The Recruit | Page 6

between Paris and Cherbourg, a
young man in a brown jacket, called a "carmagnole," worn de rigueur
at that period, was making his way to Carentan. When drafts for the
army were first instituted, there was little or no discipline. The
requirements of the moment did not allow the Republic to equip its
soldiers immediately, and it was not an unusual thing to see the roads
covered with recruits, who were still wearing citizen's dress. These
young men either preceded or lagged behind their respective battalions,
according to their power of enduring the fatigues of a long march.
The young man of whom we are now speaking, was much in advance

of a column of recruits, known to be on its way from Cherbourg, which
the mayor of Carentan was awaiting hourly, in order to give them their
billets for the night. The young man walked with a jades step, but
firmly, and his gait seemed to show that he had long been familiar with
military hardships. Though the moon was shining on the meadows
about Carentan, he had noticed heavy clouds on the horizon, and the
fear of being overtaken by a tempest may have hurried his steps, which
were certainly more brisk than his evident lassitude could have desired.
On his back was an almost empty bag, and he held in his hand a
boxwood stick, cut from the tall broad hedges of that shrub, which is so
frequent in Lower Normandy.
This solitary wayfarer entered Carentan, the steeples of which, touched
by the moonlight, had only just appeared to him. His step woke the
echoes of the silent streets, but he met no one until he came to the shop
of a weaver, who was still at work. From him he inquired his way to
the mayor's house, and the way-worn recruit soon found himself seated
in the porch of that establishment, waiting for the billet he had asked
for. Instead of receiving it at once, he was summoned to the mayor's
presence, where he found himself the object of minute observation. The
young man was good-looking, and belonged, evidently, to a
distinguished family. His air and manner were those of the nobility.
The intelligence of a good education was in his face.
"What is your name?" asked the mayor, giving him a shrewd and
meaning look.
"Julien Jussieu."
"Where do you come from?" continued the magistrate, with a smile of
incredulity.
"Paris."
"Your comrades are at some distance," resumed the Norman official, in
a sarcastic tone.
"I am nine miles in advance of the battalion."

"Some strong feeling must be bringing you to Carentan, citizen
recruit," said the mayor, slyly. "Very good, very good," he added
hastily, silencing with a wave of his hand a reply the young man was
about to make. "I know where to send you. Here," he added, giving him
his billet, "take this and go to that house, 'Citizen Jussieu.'"
So saying, the mayor held out to the recruit a billet, on which the
address of Madame de Dey's house was written. The young man read it
with an air of curiosity.
"He knows he hasn't far to go," thought the mayor as the recruit left the
house. "That's a bold fellow! God guide him! He seemed to have his
answers ready. But he'd have been lost if any one but I had questioned
him and demanded to see his papers."
At that instant, the clocks of Carentan struck half-past nine; the lanterns
were lighted in Madame de Dey's antechamber; the servants were
helping their masters and mistresses to put on their clogs, their cloaks,
and their mantles; the card-players had paid their debts, and all the
guests were preparing to leave together after the established customs of
provincial towns.
"The prosecutor, it seems, has stayed behind," said a lady, perceiving
that that important personage was missing, when the company parted in
the large square to go to their several houses.
That terrible magistrate was, in fact, alone with the countess, who
waited, trembling, till it should please him to depart.
"Citoyenne," he said, after a long silence in which there was something
terrifying, "I am here to enforce the laws of the Republic."
Madame de Dey shuddered.
"Have you nothing to reveal to me?" he demanded.
"Nothing," she replied, astonished.

"Ah! madame," cried the prosecutor, changing his tone and seating
himself beside her, "at this moment, for want of a word between us,
you and I may be risking our heads on the scaffold. I have too long
observed your character, your soul, your manners, to share the error
into which you have persuaded your friends this evening. You are, I
cannot doubt, expecting your son."
The countess made a gesture of denial; but she had turned pale, the
muscles of her face