" replied the young chieftain, "is the priest; I am fighting
not for the man, but for the faith."

They parted,--the Vendean leader convinced of the necessity of yielding
to circumstances and keeping his beliefs in the depths of his heart; La
Billardiere to return to his negotiations in England; and Montauran to
fight savagely and compel the Vendeans, by the victories he expected to
win, to co-operate in his enterprise.

* * * * *

The events of the day had excited such violent emotions in Mademoiselle
de Verneuil's whole being that she lay back almost fainting in the
carriage, after giving the order to drive to Fougeres. Francine was as
silent as her mistress. The postilion, dreading some new disaster,
made all the haste he could to reach the high-road, and was soon on the
summit of La Pelerine. Through the thick white mists of morning Marie de
Verneuil crossed the broad and beautiful valley of Couesnon (where this
history began) scarcely able to distinguish the slaty rock on which the
town of Fougeres stands from the slopes of La Pelerine. They were
still eight miles from it. Shivering with cold herself, Mademoiselle de
Verneuil recollected the poor soldier behind the carriage, and insisted,
against his remonstrances, in taking him into the carriage beside
Francine. The sight of Fougeres drew her for a time out of her
reflections. The sentinels stationed at the Porte Saint-Leonard refused
to allow ingress to the strangers, and she was therefore obliged to
exhibit the ministerial order. This at once gave her safety in entering
the town, but the postilion could find no other place for her to stop at
than the Poste inn.

"Madame," said the Blue whose life she had saved. "If you ever want a
sabre to deal some special blow, my life is yours. I am good for that.
My name is Jean Falcon, otherwise called Beau-Pied, sergeant of
the first company of Hulot's veterans, seventy-second half-brigade,
nicknamed 'Les Mayencais.' Excuse my vanity; I can only offer you the
soul of a sergeant, but that's at your service."

He turned on his heel and walked off whistling.

"The lower one goes in social life," said Marie, bitterly, "the more
we find generous feelings without display. A marquis returns death for
life, and a poor sergeant--but enough of that."

When the weary woman was at last in a warm bed, her faithful Francine
waited in vain for the affectionate good-night to which she was
accustomed; b