Jacques Chapeau was about five years older than his master, and was as active and well made a little Frenchman, as ever danced all night at a ball outside the barriers of Paris.  He was a light-hearted and kind-hearted creature, although he always considered it necessary to have mortal enemies—­horrid, blasphemous, blood-thirsty fellows, men devoid of feeling, without faith, hope, or charity, who would willingly slaughter women and children for the mere pleasure of doing so.  Such, in Chapeau’s imagination, were all his enemies—­such had been the aristocrats during the time of his revolutionary fervour—­such now were the republicans.  Chapeau loved his own side truly and faithfully, without any admixture of self in his calculations, but I certainly cannot say for him that he was a good Christian, for all the clergymen in Anjou could not have taught him to love his enemies.

On a beautiful summer’s morning, on the 2nd of June, this remarkable recruiting party rode from Durbelliere to the little village of Echanbroignes; the distance was about four leagues, and their road lay, the whole way, through the sweet green leafy lanes of the Bocage.  The aspect of this province is very singular, and in summer most refreshing.  The country is divided into small farms, which are almost entirely occupied with pasture; the farms are again divided into small fields, and each field is surrounded by a belt of trees, growing out of high, green, flowering hedges.  The face of the country is like a thickly wooded demesne, divided and subdivided into an infinity of little paddocks.  The narrow lanes of the country, which are barely broad enough for the wheels of a carriage, and are seldom visited by such a vehicle, lie between thick, high hedges, which completely overshadow them; the wayfarer, therefore, never has before him that long, straight, tedious, unsightly line of road, which adds so greatly to the fatigue of travelling in an open country, and is so painful to the eye.

Through such a lane as this our party rode quickly and cheerily; quickly, for they had much work before them for that day; and cheerily, for they knew that the people among whom they were going would join them with enthusiasm.  They were all well mounted, for they rode the best horses from the stables of Durbelliere:  the old Marquis would have blushed to have given less than the best to the service of his King.

Chapeau was peculiarly elated at the prospect of his day’s work; but his joy was not wholly professional; for Jacques now accounted himself a soldier by profession.  He had another reason for the more than ordinary gaiety with which he trotted on towards Echanbroignes.  There was there a certain smith, named Michael Stein, who had two stalwart sons, whom Jacques burnt to enrol in his loyal band of warriors; this smith had also one daughter, Annot Stein, who, in the eyes of Jacques Chapeau, combined every female charm; she was young and rosy; she had soft hair and bright eyes; she could