# The Strand Magazine/Volume 4/Issue 23/Ugly Margot

From the French. Illustrated by Jean de Paléologue.
Layout 4
I.
N a picturesque cottage of a retired straggling village in the province of La Vendée, dwelt an aged woman and her granddaughter, Margot. Margot was amiable, cheerful, industrious, kind; she possessed, in short, every feminine gift save one. That one was beauty! She was so ugly that the neighbours had given her the name of la vilaine tête. But Margot was a good girl, and did not murmur at her deprivation. On the contrary, she was thankful for her perfect health and strength. She thought little of her appearance, or, indeed, of herself at all, being always so much occupied with her duty. She was the best savonneuse in the village. She washed the linen of the neighbouring château, and her own and her grandmother's caps and kerchiefs were conspicuous for their whiteness and dainty get-up. In spite of her ugliness, everyone loved Margot. It is true that she was called la vilaine tête, but nicknames among rustics are not necessarily tokens of ill-nature or dislike. Margot bore the designation with perfect equanimity, for she had another, pleasanter one. She was also called: The good Margot.
II.
Margot was eighteen years of age when the peace of her village was disturbed by the grim tocsin of war. It was the stirring time of the great Revolution. Every day tragic stories of blood and flame reached the ears of the villagers, but they never dreamed that the disturbances would pierce even to their sheltered retreat. One memorable day, however, they were startled by a summons from their seigneur and the curé calling them to the aid of the Royalists. Thenceforward no sounds of joy were heard in that once happy spot, unless it were the savage shouts of occasional triumph. The church bell, no longer a message of peace, called now to blood and battle. The sports and labours of the field were abandoned for fiercer pursuits. The cloud of anxiety darkened every face. Each day brought new events: some fresh encounter, some impending danger, some hard-earned victory. Many a gallant youth of the village lay unburied on a distant battlefield; others, after every action, returned home to die. As the Vendéan women were forbidden to follow the army, most of them remained and performed all the duties of guard-mounting and patrolling like experienced soldiers. Some, however, of the more adventurous, disguised as men, girded on swords and mingled in the ranks, leaving their infants and aged parents to the care of those who, like our gentle-natured heroine, stayed at home. The church had been turned into a hospital, wherein, under the direction of the curé and of a surgeon, tender-hearted and tenderhanded women ministered to the wounded victims of the war. One of the most loving and skilful of this noble army of nurses was Margot.
III.
Nearer and nearer to the devoted village swept the wild current of war; for the wide-spreading force of the Republican arms was now driving the gallant Vendéans to the more remote and difficult positions. Margot's village became the headquarters of one of the retreating bodies of Royalists. All was bustle and excitement. The seigneur, having escaped death in several desperate encounters, had reached again his own roof, there to enjoy such a measure of repose as his anxiety would allow him. The general commanding, with his staff, was, of course, lodged in the château. Margot was appointed washerwoman to the whole establishment. This provided her with ample employment for both day and night, and put besides a lot of money into her pocket.
"She started back in dismay."
One night, as the girl was busily preparing linen, some which was to be delivered at the château on the following day, she heard a gentle knock at the outer door. She raised the latch unhesitatingly, but started back in dismay at sight of the figure standing there of a young soldier in the Republican uniform, unarmed, with pale face, and a ghastly wound upon his forehead. One arm was bound with a coarse handkerchief, and supported by his cravat, which served as a sling. His feet were bare, his clothes torn in several places, and covered with dust and mire. "Hide me!" he said, in a hoarse, hurried whisper. Royalist though Margot was, she could not withstand this appeal. She drew him quickly in, and fastened the door.
La Crosse (for such was the stranger's name) then told Margot that he had that day, after a skirmish in the neighbourhood, been brought as a prisoner to the village. After a brief examination by the Royalist officers, he had been thrust into a wretched hovel. His guards had kept careless watch, and he had contrived to make his escape. While searching for a hiding-place, he had been attracted by the light in the cottage window, and, seeing through the lattice that there was only a young woman within, he had determined to throw himself upon her protection. The poor fellow entreated Margot to shelter him. Not in vain. She led him softly to her own little chamber, and insisted on his occupying her bed. She warmed some water, with which she bathed his wounded forehead and lacerated feet. She next bound up his contused arm, then brought him food and drink, of which he stood in sore need. After that he fell asleep, and Margot, who had had by this time sufficient experience to see that his wounds were not dangerous, left him. She spent the remainder of the night on an arm-chair by the kitchen fire, laying plans for her guest's complete escape.
IV.
Morning dawned, and the wearied-out man still slept. Margot, again busy in her kitchen, was feeling strangely happy, although she knew that she had put herself in peril of punishment, should her aiding and abetting be discovered. But as she opened the casement to admit the delicious morning air, she saw a sight which struck a chill to her heart. ​Three or four armed men were coming out of a cottage opposite, and she rightly conjectured that these were searching for their escaped prisoner. Rushing to her room, she shook the man awake, and hurriedly explained to him his danger. Then she flung over him a huge heap of the unwashed linen which lay there ready to her hand, leaving only a small opening at the back of the bed, through which he had barely sufficient space to breathe. She was just in time! When, Her a minute later, the door of the cottage burst open, and the soldiers appeared, the girl's head was bent over the wash-tub in the kitchen. The men's rough voices roused the old grandmother in the room within. With a terrified scream, she hastened into the kitchen, and demanded the reason of this visit. When she understood their errand, she was furious. That they should dare to suspect her of harbouring a rebel! Her indignation found vent in no measured terms. Paying no heed to the old woman's reproaches, the soldiers proceeded to search the cottage. They invaded the sanctuary of the good dame's repose, and prodded her bed with their bayonets. When satisfied that no living thing lurked beneath the blankets, they went next to Margot's room. The heap which lay upon her bed was about to be subjected to a similar examination, when the old woman fiercely interposed, exclaiming that it was the general's linen, in time to save the heap from perforation and the secret from discovery.
