The Last Vendée; or, the She-Wolves of Machecoul. Alexandre Dumas
seeing that she was about to depart, got to the door before her.
"Ah! mademoiselle," he exclaimed, "what has happened? What have you just heard?"
"Nothing," said Bertha.
"Nothing! If you had heard nothing you would not be starting off in such a hurry, without a word to me,--without so much as signing to me, or saying good-bye."
"Why should I say good-bye, inasmuch as you are going with me? When we reach the gate of Souday will be time enough to bid you good-bye."
"What! will you allow me?"
"To accompany me? Certainly. After all you have done for me this evening, it is your right, my dear Monsieur Michel,--that is, unless you are too fatigued."
"I, mademoiselle, too fatigued, when it is a matter of accompanying you! With you, or with Mademoiselle Mary, I would go to the end of the world. Fatigued? Heavens, no!"
Bertha smiled, murmuring to herself, "What a pity he is not one of us!" Then she added under her breath, "One could do as one pleased with a nature like his."
"Are you speaking?" said Michel. "I did not quite catch what you say."
"I spoke very low."
"Why do you speak low?"
"Because what I was saying cannot be said out loud,--not yet, at least."
"But later?"
"Ah! later, perhaps--"
The young man in turn moved his lips, and made no sound.
"What does that pantomime mean?" asked Bertha.
"It means that I can speak below my breath as you do, with this difference, that what I say low I am ready to say out loud and instantly,--at this very moment if I dared--"
"I am not a woman like other women," said Bertha, with an almost disdainful smile; "and what is said to me in a low voice may equally well be said aloud."
"Well then, what I was saying below my breath was this; I grieve to see you flinging yourself into danger,--danger as certain as it is useless."
"What danger are you talking about, my dear neighbor?" said the girl, in a slightly mocking tone.
"That about which you were speaking to Doctor Roger just now. An uprising is to take place in La Vendée."
"Really?"
"You will not deny that, I think."
"I?--why should I deny it?"
"Your father and you are taking part in it."
"You forget my sister," said Bertha, laughing.
"No, I forget no one," said Michel, with a sigh.
"Go on."
"Let me tell you--as a tender friend, a devoted friend--that you are wrong."
"And why am I wrong, my tender, my devoted friend," asked Bertha, with the tinge of satire she could never quite eliminate from her nature.
"Because La Vendée is not in 1832 what she was in 1793; or rather, because there is no longer a Vendée."
"So much the worse for La Vendée! But, happily, there is always the Noblesse,--you don't yet know, Monsieur Michel, but your children's children in the sixth generation will know the meaning of the words NOBLESSE OBLIGE."
The young man made a hasty movement.
"Now," said Bertha, "let's talk of something else; for on this topic I will not say another word, inasmuch as you are not--as poor Tinguy says--one of us."
"But," said the young man, hurt by Bertha's tone toward him, "what shall we talk about?"
"Why, anything,--everything. The night is magnificent, talk to me of the night; the moon is brilliant, talk of the moon; the stars are dazzling, tell me about the stars; the heavens are pure, let us talk of the heavens."
She raised her head and let her eyes rest on the clear and starry firmament. Michel sighed; he said nothing, and walked on beside her. What could he say--that man of books and city walls--about the nature that seemed her fitting kingdom? Had he, like Bertha, been in contact from his infancy with the wonders of creation? Had he watched, like her, the gradations through which the dawn ascends and the sun sinks down? Did his ear know, like hers, the mysterious sounds of night? When the lark rang out its reveille did he know what the lark was saying? When the gurgle of the nightingale filled the darkness with harmony could he tell what that throat was uttering? No, no. He knew the things of science, which Bertha did not know; but Bertha knew the things of nature, and of all such things he was ignorant. Oh! if the young girl had only spoken then, how religiously his heart would have listened to her.
But, unfortunately, she was silent. Her heart was full of thoughts which escaped in looks and sighs, and not in sounds and words.
He, too, was dreaming. He walked beside the gentle Mary, not the harsh, firm Bertha; instead of the self-reliant Bertha, he felt the weaker Mary leaning on his arm. Ah! if she were only there words would come; all the thousand things of the night--the moon, the stars, the sky--would have rushed to his lips. With Mary he would have been the teacher and the master; with Bertha he was the scholar and the slave.
The two young people walked silently side by side for more than a quarter of an hour, when suddenly Bertha stopped and made a sign to Michel to stop also. The young man obeyed; with Bertha his place was to obey.
"Do you hear?" said Bertha.
"No," said Michel, shaking his head.
"Well, I hear," she said, her eyes gleaming and her ears alert, as she strained them eagerly.
"What do you hear?"
"My horse's step and that of my sister Mary's horse. They are coming for me. Something must have happened." She listened again. "Mary has come herself."
"How can you tell that?" asked the young man.
"By the way the horses gallop. Let us walk faster, please."
The sounds came nearer, and in less than five minutes a dark group showed in the distance. Soon it was seen to be two horses,--a woman riding one and leading the other.
"I told you it was my sister," said Bertha.
The young man had already recognized her, less by her person, scarcely distinguishable in the darkness, than by the beating of his heart.
Mary, too, had recognized him, and this was plain from the gesture of amazement which escaped her. It was evident that she expected to find her sister alone or with Rosine,--certainly not with the young baron. Michel saw the impression his presence had produced, and he advanced.
"Mademoiselle," he said to Mary, "I met your sister on her way to carry assistance to poor Tinguy, and in order that she might not be alone I have accompanied her."
"You did perfectly right, monsieur," replied Mary.
"You don't understand," said Bertha, laughing. "He thinks he must excuse me or excuse himself. Do forgive him for something; his mamma is going to scold him." Then leaning on Mary's saddle, and speaking close to her ear, "What is it, darling?" she asked.
"The attempt at Marseille has failed."
"I know that; and Madame has re-embarked."
"That's a mistake."
"A mistake?"
"Yes. Madame declares that as she is in France she will stay."
"Can it be true?"
"Yes; and she is now on her way to La Vendée,--in fact, she may actually be here now."
"How did you hear all this?"
"Through a message received from her to-night at the château de Montaigu, just as the meeting was about to break up disheartened."