A Book of Golden Deeds

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> A Book of Golden Deeds

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Hearing that he was alone at Durballière, and knowing that as an officer
in the Guards, and also as being of the age liable to the conscription,
he was in danger from the Revolutionists in the neighboring towns, his
cousin, the Marquis de Lescure, sent to invite him to his strong castle
of Clisson, which was likewise situated in the Bocage. This castle
afforded a refuge to many others who were in danger--to nuns driven from
their convents, dispossessed clergy, and persons who dreaded to remain
at their homes, but who felt reassured under the shelter of the castle,
and by the character of its owner, a young man of six-and-twenty, who,
though of high and unshaken loyalty, had never concerned himself with
politics, but led a quiet and studious life, and was everywhere honored
and respected.

The winter passed in great anxiety, and when in the spring the rising at
Anjou took place, and the new government summoned all who could bear
arms to assist in quelling it, a council was held among the party at
Clisson on the steps to be taken. Henri, as the youngest, spoke first,
saying he would rather perish than fight against the peasants; nor among
the whole assembly was there one person willing to take the safer but
meaner course of deserting the cause of their King and country. 'Yes,'
said the Duchess de Donnissan, mother to the young wife of the Marquis
de Lescure, 'I see you are all of the same opinion. Better death than
dishonor. I approve your courage. It is a settled thing:' and seating
herself in her armchair, she concluded, 'Well, then, we must die.'
For some little time all remained quiet at Clisson; but at length the
order for the conscription arrived, and a few days before the time
appointed for the lots to be drawn, a boy came to the castle bringing a
note to Henri from his aunt at St. Aubin. 'Monsieur Henri,' said the
boy, 'they say you are to draw for the conscription next Sunday; but may
not your tenants rise against it in the meantime? Come with me, sir, the
whole country is longing for you, and will obey you.'

Henri instantly promised to come, but some of the ladies would have
persuaded him not to endanger himself--representing, too, that if he was
missing on the appointed day, M. de Lescure might be made responsible
for him. The Marquis, however, silenced them, saying to his cousin, 'You
are prompted by honor and duty to put yourself at the head of your
tenants. Follow out your plan, I am only grieved at not being able to go
with you; and certainly no fear of imprisonment will lead me to dissuade
you from doing your duty.'

'Well, I will come and rescue you,' said Henri, embracing him, and his
eyes glancing with a noble soldier-like expression and an eagle look.

As soon as the servants were gone to bed, he set out with a guide, with
a stick in his hand and a pair of pistols in his belt; and traveling
through the fields, over hedges and ditches, for fear of meeting with
the Blues, arrived at St. Aubin, and from thence went on to meet M. de
Bonchamp and his little army. But he found to his disappointment that
they had just been defeated, and the chieftains, believing that all was
lost, had dispersed their troops. He went to his own home, dispirited
and grieved; but no sooner did the men of St. Aubin learn the arrival of
their young lord, than they came trooping to the castle, entreating him
to place himself at their head.

In the early morning, the castle court, the fields, the village, were
thronged with stout hardy farmers and laborers, in grey coats, with
broad flapping hats, and red woolen handkerchiefs round their necks. On
their shoulders were spits, scythes, and even sticks; happy was the man
who could bring an old fowling-piece, and still more rejoiced the owner
of some powder, intended for blasting some neighboring quarry. All had
bold true hearts, ready to suffer and to die in the cause of their
Church and of their young innocent imprisoned King.

A mistrust of his own powers, a fear of ruining these brave men, crossed
the mind of the youth as he looked forth upon them, and he exclaimed,
'If my father was but here, you might trust to him. Yet by my courage I
will show myself worthy, and lead you. If I go forward, follow me: if I
draw back, kill me; if I am slain, avenge me!' They replied with shouts
of joy, and it was instantly resolved to march upon the next village,
which was occupied by the rebel troops. They gained a complete victory,
driving away the Blues, and taking two small pieces of cannon, and
immediately joined M. de Bonchamp and Cathelineau, who, encouraged by
their success, again gathered their troops and gained some further
advantages.