"The old woman fiercely interposed."
Margot, meanwhile, stood by, silent, and almost senseless with fright, until she saw the soldiers, still pursued by her grandmother's tongue, leave the cottage. Then, with a deep sigh of relief, and a great heartthrob of thanksgiving, she turned again to her work.
V.
Margot had to resort to many and strange devices in order to keep from her grandmother the secret of her guest. The old lady marvelled greatly at her grand-daughter's sudden prodigious access of appetite, which Margot tried to persuade her was the effect of her increased exertions. The anxious girl employed herself in unceasing efforts on behalf of her protégé. Night after night she wore herself out in altering the appearance of every article of his attire. She cut his soldier's coat into the jacket of a civilian; stripped it of its military ornaments, and turned the skirts into a cap.
Meanwhile, daily skirmishes were taking place between the Royalist and Republican troops, and a great battle was expected. At length, La Crosse could endure confinement and inaction no longer. One dark night, amid heavy rain, he took leave of his protectress, who forced upon him her last-remaining coins, and cautiously made his way to the Republican army.
VI.
That night of La Crosse's departure was the eve of the battle. Margot was awakened the next morning by the cannon's roar. Where was her friend? was her first thought. Making a hasty toilet, she flung open the cottage door, and ran at her utmost speed to the nearest rising ground in the direction of the battle. There is no need to describe the terrible scene. Amid all those sickening sights and sounds fear for herself never once entered the brave girl's mind; all her anxiety was for him—her late guest.
For a time victory seemed to smile upon the Royalists. But suddenly their opponents made a general and overwhelming charge, which ​carried before it the broken parties of the Vendéans like the débris upon the bosom of a flooded stream. On towards the village swept the mingled mass, and Margot, stunned and almost stifled, was hurried along with it. All the cottages of the place were speedily set on fire by the ruthless victors, that of our heroine being one of the first to perish. Never again did Margot see her poor old grandmother, or learn for certain of her fate! The church itself, in which numbers of the pursued had taken refuge, was soon in flames.
When at last the tide of battle had ebbed away from the wrecked village, Margot, having marvellously escaped all personal injury, but nearly dead with grief and horror, was free to weep in solitude over the smoking heap which was all that remained of her home. With a burst of agony she buried her face in her hands, and sank almost unconscious upon the ground.
VII.
She was aroused by a voice that seemed familiar; it was calling "Margot!" She lifted her head. It was La Crosse, who, fearing lest harm might befall his benefactress, had come in search of her. With suddenly renewed sprang to her feet, and was hastening to meet him when she saw him fall. He had been shot by a party of three or four Vendéans, who had caught sight of the detested Republican uniform which he had now re-assumed. Margot rushed to his side; the Vendéans did the same. They were strangers to Margot—men from another village. Two of them, with a rough curse, forced her with them into the wood, whilst another rifled the body.
"Dead!" the girl heard them say.
"On which side are you?"
VIII.
When evening fell, Margot took advantage of the dusk to escape from her captors. With heavy yet eager heart she at once sought the spot where La Crosse had fallen. No trace of his body was to be seen. The heart-broken girl wandered aimlessly on, until, in the neighbourhood of the château, she was stopped by a Republican soldier of ruffianly appearance. "On which side are you?" demanded he, in a fierce tone. "Royalist," murmured Margot, too utterly spent to think of the peril she incurred by such an answer. She was instantly made a prisoner, and passed the night, with many other unfortunates, in an outhouse belonging to the château. At daybreak, after a scanty meal, the party of captives was sent off on the road to Nantes.
IX.
We will not dwell upon the sadness of Margot's farewell look upon the ruins of her beloved village, or on the miseries of the journey to Nantes, where hooting and reviling greeted the arrival of the hapless Vendéans. Our poor Margot, nearly dropping with fatigue, covered with dust, and at no time of a prepossessing appearance, was singled out as the principal butt of ribaldry and sarcasm.
Several of the prisoners died during the first night in the dungeon of Nantes. In the morning a strange scene was enacted. For the women of the newly-arrived band one chance of life and doubtful liberty remained. Each Republican soldier was permitted to choose from among the condemned one woman, to be acknowledged as his wife. All were chosen but one. Need we say that this one was Margot?
X.
Margot was sentenced to transportation, but weeks passed before the sentence was carried out. At length, on the appointed day, she was conducted from the prison to the boat. Her face was besmeared with dust and tears; her clothes were disordered and torn; her hair hung all dishevelled upon her shoulders. When she reached the boat, in which several other victims of the war were already embarked, she was pushed over the side by the guards, and received by the soldiers aboard with a shout of derision.
"I claim that girl for my wife."
The preparations were all complete, the boatmen in the very act of pushing from the shore, when a young soldier, flushed and panting, forced his way through the crowd, plunged into the water, seized the prow of the boat, and cried in a loud voice: "Stop! stop! I claim that girl for my wife!" The object of his choice shrieked at sight of him, and, as he held out his arms to receive her, fell into them fainting. A roar of ironical laughter went up from the onlookers. But La Crosse—for it was he, who had been only stunned, not killed, by the Vendéan ball, and had now recovered from his wound—cared not a whit for their jeers. He believed that "Handsome is as handsome does," and, as Margot had acted handsomely by him, he was bent upon behaving handsomely to her. They were married that very day, and "lived happy ever after!"