“You promised, remember, not to object to them.”
“Yes, but I reserve the right, in case you wound my conscience too severely2, to withdraw.”
“Only give time to throw a saddle on the back of your horse, or of mine, if yours is too tired, colonel, and you are free.”
“Very good.”
“As it happens,” said Cadoudal, “events will serve you. I am here, not only as general, but as judge, though it is long since I have had a case to try. You told me, colonel, that General Brune was at Nantes; I knew it. You told me his advanced guard was only twelve miles away, at La Roche-Bernard; I knew that also. But a thing you may not know is that this advanced guard is not commanded by a soldier like you and me, but by citizen Thomas Millière, Commissioner3 of the Executive authorities. Another thing of which you may perhaps be ignorant is that citizen Thomas Millière does not fight like us with cannon4, guns, bayonets, pistols and swords, but with an instrument invented by your Republican philanthropists, called the guillotine.”
“It is impossible, sir,” cried Roland, “that under the First Consul any one can make that kind of war.”
“Ah! let us understand each other, colonel. I don’t say that the First Consul makes it; I say it is made in his name.”
“And who is the scoundrel that abuses the authority given him, to make war with a staff of executioners?”
“I have told you his name; he is called Thomas Millière. Question whom you please, colonel, and throughout all Vendée and Brittany you’ll hear but one voice on that man. From the day of the rising in Vendée and Brittany, now six years ago, Millière has been, always and everywhere, the most active agent of the Terror. For him the Terror did not end with Robespierre. He denounced to his superiors, or caused to be denounced to himself, the Breton and Vendéan soldiers, their parents, friends, brothers, sisters, wives, even the wounded and dying; he shot or guillotined them all without a trial. At Daumeray, for instance, he left a trail of blood behind him which is not yet, can never be, effaced5. More than eighty of the inhabitants were slaughtered6 before his eyes. Sons were killed in the arms of their mothers, who vainly stretched those bloody7 arms to Heaven imploring8 vengeance9. The successive pacifications of Brittany and Vendée have never slaked10 the thirst for murder which burns his entrails. He is the same in 1800 that he was in 1793. Well, this man—”
Roland looked at the general.
“This man,” continued the general, with the utmost calmness, “is to die. Seeing that society did not condemn11 him, I have condemned12 him.”
“What! Die at La Roche-Bernard, in the midst of the Republicans; in spite of his bodyguard13 of assassins and executioners?”
“His hour has struck; he is to die.”
Cadoudal pronounced these words with such solemnity that no doubt remained in Roland’s mind, not only as to the sentence, but also the execution of it. He was thoughtful for an instant.
“And you believe that you have, the right to judge and condemn that man, guilty as he is?”
“Yes; for that man has judged and condemned, not the guilty but the innocent.”
“If I said to you: ‘On my return to Paris I will demand the arrest and trial of that man,’ would you not trust my word?”
“I would trust your word; but I should say to you: ‘A maddened wild beast escapes from its cage, a murderer from his prison; men are men, subject to error. They have sometimes condemned the innocent, they might spare the guilty.’ My justice is more certain than yours, colonel, for it is the justice of God. The man will die.”
“And by what right do you claim that your justice, the justice of a man liable to error like other men, is the justice of God?”
“Because I have made God a sharer in that justice. Oh! my condemnation14 of that man is not of yesterday.”
“How do you mean?”
“In the midst of a storm when thunder roared without cessation, and the lightning flashed from minute to minute, I raised my arms to heaven, and I said to God: ‘O God! whose look is that lightning, whose voice is that thunder, if this man ought to die, extinguish that lightning, still the thunder for ten minutes. The silence of the skies, the darkness of the heavens shall be thy answer!’ Watch in hand, I counted eleven minutes without a flash or a sound. I saw at the point of a promontory15 a boat, tossed by a terrible tempest, a boat with but one man in it, in danger every minute of sinking; a wave lifted it as the breath of an infant lifts a plume16, and cast it on the rocks. The boat flew to pieces; the man clung to the rock, and all the people cried out: ‘He is lost!’ His father was there, his two brothers were there, but none dared to succor17 him. I raised my arms to the Lord and said: ‘If Millière is condemned by Thee as by me, O God, let me save that man; with no help but thine let me save him!’ I stripped, I knotted a rope around my arm, and I swam to the rock. The water seemed to subside18 before my breast. I reached the man. His father and brothers held the rope. He gained the land. I could have returned as he did, fastening the rope to the rocks. I flung it away from me; I trusted to God and cast myself into the waves. They floated me gently and surely to the shore, even as the waters of the Nile bore Moses’ basket to Pharaoh’s daughter. The enemy’s outposts were stationed around the village of Saint-Nolf; I was hidden in the woods of Grandchamp with fifty men. Recommending my soul to God, I left the woods alone. ‘Lord God,’ I said, ‘if it be Thy will that Millière die, let that sentry19 fire upon me and miss me; then I will return to my men and leave that sentry unharmed, for Thou wilt20 have been with him for an instant.’ I walked to the Republican; at twenty paces he fired and missed me. Here is the hole in my hat, an inch from my head; the hand of God had aimed that weapon. That happened yesterday. I thought that Millière was at Nantes. To-night they came and told me that Millière and his guillotine were at La Roche-Bernard. Then I said: ‘God has brought him to me; he shall die.’”