In the meantime, the authorities had sent to Clisson and arrested M. de
Lescure, his wife, her parents, and some of their guests, who were
conducted to Bressuire, the nearest town, and there closely guarded.
There was great danger that the Republicans would revenge their losses
upon them, but the calm dignified deportment of M. de Lescure obliged
them to respect him so much that no injury was offered to him. At last
came the joyful news that the Royalist army was approaching. The
Republican soldiers immediately quitted the town, and the inhabitants
all came to ask the protection of the prisoners, desiring to send their
goods to Clisson for security, and thinking themselves guarded by the
presence of M. and Madame de Lescure.

M. de Lescure and his cousin Bernard de Marigny mounted their horses and
rode out to meet their friends. In a quarter of an hour afterwards,
Madame de Lescure heard the shouts 'Long live the King!' and the next
minute, Henri de la Rochejacquelein hurried into the room, crying, 'I
have saved you.' The peasants marched in to the number of 20,000, and
spread themselves through the town, but in their victory they had gained
no taste for blood or plunder--they did not hurt a single inhabitant,
nor touch anything that was not their own. Madame de Lescure heard some
of them wishing for tobacco, and asked if there was none in the town.
'Oh yes, there is plenty to be sold, but we have no money;' and they
were very thankful to her for giving the small sum they required.
Monsieur de Donnissan saw two men disputing in the street, and one drew
his sword, when he interfered, saying, 'Our Lord prayed for His
murderers, and would one soldier of the Catholic army kill another?' The
two instantly embraced.

Three times a day these peasant warriors knelt at their prayers, in the
churches if they were near them, if not, in the open field, and seldom
have ever been equaled the piety, the humility, the self-devotion alike
of chiefs and of followers. The frightful cruelties committed by the
enemy were returned by mercy; though such of them as fell into the hands
of the Republicans were shot without pity, yet their prisoners were
instantly set at liberty after being made to promise not to serve
against them again, and having their hair shaved off in order that they
might be recognized.

Whenever an enterprise was resolved on, the curates gave notice to their
parishioners that the leaders would be at such a place at such a time,
upon which they crowded to the spot, and assembled around the white
standard of France with such weapons as they could muster.

The clergy then heard them confess their sins, gave them absolution, and
blessed them; then, while they set forward, returned to the churches
where their wives and children were praying for their success. They did
not fight like regular soldiers, but, creeping through the hedgerows and
coppices, burst unexpectedly upon the Blues, who, entangled in the
hollow lanes, ignorant of the country, and amazed by the suddenness of
the attack, had little power to resist. The chieftains were always
foremost in danger; above all the eager young Henri, with his eye on the
white standard, and on the blue sky, and his hand making the sign of the
cross without which he never charged the enemy, dashed on first,
fearless of peril, regardless of his life, thinking only of his duty to
his king and the protection of his followers.

It was calmness and resignation which chiefly distinguished M. de
Lescure, the Saint of Poitou, as the peasants called him from his great
piety, his even temper, and the kindness and the wonderful mercifulness
of his disposition. Though constantly at the head of his troops, leading
them into the most dangerous places, and never sparing himself, not one
man was slain by his hand, nor did he even permit a prisoner to receive
the least injury in his presence. When one of the Republicans once
presented his musket close to his breast, he quietly put it aside with
his hand, and only said, 'Take away the prisoner'. His calmness was
indeed well founded, and his trust never failed. Once when the little
army had received a considerable check, and his cousin M. de Marigny was
in despair, and throwing his pistols on the table, exclaimed, 'I fight
no longer', he took him by the arm, led him to the window, an pointing
to a troop of peasants kneeling at their evening prayers, he said, 'See
there a pledge of our hopes, and doubt no longer that we shall conquer
in our turn.'

Their greatest victory was at Saumur, owing chiefly to the gallantry of
Henri, who threw his hat into the midst of the enemy, shouting to his
followers, 'Who will go and fetch it for me?' and rushing forward, drove
all before him, and made his way into the town on one side, while M. de
Lescure, together with Stofflet, a game-keeper, another of the chiefs,
made their entrance on the other side. M. de Lescure was wounded in the
arm, and on the sight of his blood the peasants gave back, and would
have fled had not Stofflet threatened to shoot the first who turned; and
in the meantime M. de Lescure, tying up his arm with a handkerchief,
declared it was nothing, and led them onwards.

The city was entirely in their hands, and their thankful delight was
excessive; but they only displayed it by ringing the bells, singing the
Te Deum, and parading the streets. Henri was almost out of his senses
with exultation; but at last he fell into a reverie, as he stood, with
his arms folded, gazing on the mighty citadel which had yielded to
efforts such as theirs. His friends roused him from his dream by their
remarks, and he replied, 'I am reflecting on our success, and am
confounded'.

