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Monsieur Lecoq, v. 2

by Emile Gaboriau · English · Gutenberg #48641 · 712,826 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Monsieur Lecoq, v. 2

Author: Emile Gaboriau


        
Release date: April 5, 2015 [eBook #48641]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MONSIEUR LECOQ, V. 2 ***

[Illustration: “‘I shall never be able to accept another in his
place.’”]




MONSIEUR LECOQ

VOL. II

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF

EMILE GABORIAU

PEARSON’S LIBRARY EDITION

“Monsieur Lecoq” Vol. 1 “Monsieur Lecoq” Vol. 2

“The Gilded Clique” “The Lerouge Case”

“In Peril of His Life”

“File 113”

Illustrated

[Illustration: colophon]

THE PEARSON PUBLISHING CO.

NEW YORK




MONSIEUR LECOQ.




PART II.

THE HONOUR OF THE NAME.




IX.


The cottage where M. Lacheneur had taken refuge stood on a hill
overlooking the river. It was a small and humble dwelling, though
scarcely so miserable in its aspect and appointments as most of peasant
abodes round about. It comprised a single storey divided into three
rooms and roofed with thatch. In front was a tiny garden, where a vine
straggling over the walls of the house, a few fruit-trees, and some
withered vegetables just managed to exist. Small as was this garden
patch, and limited as was its production, still Lacheneur’s aunt, to
whom the dwelling had formerly belonged, had only succeeded in
conquering the natural sterility of the soil after long years of patient
perseverance. Day after day, during a lengthy period, she had regularly
spread in front of the cottage three or four basketfulls of arable soil
brought from a couple of miles distant; and though she had been dead for
more than a twelvemonth, one could still detect a narrow pathway across
the waste, worn by her patient feet in the performance of this daily
task.

This was the path which M. d’Escorval, faithful to his resolution, took
the following day, in the hope of obtaining from Marie-Anne’s father
some explanation of his singular conduct. The baron was so engrossed in
his own thoughts that he failed to realise the excessive heat as he
climbed the rough hillside in the full glare of the noonday sun. When
he reached the summit, however, he paused to take breath; and while
wiping the perspiration from his brow, turned to look back on the valley
whence he had come. It was the first time he had visited the spot, and
he was surprised at the extent of the landscape offered to his view.
From this point, the most elevated in the surrounding country, one can
survey the course of the Oiselle for many miles; and in the distance a
glimpse may be obtained of the ancient citadel of Montaignac, perched on
an almost inaccessible rock. A man in the baron’s mood could, however,
take but little interest in the picturesqueness of the scenery, though,
when he turned his back to the valley and prepared to resume his walk,
he was certainly struck by the aspect of Lacheneur’s new abode. His
imagination pictured the sufferings of this unfortunate man, who, only
two days before, had relinquished the splendours of the Chateau du
Sairmeuse to resume the peasant life of his early youth.

“Come in!” cried a female voice when M. d’Escorval rapped at the door of
the cottage. He lifted the latch, and entered a small room with
white-washed walls, having no other ceiling than the thatched roof, and
no other flooring than the bare ground. A table with a wooden bench on
either side stood in the middle of this humble chamber, in one corner of
which was an old bedstead. On a stool near the narrow casement sat
Marie-Anne, working at a piece of embroidery, and clad in a
peasant-girl’s usual garb.

At the sight of M. d’Escorval, she rose to her feet, and for a moment
they remained standing in front of one another, she apparently calm, he
visibly agitated. Lacheneur’s daughter was paler than usual, she seemed
even thinner, but there was a strange, touching charm about her person;
the consciousness of duty nobly fulfilled, of resignation calling for
accomplishment, lending, as it were, a new radiance to her beauty.

Remembering his son, M. d’Escorval was surprised at Marie-Anne’s
tranquillity. “You don’t inquire after Maurice,” he said, with a touch
of reproachfulness in his voice.

“I had news of him this morning, as I have had every day,” quietly
replied Marie-Anne. “I know that he is getting better, and that he was
able to take some food yesterday.”

“You have not forgotten him, then?”

She trembled; a faint blush suffused her cheeks and forehead, but it was
in a calm voice that she replied: “Maurice knows that it would be
impossible for me to forget him, even if I wished to do so.”

“And yet you told him that you approved your father’s decision!”

“Yes, I told him so; and I shall have the courage to repeat it.”

“But you have made Maurice most wretched and unhappy, my dear child; he
almost died of grief.”

She raised her head proudly, looked M. d’Escorval fully in the face and
answered, “Do you think then that I haven’t suffered myself?”

M. d’Escorval was abashed for a moment; but speedily recovering himself,
he took hold of Marie-Anne’s hand and, pressing it affectionately,
exclaimed: “So Maurice loves you, and you love him; you are both
suffering: he has nearly died of grief and still you reject him!”

“It must be so, sir.”

“You say this, my dear child--you say this, and you undoubtedly believe
it. But I, who have sought to discover the necessity of this immense
sacrifice, have quite failed to find any plausible reason. Explain to me
why it must be so, Marie-Anne. Have you no confidence in me? Am I not an
old friend? It may be that your father in his despair has adopted
extreme resolutions. Let me know them and we will conquer them together.
Lacheneur knows how deeply I am attached to him. I will speak to him: he
will listen to _me_.”

“I can tell you nothing, sir.”

“What! you remain inflexible when a father entreats you to assist him,
when he says to you: ‘Marie-Anne, you hold my son’s happiness, life, and
reason in your hands. Can you be so cruel----’”

“Ah! it is you who are cruel, sir,” answered Marie-Anne with tears
glittering in her eyes; “it is you who are without pity. Cannot you see
what I suffer? No, I have nothing to tell you; there is nothing you can
say to my father. Why try to unnerve me when I require all my courage to
struggle against my despair? Maurice must forget me; he must never see
me again. This is fate; and he must not fight against it. It would be
folly. Beseech him to leave the country, and if he refuses, you, who are
his father, must command him to do so. And you too, in heaven’s name fly
from us. We shall bring misfortune upon you. Never return here; our
house is accursed. The fate that overshadows us may ruin you as well.”

She spoke almost wildly, and her voice was so loud that it reached an
adjoining room, the door of which suddenly opened, M. Lacheneur
appearing upon the threshold. At the sight of M. d’Escorval the whilom
lord of Sairmeuse could not restrain an oath; but there was more sorrow
and anxiety than anger in his manner, as he said: “What, you here,
baron?”

The consternation into which Marie-Anne’s words had thrown M. d’Escorval
was so intense that he could only just manage to stammer a reply. “You
have abandoned us entirely; I was anxious about you. Have you forgotten
your old friendship? I come to you----”

“Why did you not inform me of the honour that the baron had done me,
Marie-Anne?” said Lacheneur sternly.

She tried to speak, but could not; and it was the baron who replied;
“Why, I have but just arrived, my dear friend.”

M. Lacheneur looked suspiciously, first at his daughter and then at the
baron. His brow was overcast as he was evidently wondering what M.
d’Escorval and Marie-Anne had said to each other whilst they were alone.
Still, however great his disguise may have been, he seemed to master it;
and it was with his old-time affability of manner that he invited M.
d’Escorval to follow him into the adjoining room. “It is my reception
room and study combined,” he said smilingly.

This room, although much larger than the first, was, however, quite as
scantily furnished, but piled up on the floor and table were a number of
books and packages, which two men were busy sorting and arranging. One
of these men was Chanlouineau, whom M. d’Escorval at once recognized,
though he did not remember having ever seen the other one, a young
fellow of twenty or thereabouts. With the latter’s identity he was,
however, soon made acquainted.

“This is my son, Jean,” said Lacheneur. “He has changed since you last
saw him ten years ago.”

It was true. Fully ten years had elapsed since the baron last saw
Lacheneur’s son. How time flies! He had known Jean as a boy and he now
found him a man. Young Lacheneur was just in his twenty-first year, but
with his haggard features and precocious beard he looked somewhat older.
He was tall and well built, and his face indicated more than average
intelligence. Still he did not convey a favorable impression. His
restless eyes betokened a prying curiosity of mind, and his smile
betrayed an unusual degree of shrewdness, amounting almost to cunning.
He made a deep bow when his father introduced him; but he was evidently
out of temper.

“Having no longer the means to keep Jean in Paris,” resumed M.
Lacheneur, “I have made him return as you see. My ruin will, perhaps,
prove a blessing to him. The air of great cities is not good for a
peasant’s son. Fools that we are, we send our children to Paris that
they may learn to rise above their fathers. But they do nothing of the
kind. They think only of degrading themselves.”

“Father,” interrupted the young man; “father, wait at least until we are
alone!”

“M. d’Escorval is not a stranger,” retorted M. Lacheneur, and then
turning again to the baron, he continued; “I must have wearied you by
telling you again and again; ‘I am very pleased with my son. He has a
commendable ambition; he is working faithfully and is bound to succeed.’
Ah! I was a poor foolish father! The friend whom I commissioned to call
on Jean and tell him to return here has enlightened me as to the truth.
The model young man you see here only left the gaming-house to run to
some public ball. He was in love with a wretched little ballet girl at
some low theatre; and to please this creature, he also went on the stage
with his face painted red and white.”

“It’s not a crime to appear on the stage,” interrupted Jean with a
flushed face.

“No; but it is a crime to deceive one’s father and to affect virtues one
doesn’t possess! Have I ever refused you money? No; and yet you have got
into debt on all sides. You owe at least twenty thousand francs!”

