THE RED ROSE.

A TALE OF THE WAR IN LA VENDEE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF A. DUMAS.

WHOEVER, On the evening of the 15th December, 1793, had walked from the town of Olisson, toward the village of Saint Crepin, and, on the way thither, from the ridge of the hill whose base is laved by the Maine, had looked down into the valley below, would have witnessed a singular spectacle.

There, along the dusky horizon, had he looked for the village, which lay half-concealed amid the trees, he would have seen three or four columns of smoke, which, isolated at the base, spreading and uniting as they ascended, formed a dark canopy, and, moved by the damp west wind, rolled slowly onward to mingle with the clouds, which hung low and threatening over the earth. He would have seen how the pillars of this fearful vault by degrees became tinged with red-how the smoke was scattered, while tongues of fire leaped from the roof, now winding spiral-formed, now stooping, and now towering aloft like burning columns.

From time to time, as a roof fell in, he would have heard a deadened crash; he would have seen a brighter glow, with a thousand crackling sparks; and by the blood-red light of the spreading fire, have beheld soldiers have seen the flashing of their weapons-have heard their cries and laughter; then would he have shuddered and exclaimed, "God help us! an army has fired a village, to warm themselves by the flames."

It was, in fact, a Republican brigade of from twelve to fifteen thousand men, who, having found the village of Saint Crepin deserted, had set fire to it to satiate their vengeance. A single isolated hut had been spared from the flames; it seemed as if they even endeavored to protect it from the raging element. Two sentinels stood before the door, while orderly-officers and adjutants passed in and out, bringing and receiving orders.

He who gave these orders was a young man, apparently from twenty to twenty-two years of age; his hair, parted upon his forehead, fell in long, fair curls down his cheeks; his features and mien wore that impress of melancholy which is so often stamped upon those who are destined to an early death. His blue cloak but partially concealed his person, so that the symbols of his rank-the epaulettes of a general, were visible. Leaning over a table, upon which lay a map of the country, he was busied, by the light of a lamp, in tracing out the road to be pursued by his soldiers. It was General Marceau, who, three years later, met his death at Altenkirchen.

"Alexander!" he exclaimed, partly raising himself—" Alexander, everlasting sleeper! are you dreaming of St. Domingo, that you cannot wake?" "What is the matter?" cried the individual thus accosted, as he sprang up in haste, almost striking his head against the roof of the chamber."What is the matter?-is the enemy approaching?"

"No-but an order from General Westerman has just reached us." While his comrade read the order which he handed to him, Marceau gazed with child-like curiosity upon the powerful proportions of the gigantic mulatto who stood before him. He was a man of about twenty-eight

years of age, with short, curly hair, brown complexion, open brow, white teeth, and whose almost supernatural strength was the admiration of the whole army. They had seen him cleave in battle the head of a hostile cuirassier, through helmet and skull, down to his very cuirass; when his horse ran with him on parade, they had seen him press the headstrong animal to suffocation by the strength of his knees. It was General Alexander Dumas.*

"Who brought this order?" asked the latter.

"The representative of the people-Delmar."

"Well-and where are the poor devils assembling?"

"In a wood, a league and a half from here. Look at the map ;-here is the place."

"Yes-but neither ravines, nor mountains, nor felled trees are marked

out upon the map-nor a thousand other obstacles which bar the road; so that we can scarce find our way by day-light. Accursed country, where, besides this, it is always cold!"

"Look here," said Marceau, as he pushed open the door with his foot, and pointed to the blazing village-" go out and warm yourself. Halloo! what is the matter, citizens ?"

These words were addressed to a group of soldiers, who, in searching for plunder, had ransacked a kind of stall which joined the hut, occupied by the generals, and had there discovered a Vendean peasant who appeared to be so drunk that, in all probability, he had not been able to accompany the inhabitants of the village in their retreat. Imagine a boor, whose face, covered by his long hair, bore the stamp of stupidity, dressed in his ordinary apparel, with a gray jacket and slouched hat, and apparently so intoxicated as to have lost all command of his senses. Marceau put a few questions to him, but the wine which he had swallowed, and his patois, rendered his replies almost unintelligible. He was about to hand him over to the soldiers for their amusement, when General Dumas suddenly directed every one to leave the chamber; then following them with his friend, he gave orders that the prisoner should be confined in the hut. The boor was standing at the threshold; they pushed him in; he stumbled against the wall, tottered for a moment on his bending knees, and then falling at his length, lay motionless. A sentinel was stationed without, but they did not think of securing the window.

"In an hour we shall be able to commence our march," said General Dumas to Marceau.-" We have a guide."

"Whom?"

"That fellow!"

"Yes; if we wait until to-morrow he might answer; for what he has drank contains at least four and twenty hours' sleep."

