Chapeau now knocked at the door, and brought farther tidings.  The Mad Captain and all his troop had returned from Antrames to Laval, and had just now entered the town.

“Our men are shaking the Bretons by the hand,” said Chapeau, “and wondering at their long hair and rough skins.  Three or four days ago, I feared the Vendeans would never have faced the blues again; but now they are as ready to meet them as ever they were.”

“And the Captain, is he actually in Laval at present, Chapeau?”

“Indeed he is, M. Henri.  I saw him riding down the street, by the Hotel de Ville, myself, not ten minutes since.”

“Did you see his face, Chapeau?” asked Marie.

“Did he look like any one you knew?” asked Madame de Lescure.

“Did he ride well?” asked the little Chevalier.

“Did he look like a soldier?” asked M. de Lescure.

“Who do you think he is, Chapeau?” asked Henri Larochejaquelin.

Chapeau looked from one to another, as these questions were asked him; and then selecting those of M. de Lescure and his sister, as the two easiest to answer, he said: 

“I did not see his face, Mademoiselle.  They say that he certainly is a good soldier, M. Charles, but he certainly does not look like any one of our Vendean officers.”

“Who can it be?” said Henri.  “Can it be Marigny, Charles?”

“Impossible,” said de Lescure; “Marigny is a fine, robust fellow, with a handsome open face.  They say this man is just the reverse.”

“It isn’t d’Elbee come to life again, is it?” said Arthur Mondyon.  “He’s ugly enough, and not very big.”

“Nonsense, Arthur, he’s an old man; and of all men the most unlikely to countenance such doings as those of these La Petite Vendee.  I think, however, I know the man.  It must be Charette.  He is courageous, but yet cruel; and he has exactly that dash of mad romance in him which seems to belong to this new hero.”

“Charette is in the island of Noirmoutier,” said de Lescure, “and by all accounts, means to stay there.  Had he been really willing to give us his assistance, we never need have crossed the Loire.”

“Oh! it certainly was not Charette,” said Chapeau.  “I saw M. Charette on horseback once, and he carries himself as though he had swallowed a poker; and this gentleman twists himself about like—­like—­”

“Like a mountebank, I suppose,” said de Lescure.

“He rides well, all the same, M. Charles,” rejoined Chapeau.

“And who do you think he is, Chapeau?” said Henri.

Chapeau shrugged his shoulders, as no one but a Frenchman can shrug them, intending to signify the impossibility of giving an opinion; immediately afterwards he walked close up to his master, and whispered something in his ear.  Henri looked astonished, almost confounded, by what his servant said to him, and then replied, almost in a whisper:  “Impossible, Chapeau, quite impossible.”