M. des Graves was too stunned to offer comment. “Think of it—the Queen trailing through the streets . . . through a mob!” He ground his teeth together. “God! why did I leave Paris! I might have died there with the rest—as I meant to . . .” He choked suddenly, and his head went down into his hands again. M. des Graves sat down beside him, and put his arm about his shoulders. “My dear lad,” he said tenderly, “you had no choice—you had no choice! And we want you here, Louis. I want you, Gilbert wants you . . .” But Louis would not be comforted, though his spaniel, whimpering, stood up and licked the hands which covered his face, and the farmer’s wife stood in the doorway clasping her two frightened children, with whom, a few minutes before, the Vicomte had been playing. Gradually it came out that he had had the newspaper in his pocket all the while. That they had not heard the news from anybody else was due to the fact of their not having been to the village that day. But there was no doubt about its truth. At last the two turned homewards, and in that walk the priest learned a new chapter of the book which he thought he knew so well; saw a glimpse of the feelings which Louis kept so carefully covered up; heard and reasoned with his bitter accusations of himself as a soldier who had deserted his post in face of the enemy. In the end, to console him, he hinted at the possibility of future opportunities for action in Vendée itself. The Vicomte listened gloomily, and evidently did not believe him. Yet two or three days afterwards, as though to acclaim the Cure’s prophetic gift, came the news that the peasants had risen in Deux-Sèvres, under Baudry d’Asson and other gentlemen, and at seven o’clock that very morning had entered Châtillon without meeting any resistance, drums and fifes at their head. But when a deputation from the village came to ask the priest’s advice, he counselled them to return home, for the time was not yet. He was proved only too right. For two days the insurgents besieged Bressuire, while in all the country round the tocsin sounded, and from Fontenay to Nantes and Saumur the National Guards and troops of the line mustered to the help of the beleaguered town. The third day Baudry d’Asson tried to carry the place by assault; his failure threw his undisciplined and badly-armed followers into a panic. The combat became a butchery, and National Guards returned home in triumph with severed ears and noses decorating their bayonets. Two of the leaders who had given themselves up as hostages were summarily shot, and Baudry d’Asson found an asylum for the next six months in the subterranean passages of his own château of Brachain. Thus miserably ended the abortive rising of August 1792. The village of Chantemerle, on the edge only of the insurgent district, and, through the wisdom of the Curé, not involved in hostilities, was spared reprisals, and remained untouched by the terror which reigned long afterwards in the neighbourhood.