Now, in this army of peasants there are heroes, but no captains.  D’Elbee is a nonentity, Lescure an invalid; Bonchamps is merciful,—­he is kind, and that implies folly; La Rochejaquelein is a superb sub-lieutenant; Silz is an officer good for the open field, but not suited for a war that needs a man of expedients; Cathelineau is a simple teamster; Stofflet is a crafty game-keeper; Berard is inefficient; Boulainvillers is absurd; Charette is horrible.  I make no mention of Gaston the barber.  Mordemonbleu! what is the use of opposing revolution, and what is the difference between ourselves and the republicans, if we set barbers over the heads of noblemen!  The fact is, that this beastly revolution has contaminated all of us.”

“It is the itch of France.”

“It is the itch of the Tiers etat,” rejoined Boisberthelot.  “England alone can help us.”

“And she will, captain, undoubtedly.”

“Meanwhile it is an ugly state of affairs.”

“Yes,—­rustics everywhere.  A monarchy that has Stofflet, the game-keeper of M. de Maulevrier, for a commander has no reason to envy a republic whose minister is Pache, the son of the Duke de Castries’ porter.  What men this Vendean war brings face to face.—­on one side Santerre the brewer; on the other Gaston the hairdresser!”

“My dear La Vieuville, I feel some respect for this Gaston.  He behaved well in his command of Guemenee.  He had three hundred Blues neatly shot after making them dig their own graves.”

“Well enough done; but I could have done quite as well as he.”

“Pardieu, to be sure; and I too.”

“The great feats of war,” said Vieuville, “require noble blood in those who perform them.  These are matters for knights, and not for hairdressers.”

“But yet there are estimable men in this ‘Third Estate,’” rejoined Vieuville.  “Take that watchmaker, Joly, for instance.  He was formerly a sergeant in a Flanders regiment; he becomes a Vendean chief and commander of a coast band.  He has a son, a republican; and while the father serves in the ranks of the Whites, the son serves in those of the Blues.  An encounter, a battle:  the father captures the son and blows out his brains.”

“He did well,” said La Vieuville.

“A royalist Brutus,” answered Boisberthelot.  “Nevertheless, it is unendurable to be under the command of a Coquereau, a Jean-Jean, a Moulin, a Focart, a Bouju, a Chouppes!”

“My dear chevalier, the opposite party is quite as indignant.  We are crowded with plebeians; they have an excess of nobles.  Do you think the sansculottes like to be commanded by the Count de Canclaux, the Viscount de Miranda, the Viscount de Beauharnais, the Count de Valence, the Marquis de Custine, and the Duke de Biron?”

“What a combination!”

“And the Duke de Chartres!”

“Son of Egalite.  By the way, when will he be king?”

“Never!”