The Last Vendée; or, the She-Wolves of Machecoul. Alexandre Dumas
his rigid fingers relaxed, and he passed them over his forehead to wipe away the sweat which began to pour from it.
"How do you feel, dear Tinguy?" said the girl.
"Better," he answered, in a feeble voice. "The good God doesn't mean me to desert before the battle," he added, trying to smile.
"Perhaps not; because it is for him you are going to fight."
The peasant shook his head sadly and sighed.
"Monsieur Michel," said Bertha to the young man, drawing him into a corner of the room, so that her voice should not reach the patient, "go and fetch the vicar and rouse the neighbors."
"Isn't he better? He said so just now."
"Child that you are! Did you never see a lamp go out? The last flame is brightest, and so it is with our miserable bodies. Go at once. There will be no death-struggle. The fever has exhausted him; the soul is going without a struggle, shock, or effort."
"And are you to be left alone with him?"
"Go at once, and don't think about me."
Michel went out, and Bertha returned to Tinguy, who held out his hand.
"Thank you, my brave young lady," said the peasant.
"Thank me for what, père Tinguy?"
"For your care, and also for thinking of sending for the vicar."
"You heard me?"
This time Tinguy smiled outright.
"Yes," he said, "low as you spoke."
"But you mustn't think that the presence of the priest means that you are going to die, my good Tinguy. Don't be frightened."
"Frightened!" cried the peasant, trying to sit up in his bed. "Frightened! why? I have respected the old and cared for the young; I have suffered without a murmur; I have toiled without complaining, praising God when the hail beat down my wheat and the harvest failed; never have I turned away the beggar whom Sainte-Anne has sent to my fireside; I have kept the commandments of God and of the Church; when the priests said, 'Rise and take your guns,' I fought the enemies of my faith and my king; I have been humble in victory and hopeful in defeat; I was still ready to give my life for the sacred cause, and shall I be frightened now? Oh, no! mademoiselle; this is the day of days to us poor Christians,--the glorious day of death. Ignorant as I am, I know that this day makes us equals with the great and prosperous of the earth. It has come for me; God calls me to him. I am ready; I go before his judgment-seat in full assurance of his mercy."
Tinguy's face was illuminated as he said the words; but this last religious enthusiasm exhausted the poor man's strength. He fell heavily back upon his pillow, muttering a few unintelligible words, among which could be distinguished "blues," "parish," and the names of God and the Virgin.
The vicar entered at this moment. Bertha showed him the sick man, and the priest, understanding what she wanted of him, began at once the prayer for the dying.
Michel begged Bertha to leave the room, and the young girl consenting, they both went out after saying a last prayer at Tinguy's bedside.
One after the other, the neighbors came in; each knelt down and repeated after the priest the litanies of death. Two slender candles of yellow wax, placed on either side of a brass crucifix, lighted the gloomy scene.
Suddenly, at the moment when the priest and the assistants were reciting mentally the "Ave Maria!" an owl's cry, sounding not far distant from the cottage, rose above the dull hum of their mutterings. The peasants trembled.
At the sound the dying man, whose eyes were already glazing and his breath hissing, raised his head.
"I'm here!" he cried; "I'm ready! I am the guide."
Then he tried to imitate the owl's cry in reply to the one he had heard, but he could not. The lingering breath gave a sob, his head fell back, his eyes opened widely. He was dead.
A stranger stood on the threshold of the door. He was a young Breton peasant, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a red waistcoat and silver buttons, a blue jacket embroidered with red, and high leather gaiters. He carried in his hand one of those sticks with iron points, which the country people use when they make a journey.
He seemed surprised at the scene before his eyes; but he asked no question of any one. He quietly knelt down and prayed; then he approached the bed, looked earnestly at the pale, discolored face of the poor peasant. Two heavy tears rolled down his cheeks; he wiped them away, and went out as he had come, silently.
The peasants, used to the religious custom which expects all those who pass the house of death to enter and say a prayer for the soul of the dying and a blessing on the body, were not surprised at the presence of a stranger, and paid no heed to his departure. The latter, on leaving the cottage, met another peasant, younger and smaller than himself, who seemed to be his brother; this one was riding a horse saddled and bridled in peasant fashion.
"Well, Rameau-d'or," said the younger, "what is it?"
"This," replied the other: "there is no place for us in that house. A guest is there whose presence fills it."
"Who is he?"
"Death."
"Who is dead?"
"He whose hospitality we came to ask. I would suggest to you to make a shield of his death and stay here; but I heard some one say that Tinguy died of typhoid fever, and though doctors deny the contagion, I cannot consent to expose you to it."
"You are not afraid that you were seen and recognized?"
"No, impossible. There were eight or ten persons, men and women, praying round the bed. I went in and knelt down and prayed with them. That is what all Breton and Vendéan peasants do in such cases."
"Well, what can we do now?" asked the younger of the two.
"I have already told you. We had to decide between the château of my former comrade or the cottage of the poor fellow who was to have been our guide,--between luxury and a princely house with poor security, and a narrow cottage, bad beds, buckwheat bread, and absolute safety. God himself has decided the matter. We have no choice; we must take the insecure comfort."
"But you think the château is not safe?"
"The château belongs to a friend of my childhood, whose father was made a baron by the Restoration. The father is dead, and the widow and son are now living in the château. If the son were alone, I should have no anxiety. He is rather weak, but his heart is sound. It is his mother I fear; she is selfish and ambitious, and I could not trust her."
"Oh, pooh! just for one night! You are not adventurous, Rameau-d'or."
"Yes I am, on my own account; but I am answerable to France, or at any rate, to my party for the life of Ma--"
"For Petit-Pierre. Ah, Rameau-d'or, that is the tenth forfeit you owe me since we started."
"It shall be the last, Ma--Petit-Pierre, I should say. In future I will think of you by no other name, and in no other relation than that of my brother."
"Come, then; let us go to the château. I am so weary that I would ask shelter of an ogress,--if there were any."
"We'll take a crossroad, which will carry us there in ten minutes," said the young man. "Seat yourself more comfortably in the saddle; I will walk before you, and you must follow me; otherwise we might miss the path, which is very faint."
"Wait a moment," said Petit-Pierre, slipping from his horse.
"Where are you going?" asked Rameau-d'or, anxiously.
"You said your prayer beside that poor peasant, and I want to say mine."
"Don't think of it!"
"Yes, yes; he was a brave and honest man," persisted Petit-Pierre. "He would have risked his life for us; I may well offer a little prayer beside