They now resolved to elect a general-in-chief, and M. de Lescure was the
first to propose Cathelineau, the peddler, who had first come forward in
the cause. It was a wondrous thing when the nobles, the gentry, and
experienced officers who had served in the regular army, all willingly
placed themselves under the command of the simple untrained peasant,
without a thought of selfishness or of jealousy. Nor did Cathelineau
himself show any trace of pride, or lose his complete humility of mind
or manner; but by each word and deed he fully proved how wise had been
their judgment, and well earned the title given him by the peasants of
the 'Saint of Anjou'.

It was now that their hopes were highest; they were more numerous and
better armed than they had ever been before, and they even talked of a
march to Paris to 'fetch their little king, and have him crowned at
Chollet', the chief town of La Vendee. But martyrdom, the highest glory
to be obtained on this earth, was already shedding its brightness round
these devoted men who were counted worthy to suffer, and it was in a
higher and purer world that they were to meet their royal child.

Cathelineau turned towards Nantes, leaving Henri de la Rochejaquelein,
to his great vexation, to defend Saumur with a party of peasants. But he
found it impossible to prevent these poor men from returning to their
homes; they did not understand the importance of garrison duty, and
gradually departed, leaving their commander alone with a few officers,
with whom he used to go through the town at night, shouting out, 'Long
live the king!' at the places where there ought to have been sentinels.
At last, when his followers were reduced to eight, he left the town,
and, rejoicing to be once more in the open field, overtook his friends
at Angers, where they had just rescued a great number of clergy who had
been imprisoned there, and daily threatened with death. 'Do not thank
us,' said the peasants to the liberated priests; 'it is for you that we
fight. If we had not saved you, we should not have ventured to return
home. Since you are freed, we see plainly that the good God is on our
side.'

But the tide was now about to turn. The Government in Paris sent a far
stronger force into the Bocage, and desolated it in a cruel manner.
Clisson was burnt to the ground with the very fireworks which had been
prepared for the christening of its master's eldest child, and which had
not been used because of the sorrowful days when she was born. M. de
Lescure had long expected its destruction, but had not chosen to remove
the furniture, lest he should discourage the peasants. His family were
with the army, where alone there was now any safety for the weak and
helpless. At Nantes the attack was unsuccessful, and Cathelineau himself
received a wound of which he died in a few days, rejoicing at having
been permitted to shed his blood in such a cause.

The army, of which M. d'Elbee became the leader, now returned to Poitou,
and gained a great victory at Chatillon; but here many of them forgot
the mercy they had usually shown, and, enraged by the sight of their
burnt cottages, wasted fields, and murdered relatives, they fell upon
the prisoners and began to slaughter them. M. de Lescure, coming in
haste, called out to them to desist. 'No, no,' cried M. de Marigny; 'let
me slay these monsters who have burnt your castle.' 'Then, Marigny,'
said his cousin, 'you must fight with me. You are too cruel; you will
perish by the sword.' And he saved these unhappy men for the time; but
they were put to death on their way to their own army.

The cruelties of the Republicans occasioned a proclamation on the part
of the Royalists that they would make reprisals; but they could never
bring themselves to act upon it. When M. de Lescure took Parthenay, he
said to the inhabitants, 'It is well for you that it is I who have taken
your town; for, according to our proclamation, I ought to burn it; but,
as you would think it an act of private revenge for the burning of
Clisson, I spare you'.

Though occasional successes still maintained the hopes of the Vendeans,
misfortunes and defeats now became frequent; they were unable to save
their country from the devastations of the enemy, and disappointments
began to thin the numbers of the soldiers. Henri, while fighting in a
hollow road, was struck in the right hand by a ball, which broke his
thumb in three places. He continued to direct his men, but they were at
length driven back from their post. He was obliged to leave the army for
some days; and though he soon appeared again at the head of the men of
St. Aubin, he never recovered the use of his hand.