Dumas smiled. "Come with me," he said, and led his friend to the stall in which the peasant had been discovered. A thin partition separated the stall from the hut, through the chinks and crevices of which they could see and hear everything that passed in the chamber in which the boor was confined. "Here!" added Dumas, softly, "observe what passes."

Marceau obeyed. It was with difficulty that he could distinguish the prisoner, as the latter had accidentally fallen in the darkest corner of the chamber. Upon looking around for his colleague, he found that he had disappeared. As he turned his glance again to the interior of the hut, it seemed as if the prisoner made a slight movement.

In a few moments the boor opened his eyes, gaping like a man who has

* Father of the Author.

just awakened from a profound sleep. A singular expression of satisfaction passed across his face when he saw that he was alone. Marceau was now sensible that he would have been outwitted by this man, but for the penetration of General Dumas. He redoubled his attention, therefore. The prisoner's face had resumed its former expression; his eyes were closed; his movements were like those of a man who is about to fall asleep again; with one hand he grasped, as if by accident, a leg of the table upon which lay the map and General Westerman's order, jostled it, and everything fell in confusion upon the floor. The sentinel opened the door and thrust in his head; but on seeing the cause of the disturbance, he called with a laugh to his companions," It is the citizen;-he has been dreaming a little." The latter heard him; his eyes were unclosed, and a threatening glance followed the soldier. He then snatched up the paper which contained the order, and hastily concealed it in his bosom.

Marceau held his breath; his right hand reached toward the hilt of his sabre, and his left supported his brow as he leaned against the partition. The subject of his observations had turned upon his side. With his knees and elbows he slowly pushed himself towards the door; but, through the crevice between the threshold and the door, he beheld the feet of the sentinel who was stationed without, and he now crept carefully toward the window; when a few feet distant from this, he grasped after a weapon that he wore concealed in his bosom, crouched, and with a leap like that of the Jaguar, bounded through the casement and lighted on his feet without.

Marceau uttered a cry, for he had neither foreseen this way of escape nor could he now prevent it. Another cry answered to his own; but this sound was that of wrangling and cursing. The Vendean, to wit, as he leaped from the window, found himself face to face with General Dumas. He made a quick pass at him with his knife; but Dumas seized him by the wrist, and bent the prisoner's arm toward his breast. But a thrust, and the latter had fallen by his own weapon.

"I promised you a guide," said Dumas to Marceau, who came running toward him; "here he is; and in my opinion he is a very serviceable one. I might have you shot, knave," he continued, turning to the boor, "but it suits me better to let you live. You have overheard our conversation, but you shall not repeat it to those who have employed you. Citizens!" he cried to the soldiers, "two of you take him by the hand, and march with him at the head of the column. If he make the slightest movement to escape, or to lead us astray, send a bullet through his head, and toss him over the hedge."

The troops lay scattered around, here and there, warming themselves by the ashes, which, but an hour or two before, had composed a village. A few orders, uttered in a low tone, collected the dispersed soldiers, and the mass set itself in motion. It formed into a dark column as it trod the hollow way which separates Saint Crepin from Montfaucon; and when the moon broke through the clouds, and gleamed for a moment upon the gliding bayonets, a spectator would have thought that he beheld an enormous black serpent, whose glistening scales glanced through the gloom of night, asit wound along amid the hills.

The march had lasted for half an hour; the peasant who guided them, closely watched by his companions, listened to every sound. Soon a rustling was heard in the bushes at their side. The head of the column stopped at once. "Who is there?" cried several voices. No answer followed, and the boor said, laughing, "It is a hare starting from its form." At times, the two soldiers thought they saw something in advance of them-but what, they could not distinguish; and then the peasant would say, "it is your sha

dows; let us move on." On a sudden, at a bend in the path, two figures appear before them; the soldiers are about to call out, but one of them falls, struck by a bullet, without uttering a sound; the other staggers backward, and is able but to articulate the word "advance!" Twenty shots are fired at once, and by the flash they see three forms running at full speed; one falls wounded, and drags himself to the nearest hedge. They reach him; he is not their guide; they question him, he does not answer; a soldier pierces his arm with a bayonet to see if he is actually dead; he is.

Marceau was now obliged to lead the way himself. Tolerably well acquainted with the country, he had hopes that he would not lose his path,and in fact, after the lapse of a quarter of an hour, they beheld the dark outline of a wood. This was the spot, where, according to the information he had received, the inhabitants of several villages, together with the remnants of the Vendean armies-in all, perhaps, eighteen hundred men, had assembled for religious service.

The two generals divided their troops into several small columns, and commanded them to surround the wood, and then push forward by the various paths which led to its centre. The half hour before a battle passes quickly. Scarcely has the soldier time to see to his weapon, and to say to his comrade, "I have twenty or thirty francs in my knapsack-if I fall, send them to my mother," when the word "forward!" is heard, and each starts as if it were unexpected.

As the troops advanced, it became evident that the centre of the wood was lighted. They perceived burning torches; and soon a spectacle presented itself which none of them had anticipated.