Jean hung his head; he was evidently angry, but he feared his father.

“Twenty thousand francs!” repeated M. Lacheneur. “I had them a fortnight
ago; now I haven’t a halfpenny. I can only hope to obtain this sum
through the generosity of the Duke or the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”

The baron uttered an exclamation of surprise. He only knew of the scene
at the parsonage and believed that there would be no further connection
between Lacheneur and the duke’s family. Lacheneur perceived M.
d’Escorval’s amazement, and it was with every token of sincerity and
good faith that he resumed: “What I say astonishes you. Ah! I understand
why. My anger at first led me to indulge in all sorts of absurd threats.
But I am calm now, and realize my injustice. What could I expect the
duke to do? To make me a present of Sairmeuse? He was a trifle brusque,
I confess, but that is his way; at heart he is the best of men.”

“Have you seen him again?”

“No; but I have seen his son. I have even been with him to the chateau
to select the articles which I desire to keep. Oh! he refused me
nothing. Everything was placed at my disposal--everything. I selected
what I wanted, furniture, clothes, linen. Everything is to be brought
here; and I shall be quite a great man.”

“Why not seek another house? This----”

“This pleases me. Its situation suits me perfectly.”

In fact, after all, thought M. d’Escorval, why should not the
Sairmeuse’s have regretted their odious conduct? And if they had done so
might not Lacheneur, in spite of indignation, agree to accept honourable
conditions?

“To say that the marquis has been kind is saying too little,” continued
Lacheneur. “He has shown us the most delicate attentions. For example,
having noticed how much Marie-Anne regrets the loss of her flowers, he
has promised to send her plants to stock our small garden, and they will
be renewed every month.”

Like all passionate men, M. Lacheneur overdid his part. This last remark
was too much; it awakened a terrible suspicion in M. d’Escorval’s mind.
“Good heavens!” he thought, “does this wretched man meditate some
crime?” He glanced at Chanlouineau, and his anxiety increased, for on
hearing Lacheneur speak of the marquis and Marie-Anne, the stalwart
young farmer had turned livid.

“It is decided,” resumed Lacheneur with an air of unbounded
satisfaction, “that they will give me the ten thousand francs bequeathed
to me by Mademoiselle Armande. Moreover, I am to fix upon such a sum as
I consider a just recompense for my services. And that is not all: they
have offered me the position of manager at Sairmeuse; and I was to be
allowed to occupy the game-keeper’s cottage, where I lived so long. But
on reflection I refused this offer. After having enjoyed a fortune which
did not belong to me during so many years, I am now anxious to amass a
fortune of my own.”

“Would it be indiscreet in me to inquire what you intend to do?”

“Not the least in the world. I am going to turn pedlar.”

M. d’Escorval could not believe his ears. “Pedlar?” he repeated.

“Yes, M. le Baron. Look, there is my pack in that corner.”

“But that’s absurd,” exclaimed M. d’Escorval. “People can scarcely earn
their daily bread in this way!”

“You are wrong, sir. I have considered the subject carefully; the
profits are thirty per cent. And besides, there will be three of us to
sell the goods, for I shall confide one pack to my son, and another to
Chanlouineau.”

“What! Chanlouineau?”

“He has become my partner in the enterprise.”

“And his farm--who will take care of that?”

“He will employ day labourers.” And then, as if wishing to make M.
d’Escorval understand that his visit had lasted quite long enough,
Lacheneur began arranging such of the little packages as were intended
for his own pack.

But the baron was not to be got rid of so easily, especially now that
his suspicions had almost ripened into certainty. “I must speak with you
alone,” he said in a curt tone.

M. Lacheneur turned round. “I am very busy,” he replied with evident
reluctance of manner.

“I only ask for five minutes. But if you haven’t the time to spare
to-day, I can return to-morrow--the day after to-morrow--or any day when
I can see you in private.”

Lacheneur saw plainly that it would be impossible to escape this
interview, so with a gesture of a man who resigns himself to a
necessity, he bade his son and Chanlouineau withdraw.

They left the room, and as soon as the door had closed behind them,
Lacheneur exclaimed: “I know very well, M. le Baron, the arguments you
intend to advance; and the reason of your coming. You come to ask me
again for Marie-Anne. I know that my refusal has nearly killed Maurice.
Believe me, I have suffered cruelly at the thought; but my refusal is
none the less irrevocable. There is no power in the world capable of
changing my resolution. Don’t ask my motives; I cannot reveal them; but
rest assured that they are sufficiently weighty.”

“Are we not your friends?” asked M. d’Escorval.

“You--!” exclaimed Lacheneur with affectionate cordiality--”ah! You know
it well!--you are the best, the only friends I have here below. I should
be the greatest wretch living if I did not retain the recollection of
your kindness until my eyes close in death. Yes, you are my friends,
yes, I am devoted to you--and it is for that very reason, that I answer
your proposals with no, no, never!”

There was no longer any room for doubt. M. d’Escorval seized Lacheneur’s
hands, and almost crushing them in his grasp, “Unfortunate man!” he
exclaimed, “What do you intend to do? Of what terrible vengeance are you
dreaming!”

“I swear to you----”

“Oh! do not swear. You cannot deceive a man of my age and of my
experience. I divine your intentions--you hate the Sairmeuse family more
mortally than ever.”

“I----”

“Yes, you; and if you pretend to forget the way they treated you, it is
only that they may forget it. These people have offended you too cruelly
not to fear you; you understand this, and you are doing all in your
power to reassure them. You accept their advances--you kneel before
them--why? Because they will be more completely in your power when you
have lulled their suspicions to rest; and then you can strike them more
surely--”

He paused; the door of the front room opened, and Marie-Anne appeared
upon the threshold. “Father,” said she, “Here is the Marquis de
Sairmeuse.”

The mention of this name at such a juncture was so ominously significant
that M. d’Escorval could not restrain a gesture of surprise and fear.
“He dares to come here!” he thought. “What, is he not afraid the very
walls will fall and crush him?”

M. Lacheneur cast a withering glance at his daughter. He suspected her
of a ruse which might force him to reveal his secret; and for a second
his features were distorted by a fit of passionate rage. By an effort,
however, he succeeded in regaining his composure. He sprang to the door,
pushed Marie-Anne aside, and leaning out exclaimed: “Deign to excuse me,
M. le Marquis, if I take the liberty of asking you to wait a moment; I
am just finishing some business, and I will be with you in a few
minutes.”

Neither agitation nor anger could be detected in his voice; but rather,
a respectful deference and a feeling of profound gratitude. Having
spoken in this fashion he closed the door again and turned to M.
d’Escorval. The baron, still standing with folded arms, had witnessed
this scene with the air of a man who distrusts the evidence of his own
senses; and yet he understood the meaning of the incident only too well.
“So this young man comes here?” he said to Lacheneur.

“Almost every day--not at this hour usually, but a trifle later.”

“And you receive him? You welcome him?”

“Certainly. How can I be insensible to the honour he confers upon me?
Moreover, we have subjects of mutual interest to discuss. We are now
occupied in legalising the restitution of Sairmeuse. I can also give him
much useful information, and many hints regarding the management of the
property.”

“And do you expect to make me, your old friend, believe that a man of
your superior intelligence is deceived by the excuses the marquis makes
for these frequent visits? Look me in the eye, and then tell me, if you
dare, that you believe these visits are addressed to you!”

Lacheneur’s glance did not waver. “To whom else could they be
addressed?” he inquired.

This obstinate serenity disappointed the baron’s expectations. He could
not have received a heavier blow. “Take care Lacheneur,” he said
sternly. “Think of the situation in which you place your daughter,
between Chanlouineau, who wishes to make her his wife, and M. de
Sairmeuse, who hopes to make her--”

“Who hopes to make her his mistress--is that what you mean? Oh, say the
word. But what does that matter? I am sure of Marie-Anne.”

M. d’Escorval shuddered. “In other words,” said he, in bitter
indignation, “you make your daughter’s honour and reputation your stake
in the game you are playing.”

This was too much. Lacheneur could restrain his furious passion no
longer. “Well, yes!” he exclaimed, with a frightful oath; “yes, you have
spoken the truth. Marie-Anne must be, and will be the instrument of my
plans. A man in my situation is free from the considerations by which
others are guided. Fortune, friends, life, honour--I have been forced to
sacrifice everything. Perish my daughter’s virtue--perish my daughter
herself--what do they signify if I can but succeed?”

Never had M. d’Escorval seen Lacheneur so excited. His eyes flashed, and
as he spoke, shook his clenched fist wildly in the air, as though he
were threatening some miserable enemy. “So you admit it,” exclaimed M.
d’Escorval; “you admit that you propose revenging yourself on the
Sairmeuse family, and that Chanlouineau is to be your accomplice?”

“I admit nothing,” Lacheneur replied. “Let me reassure you.” Then
raising his hand as if to take an oath, he added in a solemn voice:
“Before God, who hears my word, by all that I hold sacred in this world,
by the memory of the wife I loved and whom I mourn to-day, I swear to
you, that I am plotting nothing against the Sairmeuse family; that I
have no thought of touching a hair of their heads. I use them only
because they are absolutely indispensable to me. They will aid me
without injuring themselves.”

For a moment the baron remained silent. He was evidently trying to
reconcile Lacheneur’s conflicting utterances. “How can one believe this
assurance after your previous avowal?” he evidently enquired.

