In reality Le Chevalier squandered his patrimony recklessly.  The treasury of the party—­presided over by an old officer of Frotte’s, Bureau de Placene, who pompously styled himself the Treasurer-General—­was empty, and orders came from “high places,” without any one exactly knowing whence they emanated, for the faithful to refill them by pillaging the coffers of the state.  The police had little by little relaxed their supervision of Le Chevalier’s conduct, and he took advantage of this to go away for short periods.  It was remarked that each of his absences generally coincided with the stopping of a coach—­a frequent occurrence in Normandy at this time, and one that was considered as justifiable by the royalists.  Seldom did they feel any qualms about these exploits.  The driver, and often his escort, were accomplices of the Chouans.  A few shots were fired from muskets or pistols to keep up the pretence of a fight.  Some of the men opened the chests while others kept watch.  The money belonging to the government was divided to the last sou, while that belonging to private individuals was carefully returned to the strong box.  A few hours later the band returned to Caen and the noisy meetings at the Cafe Hervieux were not even interrupted.

What renders the figure of Le Chevalier especially attractive, despite these mad pranks, which no one of his day considered dishonourable, is the deep private grief which saddened his adventurous life.  In 1801, when he was twenty-one years of age, and during his detention at Caen, he had married Lucile Thiboust, a girl somewhat older than himself, whose father had been overseer of an estate.  He was obliged to break out of prison to spend a few rare hours with the wife whom he dearly loved, all the more so since his passion was oftenest obliged to expend itself in ardent letters not devoid of literary merit.  In prison he learned of the birth of a son born of this union, and a week later, of the death of his adored wife.  His grief was terrible, but he was seized with a passionate love for his child, and it is said that from that day forth he cared for no one else.  He had lived so fast that at the age of twenty-three he was tired of life; his only anxiety was for the future of his son, whom he had confided to the care of a good woman named Marie Hamon.  He traced out a line of conduct for this babe in swaddling clothes:  “Let him flee corruption, seduction and all shameful and violent passions; let him be a friend as they were in ancient Greece, a lover as in ancient Gaul.”

In short his exploits, his captivity, his sorrows, his eloquence, his courage, his noble bearing, made Le Chevalier a hero of romance, and this was the man whom Acquet de Ferolles deemed it wise to despatch to his wife.  Doubtless he had made his acquaintance through the medium of some of his Chouan comrades.  He received him at Donnay, and in order to attach him to himself lent him large sums of money, which Le Chevalier immediately distributed among the crowd of parasites that never left him.  Acquet told him of the separation with which his wife threatened him, begging him to use all his eloquence to bring about an amicable settlement.