Exhausted as he was with his run, he sprang to the mound of bodies, and the first that met his eyes was that of his uncle.But he had hardly recognized the rubicund face now furrowed with blue lines, and seen the stiffened arms and the gunshot wound before he gave a stifled cry, exclaiming, "Let us be off, commandant."The Blues started.Hulot gave his arm to his young friend.
"God's thunder!" he cried."Never mind, it is no great matter.""But he is dead," said Gudin, "dead! He was my only relation, and though he cursed me, still he loved me.If the king returns, the neighborhood will want my head, and my poor uncle would have saved it.""What a fool Gudin is," said one of the men who had stayed behind to share the spoils; "his uncle was rich, and he hasn't had time to make a will and disinherit him."The division over, the men of Fougeres rejoined the little battalion of the Blues on their way to the town.
*****
Towards midnight the cottage of Galope-Chopine, hitherto the scene of life without a care, was full of dread and horrible anxiety.Barbette and her little boy returned at the supper-hour, one with her heavy burden of rushes, the other carrying fodder for the cattle.Entering the hut, they looked about in vain for Galope-Chopine; the miserable chamber never looked to them as large, so empty was it.The fire was out, and the darkness, the silence, seemed to tell of some disaster.
Barbette hastened to make a blaze, and to light two /oribus/, the name given to candles made of pitch in the region between the villages of Amorique and the Upper Loire, and still used beyond Amboise in the Vendomois districts.Barbette did these things with the slowness of a person absorbed in one overpowering feeling.She listened to every sound.Deceived by the whistling of the wind she went often to the door of the hut, returning sadly.She cleaned two beakers, filled them with cider, and placed them on the long table.Now and again she looked at her boy, who watched the baking of the buckwheat cakes, but did not speak to him.The lad's eyes happened to rest on the nails which usually held his father's duck-gun, and Barbette trembled as she noticed that the gun was gone.The silence was broken only by the lowing of a cow or the splash of the cider as it dropped at regular intervals from the bung of the cask.The poor woman sighed while she poured into three brown earthenware porringers a sort of soup made of milk, biscuit broken into bits, and boiled chestnuts.
"They must have fought in the field next to the Berandiere," said the boy.
"Go and see," replied his mother.
The child ran to the place where the fighting had, as he said, taken place.In the moonlight he found the heap of bodies, but his father was not among them, and he came back whistling joyously, having picked up several five-franc pieces trampled in the mud and overlooked by the victors.His mother was sitting on a stool beside the fire, employed in spinning flax.He made a negative sign to her, and then, ten o'clock having struck from the tower of Saint-Leonard, he went to bed, muttering a prayer to the holy Virgin of Auray.At dawn, Barbette, who had not closed her eyes, gave a cry of joy, as she heard in the distance a sound she knew well of hobnailed shoes, and soon after Galope-Chopine's scowling face presented itself.
"Thanks to Saint-Labre," he said, "to whom I owe a candle, the Gars is safe.Don't forget that we now owe three candles to the saint."He seized a beaker of cider and emptied it at a draught without drawing breath.When his wife had served his soup and taken his gun and he himself was seated on the wooden bench, he said, looking at the fire: "I can't make out how the Blues got here.The fighting was at Florigny.Who the devil could have told them that the Gars was in our house; no one knew it but he and the handsome garce and we--"Barbette turned white.
"They made me believe they were the gars of Saint-Georges," she said, trembling, "it was I who told them the Gars was here."Galope-Chopine turned pale himself and dropped his porringer on the table.
"I sent the boy to warn you," said Barbette, frightened, "didn't you meet him?"The Chouan rose and struck his wife so violently that she dropped, pale as death, upon the bed.
"You cursed woman," he said, "you have killed me!" Then seized with remorse, he took her in his arms."Barbette!" he cried, "Barbette!--Holy Virgin, my hand was too heavy!"
"Do you think," she said, opening her eyes, "that Marche-a-Terre will hear of it?""The Gars will certainly inquire who betrayed him.""Will he tell it to Marche-a-Terre?"
"Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche were both at Florigny."Barbette breathed a little easier.
"If they touch a hair of your head," she cried, "I'll rinse their glasses with vinegar.""Ah! I can't eat," said Galope-Chopine, anxiously.
His wife set another pitcher full of cider before him, but he paid no heed to it.Two big tears rolled from the woman's eyes and moistened the deep furrows of her withered face.
"Listen to me, wife; to-morrow morning you must gather fagots on the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, to the right and Saint-Leonard and set fire to them.That is a signal agreed upon between the Gars and the old rector of Saint-Georges who is to come and say mass for him.""Is the Gars going to Fougeres?"
"Yes, to see his handsome garce.I have been sent here and there all day about it.I think he is going to marry her and carry her off; for he told me to hire horses and have them ready on the road to Saint-Malo."