“Oh, you may refuse to believe me if you choose,” rejoined Lacheneur,
who had now regained all his self-possession. “But whether you believe
me or not I must decline to speak any further on the subject. I have
said too much already. I know that your visit and your questions have
been solely prompted by your friendship, and I cannot help feeling both
proud and grateful. Still I can tell you no more. The events of the last
few days demand that we should separate. Our paths in life lie far
apart, and I can only say to you what I said yesterday to the
Abbe-Midon. If you are my friend never come here again under any pretext
whatever. Even if you hear I am dying, do not come, and should you meet
me, turn aside, shun me as you would some deadly pestilence.”

Lacheneur paused, as if expecting some further observation from the
baron, but the latter remained silent, reflecting that the words he had
just heard were substantially a repetition of what Marie-Anne had
previously told him.

“There is still a wiser course you might pursue,” resumed the ex-lord of
Sairmeuse, after a brief interval. “Here in the district there is but
little chance of your son’s sorrow soon subsiding. Turn which way he
will--alas, I know myself, that even the very trees and flowers will
remind him of a happier time. So leave this neighborhood, take him with
you, and go far away.”

“Ah! how can I do that when Fouche has virtually imprisoned me here!”

“All the more reason why you should listen to my advice. You were one of
the emperor’s friends, hence you are regarded with suspicion. You are
surrounded by spies, and your enemies are watching for an opportunity to
ruin you. They would seize on the slightest pretext to throw you into
prison--a letter, a word, an act capable of misconstruction. The
frontier is not far off; so I repeat, go and wait in a foreign land for
happier times.”

“That I will never do,” said M. d’Escorval proudly. His words and accent
showing plainly enough how futile further discussion would be.

“Ah! you are like the Abbe Midon,” sadly rejoined Lacheneur; “you won’t
believe me. Who knows how much your coming here this morning may cost
you? It is said that no one can escape his destiny. But if some day the
executioner lays his hand on your shoulder, remember that I warned you,
and don’t curse me for what may happen.”

Lacheneur paused once more, and seeing that even this sinister prophecy
produced no impression on the baron, he pressed his hand as if to bid
him an eternal farewell, and opened the door to admit the Marquis de
Sairmeuse. Martial was, perhaps, annoyed at meeting M d’Escorval; but he
nevertheless bowed with studied politeness, and began a lively
conversation with M. Lacheneur, telling him that the articles he had
selected at the chateau were at that moment on their way.

M. d’Escorval could do no more. It was quite impossible for him to speak
with Marie-Anne, over whom Chanlouineau and Jean were both jealously
mounting guard. Accordingly, he reluctantly took his leave, and
oppressed by cruel forebodings, slowly descended the hill which he had
climbed an hour before so full of hope.

What should he say to Maurice? He was revolving this query in his mind
and had just reached the little pine grove skirting the waste, when the
sound of hurried footsteps behind induced him to look back. Perceiving
to his great surprise that the young Marquis de Sairmeuse was
approaching and motioning him to stop, the baron paused, wondering what
Martial could possibly want of him.

The latter’s features wore a most ingenuous air, as he hastily raised
his hat and exclaimed: “I hope, sir, that you will excuse me for having
followed you when you hear what I have to say. I do not belong to your
party and our doctrines and preferences are very different. Still I have
none of your enemies’ passion and malice. For this reason I tell you
that if I were in your place I would take a journey abroad. The frontier
is but a few miles off; a good horse, a short gallop, and you have
crossed it. A word to the wise is--salvation!”

Having thus spoken and without waiting for any reply, Martial abruptly
turned and retraced his steps.

“One might suppose there was a conspiracy to drive me away!” murmured M.
d’Escorval in his amazement. “But I have good reason to distrust this
young man’s disinterestedness.” The young marquis was already far off.
Had he been less preoccupied, he would have perceived two figures in the
grove--Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu, followed by the inevitable
Aunt Medea, had come to play the spy.




X.


The Marquis de Courtornieu idolised his daughter. This was alike an
incontestable and an uncontested fact. When people spoke to him
concerning the young lady they invariably exclaimed: “You who adore your
daughter--” And in a like manner whenever the marquis spoke of her
himself, he always contrived to say: “I who adore Blanche.” In point of
fact, however, he would have given a good deal, even a third of his
fortune, to get rid of this smiling, seemingly artless girl, who,
despite her apparent simplicity, had proved more than a match for him
with all his diplomatic experience. Her fancies were legion, and however
capricious they chanced to be it was useless to resist them. At one time
he had hoped to ward his daughter off by inviting Aunt Medea to come and
live at the chateau, but the weak-minded spinster had proved a most
fragile barrier, and soon Blanche had returned to the charge more
audacious and capricious than ever. Sometimes the marquis revolted, but
nine times out of ten he paid dearly for his attempts at rebellion. When
Blanche turned her cold, steel-like eyes upon him with a certain
peculiar expression, his courage evaporated. Her weapon was irony; and
knowing his weak points she dealt her blows with wonderful precision.

Such being the position of affairs, it is easy to understand how
devoutly M. de Courtornieu prayed and hoped that some eligible young
aristocrat would ask for his daughter’s hand, and thus free him from
bondage. He had announced on every side that he intended to give her a
dowry of a million francs, a declaration which had brought a host of
eager suitors to Courtornieu. But, unfortunately, though many of these
wooers would have suited the marquis well enough, not one had been so
fortunate as to please the capricious Blanche. Her father presented a
candidate; she received him graciously, lavished all her charms upon
him; but as soon as his back was turned, she disappointed all her
father’s hopes by rejecting him. “He is too short, or too tall. His rank
is not equal to ours. He is a fool--his nose is so ugly.” Such were the
reasons she would give for her refusal; and from these summary decisions
there was no appeal. Arguments and persuasion were alike useless. The
condemned man had only to take himself off and be forgotten.

Still, as this inspection of would-be husbands amused the capricious
Blanche, she encouraged her father in his efforts to find a suitor.
Despite all his perseverance, however, to please her, the poor marquis
was beginning to despair, when fate dropped the Duke de Sairmeuse and
his son at his very door. At sight of Martial he had a presentiment that
the _rara avis_ he was seeking was found at last; and believing best to
strike the iron while it was hot, he broached the subject to the duke on
the morrow of their first meeting. M. de Courtornieu’s overtures were
favourably received, and the matter was soon decided. Indeed, having the
desire to transform Sairmeuse into a principality, the duke could not
fail to be delighted with an alliance with one of the oldest and
wealthiest families in the neighbourhood. “Martial, my son,” he said,
“Possesses in his own right, an income of at least six hundred thousand
francs.”

“I shall give my daughter a dowry of at least--yes, at least fifteen
hundred thousand,” replied M. de Courtornieu.

“His majesty is favourably disposed towards me,” resumed his grace. “I
can obtain any important diplomatic position for Martial.”

“In case of trouble,” was the retort, “I have many friends among the
opposition.”

The treaty was thus concluded; but M. de Courtornieu took good care not
to speak of it to his daughter. If he told her how much he desired the
match, she would be sure to oppose it. Non-intervention accordingly
seemed advisable. The correctness of his policy was soon fully
demonstrated. One morning Blanche entered her father’s study and
peremptorily declared, “Your capricious daughter has decided, papa, that
she would like to become the Marchioness de Sairmeuse.”

It cost M. de Courtornieu quite an effort to conceal his delight; but he
feared that if Blanche discovered his satisfaction the game would be
lost. Accordingly, he presented several objections, which were quickly
disposed of; and, at last, he ventured to opine: “Then the marriage is
half decided as one of the parties consents. It only remains to
ascertain if--”

“The other will consent,” retorted the vain heiress; who, it should be
remarked, had for several days previously been assiduously engaged in
the agreeable task of fascinating Martial and bringing him to her feet.
With a skilful affectation of simplicity and frankness, she had allowed
the young marquis to perceive that she enjoyed his society, and without
being absolutely forward she had made him evident advances. Now,
however, the time had come to beat a retreat--a manœuvre so
successfully practised by coquettes, and which usually suffices to
enslave even a hesitating suitor. Hitherto, Blanche had been gay,
spiritual, and coquettish; now she gradually grew quiet and reserved.
The giddy school girl had given place to a shrinking maiden; and it was
with rare perfection that she played her part in the divine comedy of
“first love.” Martial could not fail to be fascinated by the modest
timidity and chaste fears of a virgin heart now awaking under his
influence to a consciousness of the tender passion. Whenever he made his
appearance Blanche blushed and remained silent. Directly he spoke she
grew confused; and he could only occasionally catch a glimpse of her
beautiful eyes behind the shelter of their long lashes. Who could have
taught her this refinement of coquetry? Strange as it may seem, she had
acquired her acquaintance with all the artifices of love during her
convent education.

One thing she had not learnt, however, that clever as one may be, one is
ofttimes duped by one’s own imagination. Great actresses so enter into
the spirit of their part that they frequently end by shedding real
tears. This knowledge came to Blanche one evening when a bantering
remark from the Duke de Sairmeuse apprised her of the fact that Martial
was in the habit of going to Lacheneur’s house every day. She had
previously been annoyed at the young marquis’s admiration of Marie-Anne,
but now she experienced a feeling of real jealousy; and her sufferings
were so intolerable that fearing she might reveal them she hurriedly
left the drawing-room and hastened to her own room.