Roland listened with a certain respect to the superstitious21 narrative22 of the Breton leader. He was not surprised to find such beliefs and such poetry in a man born in face of a savage23 sea, among the Druid monuments of Karnac. He realized that Millière was indeed condemned, and that God, who had thrice seemed to approve his judgment24, alone could save him. But one last question occurred to him.
“How will you strike him?” he asked.
“Oh!” said Georges, “I do not trouble myself about that; he will be executed.”
One of the two men who had brought in the supper table now entered the room.
“Brise-Bleu,” said Cadoudal, “tell Coeur-de-Roi that I wish to speak to him.”
Two minutes later the Breton presented himself.
“Coeur-de-Roi,” said Cadoudal, “did you not tell me that the murderer Thomas Millière was at Roche-Bernard?”
“I saw him enter the town side by side with the Republican colonel, who did not seem particularly flattered by such companionship.”
“Did you not add that he was followed by his guillotine?”
“I told you his guillotine followed between two cannon, and I believe if the cannon could have got away the guillotine would have been left to go its way alone.”
“What precautions does Millière take in the towns he visits?”
“He has a special guard about him, and the streets around his house are barricaded25. He carries pistols always at hand.”
“In spite of that guard, in spite of that barricade26 and the pistols, will you undertake to reach him?”
“I will, general.”
“Because of his crimes, I have condemned that man; he must die.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Coeur-de-Roi, “the day of justice has come at last!”
“Will you undertake to execute my sentence, Coeur-de-Roi?”
“I will, general.”
“Go then, Coeur-de-Roi. Take the number of men you need; devise what stratagem27 you please, but reach the man, and strike.”
“If I die, general—”
“Fear not; the curate of Leguerno shall say enough masses in your behalf to keep your poor soul out of purgatory28. But you will not die, Coeur-de-Roi.”
“That’s all right, general. Now that I am sure of the masses, I ask nothing more. I have my plan.”
“When will you start?”
“To-night.”
“When will he die?”
“To-morrow.”
“Go. See that three hundred men are ready to follow me in half an hour.”
Coeur-de-Roi went out as simply as he had entered.
“You see,” said Cadoudal, “the sort of men I command. Is your First Consul as well served as I, Monsieur de Montrevel?”
“By some, yes.”
“Well, with me it is not some, but all.”
Bénédicité entered and questioned Georges with a look.
“Yes,” replied Georges, with voice and nod.
Bénédicité went out.
“Did you see any one on your way here?” asked Cadoudal.
“Not one.”
“I asked for three hundred men in half an hour, and they will be here in that time. I might have asked for five hundred, a thousand, two thousand, and they would have responded as promptly29.”
“But,” said Roland, “you have, in number at least, a limit you cannot exceed.”
“Do you want to know my effective? It is easily told, I won’t tell you myself, for you wouldn’t believe me. Wait. I will have some one tell you.”
He opened the door and called out: “Branche-d’Or!”
Two seconds later Branche-d’Or appeared.
“This is my major-general,” said Cadoudal, laughing. “He fulfils the same functions for me that General Berthier does for the First Consul. Branche-d’Or—”
“General.”
“How many men are stationed along the road from here to La Roche-Bernard, which the gentleman followed in coming to see me?”
“Six hundred on the Arzal moor30, six hundred among the Marzan gorse, three hundred at Péaule, three hundred at Billiers.”
“Total, eighteen hundred. How many between Noyal and Muzillac?”
“Four hundred.”
“Two thousand two hundred. How many between here and Vannes?”
“Fifty at Theix, three hundred at the Trinité, six hundred between the Trinité and Muzillac.”
