“What, Santerre, the brewer of the Faubourgs?”

“The same, Danton’s friend, he who used to be so loud at the Cordeliers; and Westerman is to assist him,” said Henri.

“Worse again, Henri, worse again; was it not he who headed the rebels on the tenth of August, when our sainted King was driven from his home?”

“Yes, the same Westerman is now to drive us from our homes; or rather to burn us, our homes, and all together—­such at least is the task allotted to him.”

“God help our babes and our women!” said the old Marquis shuddering, “if they fall into the clutches of Santerre, and that other still blacker demon!”

“Do not fear, father; have we not shewn that we are men?  Santerre will find that he has better soldiers to meet than any he brings with him.”

“Fear, Henri! no, for myself I fear nothing.  What injury can they do to an old man like me?  I do not even fear for my own children; if their lives are required in the King’s service, they know how to part with them in perfect confidence of eternal happiness hereafter; but, Henri, I do feel for our poor people; they are now full of joy and enthusiasm, for they are warm from victory, and the grief of the few, who are weeping for their relatives, is lost in the joy of the multitude.  But this cannot always be so, we cannot expect continual victory, and even victory itself, when so often repeated, will bring death and desolation into every parish and into every family.”

“I trust, father, the war will not be prolonged so distantly as you seem to think; the forces of Austria, England and Prussia already surround the frontiers of France; and we have every reason to hope that friendly troops from Britain will soon land on our own coast.  I trust the autumn will find La Vendee crowned with glory, but once more at peace.”

“God send it, my son!” said the Marquis.

“I do not doubt the glory—­but I do doubt the peace.”

“We cannot go back now, father,” said Henri.

“Nor would I have you do so; we have a duty to do, and though it be painful we must do it.  ‘God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb,’ and give us strength to bear our sufferings; but my heart shudders, when I am told that the Republic has let loose those wolves of Paris to shed the blood of our poor people.”

The prospect of a prolonged civil war, of continued strife, and increased bloodshed, somewhat damped the joy with which the victory at Saumur was discussed in the aristocratic portion of the chateau; but no such gloomy notions were allowed to interfere with the triumph which reigned in the kitchen.  Here victory was clothed in robes all couleur de rose, and it appeared that La Vendee, so happy in many other respects, was chiefly blessed in being surrounded by republicans whom she could conquer, and in having enemies who gave her the means of acquiring glory.

“And our own young master was the first royalist who put his foot in Saumur?” asked Momont, who had already received the information he required four or five times, and on each occasion had drunk Henri’s health in about half-a-pint of wine.