“Can it be that he does not love me?” she murmured. She shivered at the
thought; and for the first time in her life this haughty heiress
distrusted her own power. She reflected that Martial’s position was so
exalted that he could afford to despise rank; that he was so rich that
wealth had no attractions for him; and that she herself might not be so
pretty and so charming as her flatterers had led her to suppose. Still
Martial’s conduct during the past week--and heaven knows with what
fidelity her memory recalled each incident!--was well calculated to
reassure her. He had not, it is true, formally declared himself; but it
was evident that he was paying his addresses to her. His manner was that
of the most respectful, but the most infatuated of lovers.

Her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of her maid, bringing a
large bouquet of roses which Martial had just sent. She took the
flowers, and while arranging them in a vase, bedewed them with the first
sincere tears she had shed since she was a child.

She was so pale and sad, so unlike herself when she appeared the next
morning at breakfast, that Aunt Medea felt alarmed. But Blanche had
prepared an excuse, which she presented in such sweet tones that the old
lady was as much amazed as if she had witnessed a miracle. M. de
Courtornieu was no less astonished, and wondered what new freak it was
that his daughter’s doleful face betokened. He was still more alarmed
when immediately after breakfast, Blanche asked to speak with him. She
followed him into his study, and as soon as they were alone, before he
had even had time to sit down she entreated him to tell her what had
passed between the Duke de Sairmeuse and himself; she wished to know if
Martial had been informed of the intended alliance, and what he had
replied. Her voice was meek, her eyes tearful; and her manner indicated
the most intense anxiety.

The marquis was delighted. “My wilful daughter has been playing with
fire,” he thought, stroking his chin caressingly; “and upon my word she
has scorched herself.” Then with a smile on his face he added aloud.
“Yesterday, my child, the Duke de Sairmeuse formally asked for your hand
on his son’s behalf; and your consent is all that is lacking. So rest
easy, my beautiful lovelorn damsel--you will be a duchess.”

She hid her face in her hands to conceal her blushes. “You know my
decision, father,” she faltered in an almost inaudible voice; “we must
make haste.”

He started back thinking he had not heard her words aright. “Make
haste!” he repeated.

“Yes, father. I have fears.”

“What fears, in heaven’s name?”

“I will tell you when everything is settled,” she replied, at the same
time making her escape from the room.

She did not doubt the reports which had reached her concerning Martial’s
frequent visits to Marie-Anne, still she wished to ascertain the truth
for herself. Accordingly, on leaving her father, she told Aunt Medea to
dress herself, and without vouchsafing a single word of explanation,
took her with her to the Reche and stationed herself in the pine grove
so as to command a view of M. Lacheneur’s cottage.

It chanced to be the very day when M. d’Escorval called on Marie-Anne’s
father, in hopes of obtaining some definite explanation of his conduct.
Blanche saw the baron climb the slope, and shortly afterwards Martial
followed the same route. She had been rightly informed; there was no
room for further doubt, and her first impulse was to return home. But on
reflection she resolved to wait and ascertain how long the Marquis
remained with this girl she hated. M. d’Escorval’s visit was a brief
one, and scarcely had he left the cottage than she saw Martial hasten
out after him, and speak to him. She breathed again.

The marquis had only made a brief call, perhaps, on some matter of
business, and no doubt, like M. d’Escorval, he was now going home again.
Not at all, however, after a moment’s conversation with the baron,
Martial returned to the cottage.

“What are we doing here?” asked Aunt Medea.

“Let me alone! Hold your tongue!” angrily replied Blanche, whose
attention had just been attracted by a number of wheels, a tramp of
horse’s hoofs, a loud cracking of whips, and a brisk exchange of oaths,
such as waggoners in a difficulty usually resort to.

All this racket heralded the approach of the vehicles conveying M.
Lacheneur’s furniture and clothes. The noise must have reached the
cottage on the slope, for Martial speedily appeared on the threshold,
followed by Lacheneur, Jean, Chanlouineau, and Marie-Anne. Every one was
soon busy unloading the waggons, and judging from the young marquis’s
gestures and manner, it seemed as if he were directing the operation. He
was certainly bestirring himself immensely. Hurrying to and fro,
talking to everybody, and at times not even disdaining to lend a hand.

“He, a nobleman makes himself at home in that wretched hovel!” quoth
Blanche to herself. “How horrible! Ah! I see only too well that this
dangerous creature can do what she likes with him.”

All this, however, was nothing compared with what was to come. A third
cart drawn by a single horse, and laden with shrubs and pots of flowers
soon halted in front of the cottage. At this sight Blanche was
positively enraged. “Flowers!” she exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with
passion. “He sends her flowers, as he does me--only he sends me a
bouquet, while for her he pillages the gardens of Sairmeuse.”

“What are you saying about flowers?” inquired the impoverished relative.

Blanche curtly rejoined that she had not made the slightest allusion to
flowers. She was suffocating; and yet she obstinately refused to leave
the grove, and go home as Aunt Medea repeatedly suggested. No; she must
see the finish, and although a couple of hours were spent in unloading
the furniture, still she lingered with her eyes fixed on the cottage and
its surroundings. Some time after the empty waggons had gone off,
Martial re-appeared on the threshold, Marie-Anne was with him, and they
remained talking in full view of the grove where Blanche and her
chaperone were concealed. For a long while it seemed as if the young
marquis could not promptly make up his mind to leave, and when he did
so, it was with evident reluctance that he slowly walked away.
Marie-Anne still standing on the door-step waved her hand after him with
a friendly gesture of farewell.

The young marquis was scarcely out of sight when Blanche turned to her
aunt and hurriedly exclaimed: “I must speak to that creature; come
quick!” Had Marie-Anne been within speaking distance at that moment, she
would certainly have learnt the cause of her former friend’s anger and
hatred. But fate willed it otherwise. Three hundred yards of rough
ground intervened between the two; and in crossing this space Blanche
had time enough to reflect.

She soon bitterly regretted having shown herself at all. But
Marie-Anne, who was still standing on the threshold of the cottage had
seen her approaching, and it was consequently quite impossible to
retreat. She accordingly utilized the few moments still at her disposal
in recovering her self-control, and composing her features; and she had
her sweetest smile on her lips when she greeted the girl who she had
styled “that creature,” only a few minutes previously. Still she was
embarrassed, scarcely knowing what excuse to give for her visit, hence
with the view of gaining time she pretended to be quite out of breath.
“Ah! It is not very easy to reach you, dear Marie-Anne,” she said at
last; “you live on the top of a perfect mountain.”

Mademoiselle Lacheneur did not reply. She was greatly surprised, and did
not attempt to conceal the fact.

“Aunt Medea pretended to know the road,” continued Blanche; “but she led
me astray. Didn’t you aunt?”

As usual the impecunious relative assented, and her niece resumed: “But
at last we are here. I couldn’t resign myself to hearing nothing about
you, my dear, especially after all your misfortunes. What have you been
doing? Did my recommendation procure you the work you wanted?”

Marie-Anne was deeply touched by the kindly interest which her former
friend displayed in her welfare, and with perfect frankness, she
confessed that all her efforts had been fruitless. It had even seemed to
her that several ladies had taken pleasure in treating her unkindly.

Blanche was not listening, however. Close by stood the flowers brought
from Sairmeuse; and there perfume rekindled her anger. “At all events,”
she interrupted, “you have something here which will almost make you
forget the gardens of Sairmeuse. Who sent you those beautiful flowers?”

Marie-Anne turned crimson. For a moment she did not speak, but at last
she stammered: “They are a mark of attention from the Marquis de
Sairmeuse.”

“So she confesses it!” thought Mademoiselle de Courtornieu, amazed at
what she was pleased to consider an outrageous piece of impudence. But
she succeeded in concealing her rage beneath a loud burst of laughter;
and it was in a tone of raillery that she rejoined: “Take care, my dear
friend, I am going to call you to account. You are accepting flowers
from my _fiance_.”

“What, the Marquis de Sairmeuse!”

“Yes, he has asked for my hand; and my father has promised it to him. It
is a secret as yet; but I see no danger in confiding in your
friendship.”

Blanche really believed that this information would crush her rival; but
though she watched her closely, she failed to detect the slightest trace
of emotion in her face. “What dissimulation!” thought the heiress, and
then with affected gaiety, she resumed aloud: “And the country folks
will see two weddings at about the same time, since you are going to be
married as well, my dear.”

“I married?”

“Yes, you--you little deceiver! Everybody knows that you are engaged to
a young man in the neighbourhood, named--wait, I know--Chanlouineau.”

Thus the report which annoyed Marie-Anne so much reached her from every
side. “Everybody is for once mistaken,” she replied energetically. “I
shall never be that young man’s wife.”

“But why? People speak well of him personally, and he is very well off.”

“Because,” faltered Marie-Anne; “because----” Maurice d’Escorval’s name
trembled on her lips; but unfortunately she did not give it utterance.
She was as it were abashed by a strange expression on Blanche’s face.
How often one’s destiny depends on such an apparently trivial
circumstance as this!

“What an impudent worthless creature!” thought Blanche; and then in cold
sneering tones that unmistakably betrayed her hatred, she said: “You are
wrong, believe me, to refuse such an offer. This young fellow
Chanlouineau will at all events save you from the painful necessity of
toiling with your own hands, and of going from door to door in quest of
work which is refused you. But no matter; _I_”--she laid great stress
upon this word--”_I_ will be more generous than your other old
acquaintances. I have a great deal of embroidery to be done. I shall
send it to you by my maid, and you two may settle the price together.
It’s late now, and we must go. Good-bye, my dear. Come, Aunt Medea.”