Near an altar, formed of irregular stones, stood the priest of Sainte Marie de Rhé, reading mass. Old men with torches encircled him, and round about kneeled women and children. Between the troops of the republic and this group stood a rampart of men, ready for defence or for attack. It was evident that those assembled had been warned of their approach, and were prepared to meet them, and in their foremost rank stood their runaway guide. The drunken boor had been suddenly transformed into a Vendean soldier; the red heart, the symbol of their league, shone on his left breast, and upon his hat a white cloth was visible instead of a feather.

The Vendeans did not wait to be attacked; their tiralleurs, which were posted in the wood, commenced the assault. The Republicans, on the other hand, pressed forward, musket upon arm, without firing a shot."Close up!" was the only sound heard in their ranks, after every discharge of musketry. The priest calmly commenced reading mass; his hearers did not seem to notice what was passing around them, but remained motionless upon their knees. When the Republicans had approached to within thirty paces of the enemy, the foremost rank kneeled, and three rows of weapons fell levelled, like ears of corn bent by the wind. The discharge thinned the ranks of the Vendeans, and some of the bullets killed even women and children at the foot of the altar. Cries and loud tumult disordered the group; but when the priest elevated the host, all was still again, and the faithful devoutly bent their heads.

The Republicans had, by this time, advanced ten paces nearer, and delivered their fire with as much calmness as if they had been on parade, and with an accuracy which is only attained by constant practice. The Vendeans returned it, and now there was no time to re-load their muskets; the combat was continued with the bayonet. The advantage now inclined to the side of the better-armed and better-trained Republicans. The mass was not yet ended.

The Vendeans wavered, and whole ranks fell amid frightful imprecations.

The priest observed it; he gave a sign; the torches were extinguished, and the combatants enveloped in complete darkness. Now succeeded a terrible scene of confusion and of murder; each combatant struck about him in wild rage, preferring to die rather than beg for mercy-mercy which is seldom granted when asked for in the language common to both victor and vanquished; and still the words, "Mercy! Mercy!" were uttered in a heartrending tone at Marceau's feet, as he was on the point of dealing a deadly blow. It was a young Vendean-an unarmed boy, who seemed trying to make his escape from this frightful massacre. Mercy! mercy!" he cried, save me, for God's sake; for your mother's sake, save me!"

The general led him a few paces from the scene of strife, in order to remove him from the eyes of his soldiers; but he soon found himself compelled to pause, for the youth had swooned. This excessive terror in a soldier excited his astonishment; yet, notwithstanding this, he prepared to assist him. He opened his coat to give him air, and behold!—it was a maiden! Not a moment was to be lost, for the orders of the convention were explicit. Every Vendean who was found with weapons in his hand, or present at any assemblage, must, without regard to age or sex, atone for it with his life. He laid the young girl at the foot of a tree, returned to the scene of combat, and found the body of a Republican officer, whose figure was similar to that of the unknown maiden. He hastily stripped him of his hat and uniform. During the interval the cool night air had restored the unhappy creature to consciousness. "My father! My father!" were her first words; she then arose and covered her face with her hands to collect her thoughts: "Oh, it is horrible! I was near him-I have deserted him! My father! my father! He is dead!-oh, he is dead!"

"Mademoiselle Blanche!" cried a voice, and a head was protruded from behind a tree; "the Marquis de Beaulieu lives and is safe! Long live the king and the good cause!" The one who had uttered these words immediately disappeared, but not before Marceau had recognized the peasant of Saint Crépin.

Tinguy! Tinguy!" cried the young girl, stretching out her arms toward him.

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Hush!" said Marceau,-" a word might betray you, and then it would be impossible for me to save you. Dress yourself quickly in this uniform, and wait for me here."

He returned to his soldiers, directed them to retire to Chollet, and transferred the command of the brigade to his colleague; he himself returned to the Vendean. The latter was now ready to accompany him. They directed their steps toward a kind of highway, where Marceau's servant was waiting for them with horses. Here he was embarrassed anew; he was fearful that his companion could not ride, and still less, after the fatigue which she had endured, pursue her way on foot; his anxiety disappeared, however, as he beheld her swing herself lightly in the saddle, and govern the animal, with little strength indeed, but with as much skill as the best horseman could have done. She observed Marceau's astonishment, and smiled. "You would wonder less if you knew me better," she said sweetly; " but you shall learn the circumstances which have rendered me so familiar with manly exercises; you seem to be so kind that I will not hesitate to inform you of the events which have chequered my young, and yet so turbulent life."

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"Well, well, by and by," said Marceau, we shall have time enough for it, for you are my prisoner, and I cannot, for your own sake, give you your freedom. We must now hasten to reach Chollet as soon as possible."

They spurred their horses to a gallop, and in less than an hour entered the village. Marceau at once repaired to the commander-in-chief, reported