Shortly after, both D'Elbee and Bonchamp were desperately wounded; and
M. de Lescure, while waving his followers on to attack a Republican
post, received a ball in the head. The enemy pressed on the broken and
defeated army with overwhelming force, and the few remaining chiefs
resolved to cross the Loire and take refuge in Brittany. It was much
against the opinion of M. de Lescure; but, in his feeble and suffering
state, he could not make himself heard, nor could Henri's
representations prevail; the peasants, in terror and dismay, were
hastening across as fast as they could obtain boats to carry them. The
enemy was near at hand, and Stofflet, Marigny, and the other chiefs were
only deliberating whether they should not kill the prisoners whom they
could not take with them, and, if set at liberty, would only add to the
numbers of their pursuers. The order for their death had been given;
but, before it could be executed, M. de Lescure had raised his head to
exclaim, 'It is too horrible!' and M. de Bonchamp at the same moment
said, almost with his last breath, 'Spare them!' The officers who stood
by rushed to the generals, crying out that Bonchamp commanded that they
should be pardoned. They were set at liberty; and thus the two Vendean
chiefs avenged their deaths by saving five thousand of their enemies!

M. de Bonchamp expired immediately after; but M. de Lescure had still
much to suffer in the long and painful passage across the river, and
afterwards, while carried along the rough roads to Varades in an
armchair upon two pikes, his wife and her maid supporting his feet. The
Bretons received them kindly, and gave him a small room, where, the next
day, he sent for the rest of the council, telling them they ought to
choose a new general, since M. d'Elbee was missing. They answered that
he himself alone could be commander. 'Gentlemen,' he answered: 'I am
mortally wounded; and even if I am to live, which I do not expect, I
shall be long unfit to serve. The army must instantly have an active
chief, loved by all, known to the peasants, trusted by everyone. It is
the only way of saving us. M. de la Rochejaquelein alone is known to the
soldiers of all the divisions. M. de Donnissan, my father-in-law, does
not belong to this part of the country, and would not be as readily
followed. The choice I propose would encourage the soldiers; and I
entreat you to choose M. de la Rochejaquelein. As to me, if I live, you
know I shall not quarrel with Henri; I shall be his aide-de-camp.'

His advice was readily followed, Henri was chosen; but when a second in
command was to be elected, he said no, he was second, for he should
always obey M. de Donnissan, and entreated that the honor might not be
given to him, saying that at twenty years of age he had neither weight
nor experience, that his valor led him to be first in battle, but in
council his youth prevented him from being attended to; and, indeed,
after giving his opinion, he usually fell asleep while others were
debating. He was, however, elected; and as soon as M. de Lescure heard
the shouts of joy with which the peasants received the intelligence, he
sent Madame de Lescure to bring him to his bedside. She found him hidden
in a corner, weeping bitterly; and when he came to his cousin, he
embraced him, saving earnestly, again and again, that he was not fit to
be general, he only knew how to fight, he was too young and could never
silence those who opposed his designs, and entreated him to take the
command as soon as he was cured. 'That I do not expect,' said M. de
Lescure; 'but if it should happen, I will be your aide-de-camp, and help
you to conquer the shyness which prevents your strength of character
from silencing the murmurers and the ambitious.'

Henri accordingly took the command; but it was a melancholy office that
devolved upon him of dragging onward his broken and dejected peasants,
half-starved, half-clothed, and followed by a wretched train of women,
children, and wounded; a sad change from the bright hopes with which,
not six months before, he had been called to the head of his tenants.
Yet still his high courage gained some triumphs, which for a time
revived the spirits of his forces and restored their confidence. He was
active and undaunted, and it was about this time, when in pursuit of the
Blues, he was attacked by a foot soldier when alone in a narrow lane.
His right hand was useless, but he seized the man's collar with his
1eft, and held him fast, managing his horse with his legs till his men
came up. He would not allow them to kill the soldier, but set him free,
saying 'Return to the Republicans, and tell them that you were alone
with the general of the brigands, who had but one hand and no weapons,
yet you could not kill him'. Brigands was the name given by the
Republicans, the true robbers, to the Royalists, who, in fact, by this
time, owing to the wild life they had so long led, had acquired a
somewhat rude and savage appearance. They wore grey cloth coats and
trousers, broad hats, white sashes with knots of different colours to
mark the rank of the officers, and red woolen handkerchiefs. These were
made in the country, and were at first chiefly worn by Henri, who
usually had one round his neck, another round his waist, and a third to
support his wounded hand; but the other officers, having heard the Blues
cry out to aim at the red handkerchief, themselves adopted the same
badge, in order that he might be less conspicuous.