So saying, the haughty heiress turned away, leaving Marie-Anne
petrified with surprise, sorrow, and indignation. Although less
experienced than Blanche, she understood well enough that this strange
visit concealed some mystery--but what? She stood motionless, gazing
after her departing visitors, when she felt a hand laid gently on her
shoulder. She trembled, and turning quickly found herself face to face
with her father.

Lacheneur was intensely pale and agitated, and a sinister light
glittered in his eyes. “I was there,” said he pointing to the door, “and
I heard everything.”

“Father!”

“What! would you try to defend her after she came here to crush you with
her insolent good fortune--after she overwhelmed you with her ironical
pity and scorn! I tell you they are all like this--these girls, whose
heads have been turned by flattery, and who believe that the blood in
their veins is different to ours. But patience! The day of reckoning is
near at hand!”

He paused. Those whom he threatened would have trembled had they seen
him at that moment, so plain it was that he harboured in his mind some
terrible design of retributive vengeance.

“And you, my darling, my poor Marie-Anne,” he continued, “you did not
understand the insults she heaped upon you. You are wondering why she
treated you with such disdain. Ah, well! I will tell you: she imagines
that the Marquis de Sairmeuse is your lover.”

Marie-Anne turned as pale as her father, and quivered from head to foot.
“Can it be possible?” she exclaimed. “Great God! What shame! What
humiliation!”

“Why should it astonish you?” said Lacheneur, coldly. “Haven’t you
expected this result ever since the day when, to ensure the success of
my plans, you consented to receive the attentions of this marquis, whom
you loathe as much as I despise?”

“But Maurice! Maurice will despise me! I can bear anything, yes,
everything but that.”

Lacheneur made no reply. Marie-Anne’s despair was heart-rending; he felt
that he could not bear to witness it, that it would shake his
resolution, and accordingly he re-entered the house.

His penetration was not at fault, in surmising that Blanche’s visit
would lead to something new, for biding the time when she might fully
revenge herself in a way worthy of her hatred, Mademoiselle de
Courtornieu availed herself of a favourite weapon among the
jealous--calumny, and two or three abominable stories which she
concocted, and which she induced Aunt Medea to circulate in the
neighbourhood virtually ruined Marie-Anne’s reputation.

These scandalous reports even came to Martial’s ears, but Blanche was
greatly mistaken if she had imagined that they would induce him to cease
his visits to Lacheneur’s cottage. He went there more frequently than
ever and stayed much longer than he had been in the habit of doing
before. Dissatisfied with the progress of his courtship, and fearful
that he was being duped, he even watched the house. And then one
evening, when the young marquis was quite sure that Lacheneur, his son,
and Chanlouineau were absent, it so happened that he perceived a man
leave the cottage, descend the slope and hasten across the fields. He
followed in pursuit, but the fugitive escaped him. He believed, however,
that he had recognized Maurice d’Escorval.




XI.


When Maurice narrated to his father the various incidents which had
marked his interview with Marie-Anne in the pine grove near La Reche, M.
d’Escorval was prudent enough to make no allusion to the hopes of final
victory which he, himself, still entertained. “My poor Maurice,” he
thought, “is heart-broken, but resigned. It is better for him to remain
without hope than to be exposed to the danger of another possible
disappointment.”

But passion is not always blind, and Maurice divined what the baron
tried to conceal--and clung to this faint hope in his father’s
intervention, as tenaciously as a drowning man clings to the proverbial
straw. If he refrained from speaking on the subject, it was only because
he felt convinced that his parents would not tell him the truth. Still
he watched all that went on in the house with that subtlety of
penetration which fever so often imparts, and nothing that his father
said or did escaped his vigilant eyes and ears. He heard the baron put
on his boots, ask for his hat, and select a cane from among those placed
in the hall stand; and a moment later he, moreover, heard the
garden-gate grate upon its hinges. Plainly enough M. d’Escorval was
going out. Weak as he was, Maurice succeeded in dragging himself to the
window in time to ascertain the truth of his surmise. “If my father is
going out,” he thought, “it can only be to visit M. Lacheneur; and if he
is going to La Reche he has evidently not relinquished all hope.”

With this thought in his mind Maurice sank into an arm-chair close at
hand, intending to watch for his father’s return; by doing so, he might
know his fate a few moments sooner. Three long hours elapsed before the
baron returned, and by his dejected manner Maurice plainly saw that all
hope was lost. Of this, he was sure, as sure as the criminal who reads
the fatal verdict in the judge’s solemn face. He required all his energy
to regain his couch, and for a moment he felt that he should die. Soon,
however, he grew ashamed of this weakness, which he judged unworthy of
him, and prompted by a desire to know exactly what had happened he rang
the bell, and told the servant who answered his summons that he wished
to speak with his father. M. d’Escorval promptly made his appearance.

“Well!” exclaimed Maurice, as his father crossed the threshold of the
room.

The baron felt that all denial would be useless. “Lacheneur is deaf to
my remonstrances and entreaties,” he replied, sadly. “There is no hope,
my poor boy; you must submit. I will not tell you that time will assuage
the sorrow that now seems insupportable--for you wouldn’t believe me if
I did. But I do say to you be a man, and prove your courage. I will say
even more: fight against all thought of Marie-Anne, as a traveller on
the brink of a precipice fights against the thought of vertigo.”

“Have you seen Marie-Anne, father? Have you spoken to her?”

“I found her even more inflexible than Lacheneur.”

“They reject me, and yet no doubt they receive Chanlouineau.”

“Chanlouineau is living there.”

“Good heavens! And Martial de Sairmeuse?”

“He is their familiar guest. I saw him there.”

Evidently enough each of these replies fell upon Maurice like a
thunderbolt. But M. d’Escorval had armed him self with the
imperturbable courage of a surgeon, who only grasps his instrument more
firmly when the patient groans and writhes beneath his touch. He felt
that it was necessary to extinguish the last ray of hope in his son’s
heart.

“It is evident that M. Lacheneur has lost his reason!” exclaimed
Maurice.

The baron shook his head despondently. “I thought so myself at first,”
he murmured.

“But what does he say in justification of his conduct? He must say
something.”

“Nothing: he refuses any explanation.”

“And you, father, with all your knowledge of human nature, with all your
wide experience, have not been able to fathom his intentions?”

“I have my suspicions,” M. d’Escorval replied; “but only suspicions. It
is possible that Lacheneur, listening to the voice of hatred, is
dreaming of some terrible revenge. He may, perhaps, think of organizing
some conspiracy against the emigres. Such a supposition would explain
everything. Chanlouineau would be his aider and abettor; and he pretends
to be reconciled to the Marquis de Sairmeuse in order to obtain
information through him--”

The blood had returned to Maurice’s pale cheeks. “Such a conspiracy,”
said he, “would not explain M. Lacheneur’s obstinate rejection of my
suit.”

“Alas! yes, it would, my poor boy. It is through Marie-Anne that
Lacheneur exerts such great influence over Chanlouineau and the marquis.
If she became your wife to-day, they would desert him to-morrow. Then,
too, it is precisely because he has such sincere regard for us, that he
is determined to keep us out of a hazardous, even perilous enterprise.
However, of course, this is merely a conjecture.”

“Still, I see that it is necessary to submit,” faltered Maurice. “I must
resign myself; forget, I cannot.”

He said this because he wished to reassure his father; though, in
reality, he thought exactly the reverse. “If Lacheneur is organizing a
conspiracy,” he murmured to himself, “he must need assistance. Why
should I not offer mine? If I aid him in his preparations, if I share
his hopes and dangers, he cannot refuse me his daughter’s hand. Whatever
he may wish to undertake, I can surely be of greater assistance to him
than Chanlouineau.”

From that moment Maurice dwelt upon this thought; and the result was
that he no longer pined and fretted, but did all he could to hasten his
convalescence. This passed so rapidly that the Abbe Midon, who had taken
the place of the physician from Montaignac, was positively astonished.
Madame d’Escorval was delighted at her son’s wonderful improvement in
health and spirits, and declared that she would never have believed he
could be so soon and so easily consoled. The baron did not try to
diminish his wife’s satisfaction, though he regarded this almost
miraculous recovery with considerable distrust, having, indeed, a vague
perception of the truth. Skilfully, however, as he questioned his son he
could draw nothing from him; for Maurice had decided to keep whatever
determinations he had formed a secret even from his parents. What good
would it do to trouble them? and, besides, he feared remonstrance and
opposition; which he was anxious to avoid although firmly resolved to
carry out his plans, even if he were compelled to leave the paternal
roof.

One day in the second week of September the abbe declared that Maurice
might resume his ordinary life, and that, as the weather was pleasant it
would be well for him to spend much of his time in the open air. In his
delight, Maurice embraced the worthy priest, at the same time remarking
that he had felt afraid the shooting season would pass by without his
bagging a single bird. In reality he cared but little for a day on the
cover; the partiality he feigned being prompted by the idea that
“shooting” would furnish him with an excuse for frequent and protracted
absences from home.

He had never felt happier then he did the morning when, with his gun
over his shoulder, he crossed the Oiselle and started for M. Lacheneur’s
cottage at La Reche. He had just reached the little pine grove, and was
about to pause, when he perceived Jean Lacheneur and Chanlouineau leave
the house, each laden with a pedlar’s pack. This circumstance delighted
him, as he might now expect to find M. Lacheneur and Marie-Anne alone in
the cottage.

