, certainly," said Henri, "but he should also be a worthy gentleman."

"And is not Cathelineau a worthy gentleman?" forgetting in her enthusiasm that she was taking the cause of one who was being spoken of as her lover. "Oh, indeed he is; if valour, honesty, and honour, if trust in G.o.d, and forgetfulness of self, if humanity and generosity const.i.tute a gentleman, then is Cathelineau the prince of gentlemen: but do not, pray do not mistake me, Henri: a lover of scenery admires the tops of distant mountains, and gazes on their snowy peaks with a pleasure almost amounting to awe; but no one seeks to build his house on the summit: so do I admire the virtues, the devotion, the courage of Cathelineau; but my admiration is mixed with no love which would make me wish to join my lot with his. I only say, that despite his birth and former low condition, he is worthy of any woman's love."

Henri did not quite like his sister's enthusiasm, though he hardly knew why it displeased him. He had thought of Cathelineau only as a soldier and a General, and had found nothing in him that he did not approve of; but he felt that he could not welcome him as his darling sister's husband; "if Adolphe should have prophesied rightly," said he, to himself as he went from his sister's room to his own chamber, "but no!

whatever her feelings may be, she is too good to do anything that would displease me."

CHAPTER IV.

MICHAEL STEIN.

On the Sunday morning, after Henri's return to Durbelliere, Jacques Chapeau, with Jean and Peter Stein, left the chateau very early, and started for Echanbroignes. Word had been sent to the old smith by some of the neighbours, who had been at Saumur, that his two sons were safe and sound, and that they had behaved well at the siege, and a message at the same time reached Annot, informing her that Jacques meant to spend his next Sunday at the village; the party was therefore expected, and great preparations were made for a fete at Echanbroignes. The heroes of that place considered that they had somewhat celebrated themselves; in the first place, on final inquiry, it appeared, that not one person from the village, who was at all able to go to Saumur, had neglected to do so. In the next place, many of the villagers were among the number of the red scarfs, and they claimed to themselves the privilege of being considered peculiarly valiant and particularly loyal; and lastly, though many of them had gone to Saumur, without arms, every man on his return had a musket with him, which the old men and women regarded as absolute trophies, taken by each man individually from some awful rebel whom he had slain in single combat. There were to be great rejoicings, therefore, at Echanbroignes, which were postponed for the arrival of Chapeau and the two Stems.

The old smith was very angry at his sons' behaviour. As Chapeau had said, he was a very black man, and when he was angered, it wasn't easy to smooth him; the operation, however, was attempted by some of his neighbours, and though they were not altogether successful, they succeeded in making the old man a little proud of his family.

"Yes, Paul Rouel;" he said to the village innkeeper, who was an ancient crony of his, "it's very well to talk of King and Church; but if King and Church are to teach sons to fly against their fathers, we may, I think, have a little too much of them; didn't I again and again tell the boys not to go?"

"But, Michael Stein, how could you expect them to stay here, with a score of old men like us, and a number of women and girls, when every young fellow in the parish had gone to the wars? besides, they say, they did gallantly at the wars, and gained great honour and glory."

"Gained a great fiddle-stick," said the smith.

"But, Michael Stein," said another old friend, named Gobelin, "you wouldn't have your children disgraced, would you? think how sheepish they would have looked, hiding themselves in the smithy here, when all the other young men were parading round the green with the guns and swords they have taken from the rebels, and the women and girls all admiring them. Why, neighbour, not a girl in the parish would have spoken to them."

"Girls spoken to them, indeed! I tell you, Gobelin, in the times now coming, any girl will be ready enough to speak to a young man that has a house over his head, and a five-franc piece in his pocket. No, neighbour Gobelin; I gave my boys a good trade, and desired them to stick to it; they have chosen instead to go for soldiers, and for soldiers they may go. They don't come into my smithy again, that's all."

"You don't mean you won't speak to the lads, and after their fighting so bravely and all!" said Paul Rouel, in a voice of horror.