As the close study of the Vendeans brings to mind the character of the Scotch Highlanders, great at an onset, with not a whit more native knowledge of the common etiquette of war, so Henri himself, in sober simplicity of nature, in the firm thoroughness of all he had to do, even in the agreeable accident of personal beauty, is not unlike a much-maligned man who lived a century before him: John Graham of Claverhouse, the never-to-be-forgotten “deil o’ Dundee.” Claverhouse had a habit of curling his hair on papers; and one learns, with the same sensation, that Henri had one of those singular antipathies no effort of will can correct. At Pontorson, while Madame de Lescure was sewing in a room, with a tame black-and-gray squirrel in her lap, he came in, and backed against the door, pale and trembling. The sight of a squirrel, as he said with a laugh, gave him a feeling of invincible terror! His friend asked him to stroke the little creature. He did so, shaking in every limb, and avowing his weakness with great good-humor. He was never much of a talker. Discussions were intolerable to him. If called upon in council, he would speak his mind briefly, overcoming an extreme diffidence; and having done, he withdrew, or worse, fell asleep. No one was more humane at battle’s end; but, nevertheless, Henri’s element was battle. His Paradise was like the heathen board, where, after the combat and the chase, he might sit at the “red right hand of Odin;” and the masterly rider looked forward to a life where he might play soldier forever. “When the King” (Louis XVII.) “is on the throne,” he confided to his cousin Lescure, “I shall ask for a regiment of hussars, a regiment always on the gallop.” It was his whole desire of guerdon.