He hastened up the slope and lifted the door latch without pausing to
rap. Marie-Anne and her father were kneeling on the hearth in front of a
blazing fire. On hearing the door open, they turned; and at the sight
of Maurice, they both sprang to their feet. Lacheneur with a composed
look on his face, and Marie-Anne blushing to the roots of her hair.
“What brings you here?” they exclaimed in the same breath.

Under other circumstances, Maurice d’Escorval would have been dismayed
by such an unengaging greeting, but now he scarcely noticed it.

“You have no business to return here against my wishes, and after what I
said to you, M. d’Escorval,” exclaimed Lacheneur, rudely.

Maurice smiled, he was perfectly cool, and not a detail of the scene
before him had escaped his notice. If he had felt any doubts before,
they were now dispelled. On the fire he saw a large cauldron of moulten
lead, while several bullet-moulds stood on the hearth, besides the
andirons.

“If, sir, I venture to present myself at your house,” said young
d’Escorval in a grave, impressive voice, “it is because I know
everything. I have discovered your revengeful projects. You are looking
for men to aid you, are you not? Very well! look me in the face, in the
eyes, and tell me if I am not one of those a leader is glad to enrol
among his followers?”

Lacheneur seemed terribly agitated. “I don’t know what you mean,” he
faltered, forgetting his feigned anger; “I have no such projects as you
suppose.”

“Would you assert this upon oath? If so, why are you casting those
bullets? You are clumsy conspirators. You should lock your door; some
one else might have opened it.” And adding example to precept, he turned
and pushed the bolt. “This is only an imprudence,” he continued: “but to
reject a willing volunteer would be a mistake for which your associates
would have a right to call you to account. Pray understand that I have
no desire to force myself into your confidence. Whatever your cause may
be, I declare it mine; whatever you wish, I wish; I adopt your plans;
your enemies are my enemies; command me and I will obey you. I only ask
one favour, that of fighting, conquering, or dying by your side.”

“Oh! father refuse him!” exclaimed Marie-Anne, “refuse him! It would be
a crime to accept his offer.”

“A crime! And why, if you please?” asked Maurice.

“Because our cause is not your cause; because its success is doubtful;
because dangers surround us on every side.”

Maurice interrupted her with a cry of scorn. “And you think to dissuade
me,” said he, “by warning one of the dangers which you a girl can yet
afford to brave. You cannot think me a coward! If peril threatens you,
all the more reason to accept my aid. Would you desert me if I were
menaced, would you hide yourself, saying, ‘Let him perish, so that I be
saved!’ Speak! would you do this?”

Marie-Anne averted her face and made no reply. She could not force
herself to utter an untruth; and on the other hand she was unwilling to
answer: “I would act as you are acting.” She prudently waited for her
father’s decision.

“If I complied with your request, Maurice,” said M. Lacheneur, “in less
than three days you would curse me, and ruin us by some outburst of
anger. Loving Marie-Anne as you do, you could not behold her equivocal
position unmoved. Remember, she must neither discourage Chanlouineau nor
the marquis. I know as well as you do that the part is a shameful one;
and that it must result in the loss of a girl’s most precious
possession--her reputation; still, to ensure our success, it must be
so.”

Maurice did not wince. “So be it,” he said calmly. “Marie-Anne’s fate
will be that of all women who have devoted themselves to the political
cause of the man they love, be he father, brother, or lover. She will be
slandered and insulted, and still what does it matter! Let her continue
her task. I consent to it, for I shall never doubt her, and I shall know
how to hold my peace. If we succeed, she shall be my wife, if we fail--”
The gesture with which young d’Escorval concluded his sentence expressed
more strongly than any verbal protestations that come what might he was
ready and resigned.

Lacheneur seemed deeply moved. “At least give me time for reflection,”
said he.

“There is no necessity, sir, for further reflection.”

“But you are only a child, Maurice; and your father is my friend.”

“What of that?”

“Rash boy! don’t you understand that by compromising yourself you also
compromise the Baron d’Escorval? You think you are only risking your own
head, but you are also endangering your father’s life--”

“Oh, there has been too much parleying already!” interrupted Maurice,
“there have been too many remonstrances. Answer me in a word! Only
understand this: if you refuse, I shall immediately return home and blow
out my brains.”

It was plain from the young man’s manner that this was no idle threat.
The strange fire gleaming in his eyes, and the impressive tone of his
voice, convinced both his listeners that he really intended to effect
his deadly purpose; and Marie-Anne, with a heart full of cruel
apprehensions, clasped her hands and turned to her father with a
pleading look.

“You are one of us, then,” sternly exclaimed Lacheneur after a brief
pause; “but do not forget that your threats alone induced me to consent;
and whatever may happen to you or yours, remember that you would have it
so.”

These gloomy words, ominous as they were, produced, however, no
impression upon Maurice, who, feverish with anxiety a moment before, was
now well-nigh delirious with joy.

“At present,” continued Lacheneur, “I must tell you my hopes, and
acquaint you with the cause for which I am toiling--”

“What does that matter to me?” replied Maurice gaily; and springing
towards Marie-Anne he seized her hand and raised it to his lips, crying,
with the joyous laugh of youth: “Here is my cause--none other!”

Lacheneur turned aside. Perhaps he remembered that a sacrifice of his
own obstinate pride would suffice to assure his daughter’s and her
lover’s happiness.

Still if a feeling of remorse crept into his mind, he swiftly banished
it, and with increased sternness of manner exclaimed: “It is necessary,
however, that you should understand our agreement.”

“Let me know your conditions, sir,” said Maurice.

“First of all your visits here--after certain rumours that I have
circulated--would arouse suspicion. You must only come here at night
time, and then only at hours agreed upon in advance--never when you are
not expected.” Lacheneur paused, and then seeing that Maurice’s
attitude implied unreserved consent, he added: “You must also find some
way to cross the river without employing the ferryman, who is a
dangerous fellow.”

“We have an old skiff; I will persuade my father to have it repaired.”

“Very well. Will you also promise me to avoid the Marquis de Sairmeuse?”

“I will.”

“Wait a moment--we must be prepared for any emergency. Perhaps in spite
of our precautions you may meet him here. M. de Sairmeuse is arrogance
itself; and he hates you. You detest him, and you are very hasty. Swear
to me that if he provokes you, you will ignore his insults.”

“But I should be considered a coward.”

“Probably; but will you swear?”

Maurice was hesitating when an imploring look from Marie-Anne decided
him. “I swear it!” he said gravely.

“As far as Chanlouineau is concerned it would be better not to let him
know of our agreement; but I will see to that point myself.” Lacheneur
paused once more and reflected for a moment whether he had left anything
forgotten. “All that remains, Maurice,” he soon resumed, “is to give you
a last and very important piece of advice. Do you know my son?”

“Certainly; we were formerly the best of friends when we met during the
holidays.”

“Very well. When you know my secret--for I shall confide it to you
without reserve--beware of Jean.”

“What, sir?”

“Beware of Jean. I repeat it.” And Lacheneur’s face flushed as he added:
“Ah! it is a painful avowal for a father; but I have no confidence in my
own son. He knows no more of my plans than I told him on the day of his
arrival. I deceive him, because I fear he might betray us. Perhaps it
would be wise to send him away; but in that case, what would people say?
Most assuredly they would say that I wanted to save my own blood, while
I was ready to risk the lives of others. Still I may be mistaken; I may
misjudge him.” He sighed, and again added: “Beware!”

It will be understood from the foregoing that it was really Maurice
d’Escorval whom the Marquis de Sairmeuse perceived leaving Lacheneur’s
cottage on the night he played the spy. Martial was not positively
certain of the fugitive’s identity, but the very idea made his heart
swell with anger. “What part am I playing here, then?” he exclaimed
indignantly.

Passion had hitherto so completely blinded him that even if no pains had
been taken to deceive him, he would probably have remained in blissful
ignorance of the true condition of affairs. He fully believed in the
sincerity of Lacheneur’s formal courtesy and politeness and of Jean’s
studied respect; while Chanlouineau’s almost servile obsequiousness did
not surprise him in the least. And since Marie-Anne welcomed him
cordially he had concluded that his suit was favourably progressing.
Having himself forgotten the incidents which marked the return of his
family to Sairmeuse, he concluded that every one else had ceased to
remember them. Moreover, he was of opinion that he had acted with great
generosity, and that he was fully entitled to the gratitude of the
Lacheneurs; for Marie-Anne’s father had received the legacy bequeathed
him by Mademoiselle Armande, with an indemnity for his past services;
and in addition he had selected whatever furniture he pleased among the
appointments of the chateau. In goods and coin he had been presented
with quite sixty thousand francs; and the hard fisted old duke, enraged
at such prodigality, although it did not cost him a penny, had
discontentedly growled, “He must be hard to please indeed if he is not
satisfied with what we’ve done for him.”

Such being the position of affairs, and having for so long supposed that
he was the only visitor to the cottage on La Reche, Martial was
perfectly incensed when he discovered that such was not the case. Was
he, after all, merely a shameless girl’s foolish dupe? So great was his
anger, that for more than a week he did not go to Lacheneur’s house. His
father concluded that his ill humour was caused by some misunderstanding
with Marie-Anne; and he took advantage of this opportunity to obtain his
son’s consent to a marriage with Blanche de Courtornieu. Goaded to the
last extremity, tortured by doubt and fear, the young marquis eventually
agreed to his father’s proposals; and, naturally enough, the duke did
not allow such a good resolution to grow cold. In less than forty-eight
hours the engagement was made public; the marriage contract was drawn
up, and it was announced that the wedding would take place early in the
spring. A grand banquet was given at Sairmeuse in honour of the
betrothal--a banquet all the more brilliant since there were other
victories to be celebrated, for the Duke de Sairmeuse had just received,
with his brevet of lieutenant-general, a commission placing him in
command of the military district of Montaignac; while the Marquis de
Courtornieu had also been appointed provost-marshal of the same region.