In the meantime a few days' rest at Laval had at first so alleviated the
sufferings of M. de Lescure, that hopes were entertained of his
recovery; but he ventured on greater exertions of strength than he was
able to bear, and fever returned, which had weakened him greatly before
it became necessary to travel onwards. Early in the morning, a day or
two before their departure, he called to his wife, who was lying on a
mattress on the floor, and desired her to open the curtains, asking, as
she did so, if it was a clear day. 'Yes,' said she. 'Then,' he answered,
'I have a sort of veil before my eyes, I cannot see distinctly; I always
thought my wound was mortal, and now I no longer doubt. My dear, I must
leave you, that is my only regret, except that I could not restore my
king to the throne; I leave you in the midst of a civil war, that is
what afflicts me. Try to save yourself. Disguise yourself, and attempt
to reach England.' Then seeing her choked with tears, he continued:
'Yes, your grief alone makes me regret life; for my own part, I die
tranquil; I have indeed sinned, but I have always served God with piety;
I have fought, and I die for Him, and I hope in His mercy. I have often
seen death, and I do not fear it I go to heaven with a sure trust, I
grieve but for you; I hoped to have made you happy; if I ever have given
you any reason to complain, forgive me.' Finding her grief beyond all
consolation, he allowed her to call the surgeons, saying that it was
possible he might be mistaken. They gave some hope, which cheered her
spirits, though he still said he did not believe them. The next day they
left Laval; and on the way, while the carriage was stopping, a person
came to the door and read the details of the execution of Marie
Antoinette which Madame de Lescure had kept from his knowledge. It was a
great shock to him, for he had known the Queen personally, and
throughout the day he wearied himself with exclamations on the horrible
crime. That night at Ernee he received the Sacrament, and at the same
time became speechless, and could only lie holding his wife's hand and
looking sometimes at her, sometimes toward heaven. But the cruel enemy
were close behind, and there was no rest on earth even for the dying.
Madame de Lescure implored her friends to leave them behind; but they
told her she would be exposed to a frightful death, and that his body
would fall into the enemy's hands; and she was forced to consent to his
removal. Her mother and her other friends would not permit her to remain
in the carriage with him; she was placed on horseback and her maid and
the surgeon were with him. An hour after, on the 3rd of November, he
died, but his wife did not know her loss till the evening when they
arrived at Fongeres; for though the surgeon left the carriage on his
death, the maid, fearing the effect which the knowledge might have upon
her in the midst of her journey, remained for seven hours in the
carriage by his side, during two of which she was in a fainting fit.

When Madame de Lescure and Henri de la Rochejaquelein met the next
morning, they sat for a quarter of an hour without speaking, and weeping
bitterly. At last she said 'You have lost your best friend,' and he
replied, 'Take my life, if it could restore him.'

Scarcely anything can be imagined more miserable than the condition of
the army, or more terrible than the situation of the young general, who
felt himself responsible for its safety, and was compelled daily to see
its sufferings and find his plans thwarted by the obstinacy and folly of
the other officers, crushed by an overwhelming force, knowing that there
was no quarter from which help could come, yet still struggling on in
fulfillment of his sad duty. The hopes and expectations which had filled
his heart a few months back had long passed away; nothing was around him
but misery, nothing before him but desolation; but still he never failed
in courage, in mildness, in confidence in Heaven.

At Mans he met with a horrible defeat; at first, indeed, with a small
party he broke the columns of the enemy, but fresh men were constantly
brought up, and his peasants gave way and retreated, their officers
following them. He tried to lead them back through the hedges, and if he
had succeeded, would surely have gained the victory. Three times with
two other officers he dashed into the midst of the Blues; but the
broken, dispirited peasants would not follow him, not one would even
turn to fire a shot. At last, in leaping a hedge, his saddle turned, and
he fell, without indeed being hurt, but the sight of his fall added to
the terror of the miserable Vendeans. He struggled long and desperately
through the long night that followed to defend the gates of the town,
but with the light of morning the enemy perceived his weakness and
effected their entrance. His followers had in the meantime gradually
retired into the country beyond, but those who could not escape fell a
prey to the cruelty of the Republicans. 'I thought you had perished,'
said Madame de Lescure, when he overtook her. 'Would that I had,' was
his answer.

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