“Three thousand two hundred. And from Ambon to Leguerno?”
“Twelve hundred.”
“Four thousand four hundred. And in the village around me, in the houses, the gardens, the cellars?”
“Five to six hundred, general.”
“Thank you, Bénédicité.”
He made a sign with his head and Bénédicité went out.
“You see,” said Cadoudal, simply, “about five thousand. Well, with those five thousand men, all belonging to this country, who know every tree, every stone, every bush, I can make war against the hundred thousand men the First Consul threatens to send against me.”
Roland smiled.
“You think that is saying too much, don’t you?”
“I think you are boasting a little, general; boasting of your men, rather.”
“No; for my auxiliaries31 are the whole population. None of your generals can make a move unknown to me; send a despatch32 without my intercepting33 it; find a retreat where I shall not pursue him. The very soil is royalist and Christian34! In default of the inhabitants, it speaks and tells me: ‘The Blues35 passed here; the slaughterers are hidden there!’ For the rest, you can judge for yourself.”
“How?”
“We are going on an expedition about twenty-four miles from here. What time is it?”
Both young men looked at their watches.
“Quarter to twelve,” they said together.
“Good!” said Georges, “our watches agree; that is a good sign. Perhaps some day our hearts will do the same.”
“You were saying, general?”
“I was saying that it was a quarter to twelve, colonel; and that at six o’clock, before day, we must be twenty miles from here. Do you want to rest?”
“I!”
“Yes; you can sleep an hour.”
“Thanks; it’s unnecessary.”
“Then we will start whenever you are ready.”
“But your men?”
“Oh! my men are ready.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
“I should like to see them.”
“You shall.”
“When?”
“Whenever agreeable to you. My men are very discreet36, and never show themselves till I make the signal.”
“So that whenever I want to see them—”
“You will tell me; I shall give the signal and they’ll appear.”
“Let us start, general.”
“Yes, let us start.”
The two young men wrapped themselves in their cloaks and went out. At the door Roland collided against a small group of five men. These five men wore Republican uniforms; one of them had sergeant37 stripes on his sleeve.
“What is all this?” asked Roland.
“Nothing,” replied Cadoudal, laughing.
“But who are these men?”
“Coeur-de-Roi and his party; they are starting on that expedition you know of.”
“Then they expect by means of this uniform—”
“Oh! you shall know all, colonel; I have no secrets from you.” Then, turning to the little group, Cadoudal called: “Coeur-de-Roi!”
The man with the stripes on his sleeves left the group, and came to Cadoudal.
“Did you call me, general?” asked the pretended sergeant.
“Yes, I want to know your plan.”
“Oh! general, it is very simple.”
“Let me judge of that.”
“I put this paper in the muzzle38 of my gun.” Coeur-de-Roi showed a large envelope with an official red seal, which had once, no doubt, contained some Republican despatch intercepted39 by the Chouans. “I present myself to the sentries40, saying: ‘Despatch from the general of division.’ I enter the first guardhouse and ask to be shown the house of the citizen-commissioner; they show me, I thank them; always best to be polite. I reach the house, meet a second sentry to whom I tell the same tale as to the first; I go up or down to citizen Millière accordingly as he lives in the cellar or the garret. I enter without difficulty, you understand—‘Despatch from the general of division’. I find him in his study or elsewhere, present my paper, and while he opens it, I kill him with this dagger41, here in my sleeve.”
“Yes, but you and your men?”
“Ah, faith! In God’s care; we are defending his cause, it is for him to take care of us.”
“Well, you see, colonel,” said Cadoudal, “how easy it all is. Let us mount, colonel! Good luck, Coeur-de-Roi!”
“Which of these two horses am I to take?” asked Roland.
“Either; one is as good as the other; each has an excellent pair of English pistols in its holsters.”
“Loaded?”
“And well-loaded, colonel; that’s a job I never trust to any one.”
“Then we’ll mount.”
The two young men were soon in their saddles, and on the road to Vannes; Cadoudal guiding Roland, and Branche-d’Or, the major-general of the army, as Georges called him, following about twenty paces in the rear.
When they reached the end of the village, Roland darted42 his eyes along the road, which stretches in a straight line from Muzillac to the Trinité. The road, fully43 exposed to view, seemed absolutely solitary44.
They rode on for about a mile and a half, then Roland said: “But where the devil are your men?”
“To right and left, before and behind us.”
“Ha, what a joke!”
“It’s not a joke, colonel; do you think I should be so rash as to risk myself thus without
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