Thus it was that Blanche triumphed, for, after this public betrothal,
might she not consider that Martial was bound to her? For a fortnight,
indeed, he scarcely left her side, finding in her society a charm which
almost made him forget his love for Marie-Anne. But, unfortunately, the
haughty heiress could not resist the temptation to make a slighting
allusion to the lowliness of the marquis’s former tastes; finding,
moreover, an opportunity to inform him that she furnished Marie-Anne
with work to aid her in earning a living. Martial forced himself to
smile; but the disparaging remarks made by his betrothed concerning
Marie-Anne aroused his sympathy and indignation; and the result was that
the very next day he went to Lacheneur’s house.

In the warmth of the greeting which there awaited him all his anger
vanished, and all his suspicions were dispelled. He perceived that
Marie-Anne’s eyes beamed with joy on seeing him again, and could not
help thinking he should win her yet. All the household were really
delighted at his return; as the son of the commander of the military
forces at Montaignac, and the prospective son-in-law of the
provost-marshal, Martial was bound to prove a most valuable instrument.
“Through him, we shall have an eye and an ear in the enemy’s camp,” said
Lacheneur. “The Marquis de Sairmeuse will be our spy.”

And such he soon became, for he speedily resumed his daily visits to the
cottage. It was now December, and the roads were scarcely passable; but
neither rain, snow, nor mud could keep Martial away. He generally made
his appearance at ten o’clock in the morning, seated himself on a stool
in the shadow of a tall fire-place, and then he and Marie-Anne began to
talk by the hour. She always seemed greatly interested in what was going
on at Montaignac, and he told her everything he knew, whether it were
of a military, political, or social character.

At times they remained alone. Lacheneur, Chanlouineau, and Jean were
tramping about the country with their pedlar’s packs. Business was
indeed prospering so well that Lacheneur had even purchased a horse in
order to extend the circuit of his rounds. But, although the usual
occupants of the cottage might be away, it so happened that Martial’s
conversation was generally interrupted by visitors. It was indeed really
surprising to see how many peasants called at the cottage to speak with
M. Lacheneur. They called at all hours and in rapid succession,
sometimes alone, and at others in little batches of two or three. And to
each of these peasants Marie-Anne had something to say in private. Then
she would offer them refreshments; and at times one might have imagined
oneself in an ordinary village wine shop. But what can daunt a lover’s
courage? Martial endured the peasants and their carouses without a
murmur. He laughed and jested with them, shook them by the hand, and at
times he even drained a glass in their company.

He gave many other proofs of moral courage. He offered to assist M.
Lacheneur in making up his accounts; and once--it happened about the
middle of February--seeing Chanlouineau worrying over the composition of
a letter, he actually volunteered to act as his amanuensis. “The letter
is not for me, but for an uncle of mine who is about to marry his
daughter,” said the stalwart young farmer.

Martial took a seat at the table, and at Chanlouineau’s dictation, but
not without many erasures, indited the following epistle:

“My dear friend--We are at last agreed, and the marriage is decided on.
We are now busy preparing for the wedding, which will take place on ----
We invite you to give us the pleasure of your company. We count upon
you, and be assured that the more friends you bring with you the better
we shall be pleased.”

Had Martial seen the smile upon Chanlouineau’s lips when he requested
him to leave the date for the wedding a blank, he would certainly have
suspected that he had been caught in a snare. But he did not see it,
and, besides, he was in love.

“Ah! marquis,” remarked his father one day, “Chupin tells me you are
always at Lacheneur’s. When will you recover from your foolish fancy for
that little girl?”

Martial did not reply. He felt that he was at that “little girl’s”
mercy. Each glance she gave him made his heart throb wildly. He lingered
by her side a willing captive; and if she had asked him to make her his
wife he would certainly not have refused. But Marie-Anne had no such
ambition. All her thoughts and wishes were for her father’s success.

Maurice and Marie-Anne had become M. Lacheneur’s most intrepid
auxiliaries. They were looking forward to such a magnificent reward.
Feverish, indeed, was the activity which Maurice displayed! All day long
he hurried from hamlet to hamlet, and in the evening, as soon as dinner
was over, he made his escape from the drawing-room, sprang into his
boat, and hastened to La Reche.

M. d’Escorval could not fail to notice his son’s long and frequent
absences. He watched him, and soon discovered that some secret
understanding existed between Maurice and Lacheneur. Recollecting his
previous suspicion that Lacheneur was harbouring some seditious design
he became greatly alarmed for his son’s safety, and decided to go to La
Reche and try once more to learn the truth. Previous repulses had
diminished his confidence in his own persuasive powers, and being
anxious for an auxiliary’s assistance he asked the Abbe Midon to
accompany him.

It was the 4th of March, and half-past four in the evening when M.
d’Escorval and the cure started from Sairmeuse bound for the cottage at
La Reche. They were both anxious as to the result of the step they were
taking, and scarcely exchanged a dozen words as they walked towards the
banks of the Oiselle. They had crossed the river and traversed the
familiar pine grove, when on reaching the outskirts of the waste they
witnessed a strange sight well calculated to increase their anxiety and
alarm.

Night was swiftly approaching, but yet it was still sufficiently light
to distinguish objects at a short distance, and on the summit of the
slope they could perceive in front of Lacheneur’s cottage a group of
twenty persons who, judging by their frequent gesticulations, were
engaged in animated conversation. Lacheneur himself was there, and his
manner plainly indicated that he was in a state of great excitement.
Suddenly he waved his hand, the others clustered round him, and he began
to speak. What was he saying? The baron and the priest were still too
far off to distinguish his words, but when he ceased they were startled
by a loud acclamation which literally rent the air. Suddenly the former
lord of Sairmeuse struck a match, and setting fire to a bundle of straw
lying before him he tossed it on to the roof of the cottage, shouting as
he did so, “Yes, the die is cast! and this will prove to you that I
shall not draw back!”

Five minutes later the house was in flames and in the distance the baron
and his companion could perceive a ruddy glare illuminating the windows
of the citadel at Montaignac, while on every hillside round about glowed
the light of other incendiary fires. The whole district was answering
Lacheneur’s signal.




XII.


Ah! ambition is a fine thing! The Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de
Courtornieu were considerably past middle-age; they had weathered many
storms and vicissitudes; they possessed millions in hard cash, and owned
the finest estates in the province. Under these circumstances it might
have been supposed that their only desire was to end their days in peace
and quietness. It would have been easy for them to lead a happy and
useful life by seeking to promote the welfare of the district, and they
might have gone down to their graves amid a chorus of benedictions and
regrets.

But no. They longed to have a hand in managing the state vessel; they
were not content with remaining simple passengers. The duke, appointed
to the command of the military forces, and the marquis, invested with
high judicial functions at Montaignac, were both obliged to leave their
beautiful chateaux and install themselves in somewhat dingy quarters in
the town. And yet they did not murmur at the change, for their vanity
was satisfied. Louis XVIII. was on the throne; their prejudices were
triumphant; and they felt supremely happy. It is true that sedition was
already rife on every side, but had they not hundreds and thousands of
allies at hand to assist them in suppressing it? And when thoughtful
politicians spoke of “discontent,” the duke and his associates looked at
them with the thorough contempt of the sceptic who does not believe in
ghosts.

On the 4th of March, 1816, the duke was just sitting down to dinner at
his house in Montaignac when he heard a loud noise in the hall. He rose
to go and see what was the matter when the door was suddenly flung open
and a man entered the room panting and breathless. This man was Chupin,
once a poacher, but now enjoying the position of head gamekeeper on the
Sairmeuse estates. It was evident, from his manner and appearance, that
something very extraordinary had happened.

“What is the matter?” inquired the duke.

“They are coming!” cried Chupin; “they are already on the way!”

“Who are coming? who?”

Chupin made no verbal reply, but handed the duke a copy of the letter
written by Martial under Chanlouineau’s dictation. “My dear friend,” so
M. de Sairmeuse read. “We are at last agreed, and the marriage is
decided on. We are now busy preparing for the wedding, which will take
place on the fourth of March.” The date was no longer blank: but still
the duke had naturally failed to understand the purport of the missive.
“Well, what of it?” he asked.

Chupin tore his hair. “They are on the way,” he repeated. “The
peasants--all the peasants of the district, they intend to take
possession of Montaignac, dethrone Louis XVIII., bring back the emperor,
or at least, the emperor’s son, and crown him as Napoleon II. Ah, the
wretches! they have deceived me. I suspected this outbreak, but I did
not think it was so near at hand.”

This unexpected intelligence well-nigh stupefied the duke. “How many are
there?” he asked.

“Ah! how do I know, your grace? Two thousand, perhaps--perhaps ten
thousand.”

“All the town’s people are with us.”

“No, your grace, no. The rebels have accomplices here. All the retired
officers of the imperial army are waiting to assist them.”

“Who are the leaders of the movement?”

“Lacheneur, the Abbe Midon, Chanlouineau, the Baron d’Escorval----”

“Enough!” cried the duke.

