The Bretons
swarmed from the bank, where Marche-a-Terre had posted them at the
peril of their lives; for after the last volley, and mingling with the
cries of the dying, several Chouans were heard to fall into the lake,
where they were lost like stones in a gulf. Pille-Miche took aim at
Gerard; Marche-a-Terre held Merle at his mercy.
"Captain," said the marquis to Merle, repeating to the Republican his
own words, "you see that men are like medlars, they ripen on the
straw." He pointed with a wave of his hand to the entire escort of the
Blues lying on the bloody litter where the Chouans were despatching
those who still breathed, and rifling the dead bodies with incredible
rapidity. "I was right when I told you that your soldiers will not get
as far as La Pelerine. I think, moreover, that your head will fill
with lead before mine. What say you?"
Montauran felt a horrible necessity to vent his rage. His bitter
sarcasm, the ferocity, even the treachery of this military execution,
done without his orders, but which he now accepted, satisfied in some
degree the craving of his heart. In his fury he would fain have
annihilated France. The dead Blues, the living officers, all innocent
of the crime for which he demanded vengeance, were to him the cards by
which a gambler cheats his despair.
"I would rather perish than conquer as you are conquering," said
Gerard.
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