Now that the danger was certain, his coolness returned, and his
herculean form, a trifle bowed by the weight of years, rose to its full
height. He gave the bell-rope a violent pull; and directly his valet
entered, he bade him bring his uniform and pistols at once. The servant
was about to obey, when the duke added: “Wait! Let some one take a
horse, and go and tell my son to come here without a moment’s delay.
Take one of the swiftest horses. The messenger ought to go to Sairmeuse
and back in two hours.” On hearing these words, Chupin pulled at the
duke’s coat tail to attract his attention.

“Well, what is it now?” asked M. de Sairmeuse impatiently.

The old poacher raised his finger to his lips, as if recommending
silence, and as soon as the valet had left the room, he exclaimed: “It
is useless to send for the marquis!”

“And why, you fool?”

“Because, because--excuse me--I----”

“Zounds! will you speak, or not?”

Chupin regretted that he had gone so far. “Because the marquis----”

“Well?”

“He is engaged in it.”

The duke overturned the dinner-table with a terrible blow of his
clenched fist. “You lie, you wretch!” he thundered with terrible oaths.

His anger was so threatening, that the old poacher sprang to the door
and turned the knob, ready for flight. “May I lose my head if I do not
speak the truth,” he insisted. “Ah! Lacheneur’s daughter is a regular
sorceress. All the gallants of the neighbourhood are in the ranks;
Chanlouineau, young D’ Escorval, your son----”

M. de Sairmeuse was pouring forth a torrent of curses upon Marie-Anne
when his valet re-entered the room. He suddenly checked himself, put on
his uniform, and ordering Chupin to follow him, he hastened from the
house. He was still hoping that Chupin had exaggerated the danger; but
when he reached the Place d’Armes commanding an extensive view of the
surrounding country, whatever illusions he may have retained immediately
vanished. Signal lights gleamed on every side, and Montaignac seemed
surrounded by a circle of flame.

“There are the signals,” murmured Chupin. “The rebels will be here
before two o’clock in the morning.”

The duke made no reply, but hastened towards M. de Courtornieu’s house.
He was striding onward, when on turning a corner, he espied two men
talking in a doorway; they also had perceived him, and at sight of his
glittering epaulettes they both took flight. The duke instinctively
started in pursuit, overtook one of the men, and seizing him by the
collar, sternly asked: “Who are you? What is your name?”

The man was silent, and his captor shook him so roughly that two pistols
concealed under his over-coat, fell to the ground. “Ah, brigand!”
exclaimed M. de Sairmeuse, “so you are one of the conspirators against
the king!”

Then without another word, he dragged the man to the citadel, gave him
in charge of the astonished soldiers, and again hastened after M. de
Courtornieu. He expected to find the marquis terrified; but on the
contrary he seemed perfectly delighted.

“At last,” he said, “there comes an opportunity for us to display our
devotion and our zeal--and without danger! We have good walls, strong
gates, and three thousand soldiers at our command. These peasants are
fools! But be grateful for their folly, my dear duke, and run and order
out the Montaignac chasseurs----” He suddenly paused, and then with a
gesture of annoyance, he resumed: “The deuce! I am expecting Blanche
this evening. She was to leave Courtornieu after dinner. Heaven grant
she may meet with no misfortune on the way!”

The Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu had more time
before them than they supposed. The rebels were advancing, but not so
rapidly as Chupin had stated, for Lacheneur’s plans had been disarranged
by two unforeseen circumstances.

When standing beside his burning cottage, he had counted the signal
fires that blazed out in answer to his own, and found their number
corresponded with his expectations; he joyfully exclaimed: “See all our
friends keep their word! They are ready; and are now on their way to the
meeting place. Let us start at once, for we must be there first!”

His horse was brought him, and one foot was already in the stirrup when
two men sprang from the neighbouring grove and darted towards him. One
of them seized the horse by the bridle.

“The Abbe Midon!” exclaimed Lacheneur, in amazement; “M. d’Escorval!”
And foreseeing, perhaps, what was to come, he added, in a tone of
concentrated fury: “What do you two want with me?”

“We wish to prevent the accomplishment of an act of madness!” exclaimed
M. d’Escorval. “Hatred has crazed you, Lacheneur!”

“You know nothing of my projects!”

“Do you think that I don’t suspect them? You hope to capture
Montaignac----”

“What does that matter to you?” interrupted Lacheneur, angrily.

But M. d’Escorval would not be silenced. He seized his former friend by
the arm, and in a voice loud enough to be heard distinctly by every one
present, he continued: “You foolish fellow! You have forgotten that
Montaignac is a fortified city, surrounded by deep moats and high walls!
You have forgotten that behind these fortifications there is a garrison
commanded by a man whose energy and bravery are beyond all question--the
Duke de Sairmeuse.”

Lacheneur struggled to free himself from the baron’s grasp. “Everything
has been arranged,” he replied, “and they are expecting us at
Montaignac. You would be as sure of this as I am myself, if you had only
seen the lights gleaming in the windows of the citadel. And look, you
can see them yet. These lights tell me that two or three hundred of
Napoleon’s old officers will come and open the gates of the town as soon
as we make our appearance.”

“And after that! If you take Montaignac, what will you do then? Do you
imagine the English will give you back your emperor? Isn’t Napoleon II.
an Austrian prisoner. Have you forgotten that the allied sovereigns have
left a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers within a day’s march of
Paris?”

Sullen murmurs were heard among Lacheneur’s followers.

“But all this is nothing,” continued the baron. “The chief danger lies
in the fact that there are generally as many traitors as dupes in an
undertaking of this sort.”

“Whom do you call dupes?”

“All those who mistake their illusions for realities, as you have done;
all those who wishing something to happen, are convinced that it _will_
happen--simply because they wish it so. And besides do you really
suppose that neither the Duke de Sairmeuse nor the Marquis de
Courtornieu has been warned of your attempt?”

Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders. “Who could have warned them?” he asked
complacently. But his tranquility was feigned; as the glance he cast on
Jean only too plainly proved. Frigid indeed was the tone in which he
added: “It is probable that the duke and the marquis are at this very
moment in the power of our friends.”

The cure now attempted to second the baron’s efforts. “You will not go,
Lacheneur,” he said. “You cannot remain deaf to the voice of reason. You
are an honest man; think of the frightful responsibility you assume!
Upon these frail hopes you are imperilling hundreds of brave lives? I
tell you that you will not succeed; you will be betrayed; I am sure you
will be betrayed!”

An expression of horrible agony contracted Lacheneur’s features. It was
evident to every one that he was deeply moved; and, perhaps, matters
might have taken a very different course, had it not been for
Chanlouineau’s intervention. “We are wasting too much time in foolish
prattle,” he exclaimed, stepping forward and brandishing his gun.

Lacheneur started as if he had been struck by a whip. He rudely freed
himself from his friend’s grasp, and leaped into the saddle. “Forward!”
he ordered.

But the baron and the priest did not yet despair; they sprang to the
horse’s head. “Lacheneur,” cried the priest, “beware! The blood you are
about to spill will fall on your own head, and on the heads of your
children!”

Arrested by these prophetic words, the little band paused, and at the
same moment a figure clad in the costume of a peasant issued from the
ranks.

“Marie-Anne!” exclaimed the abbe and the baron in the same breath.

“Yes it is I,” replied the young girl, doffing the large hat which had
partially concealed her face; “I wish to share the dangers of those who
are dear to me--share in their victory or their defeat. Your advice
comes too late, gentlemen. Do you see those lights on the horizon? They
tell us that the people of the province are repairing to the cross-roads
at the Croix d’Arcy, our general meeting place. Before two o’clock
fifteen hundred men will be gathered there awaiting my father’s
commands. Would you have him leave these men, whom he has called from
their peaceful firesides, without a leader? No, it is impossible!”

She evidently shared her lover’s and her father’s madness, even if she
did not share all their hopes. “No, there must be no more hesitation, no
more parleying,” she continued. “Prudence now would be the height of
folly. There is no more danger in a retreat than in an advance. Do not
try to detain my father, gentlemen; each moment of delay may, perhaps,
cost a man’s life. And now, my friends, forward!”

A loud cheer answered her, and the little band descended the hill.

But M. d’Escorval could not allow his own son, whom he now perceived in
the ranks, to depart in this fashion: “Maurice!” he cried.

The young fellow hesitated, but finally stepped forward.

“You will not follow these madmen, Maurice?” said the baron.

“I must follow them, father.”

“I forbid it.”

“Alas! father, I can’t obey you. I have promised--I have sworn. I am
second in command.” If his voice had a mournful ring, plainly enough he
was at all events determined.

“My son!” exclaimed M. d’Escorval; “unfortunate boy! Don’t you know that
you are marching to certain death?”

“Then all the more reason, father, why I shouldn’t break my word.”

“And your mother, Maurice, your mother whom you forget!”

A tear glistened in the young fellow’s eye. “I am sure,” he replied,
“that my mother would rather weep for her dead son than keep him near
her dishonoured, and branded as a coward and a traitor. Farewell!
father.”

M. d’Escorval appreciated the nobility of mind which Maurice’s conduct
implied. He opened his arms, and pressed his son convulsively to his
heart, feeling that it might be for the last time in life. “Farewell!”
he faltered, “Farewell!”

A minute later Maurice had rejoined his comrades, now on the plain
below, leaving the baron standing motionless and overwhelmed with
sorrow.

Suddenly M. d’Escorval started from his reverie. “A single hope remains,
abbe!” he cried.

“Alas!” murmured the priest.

“Oh--I am not mistaken. Marie-Anne just told us the place of rendezvous.
By running to Escorval and harnessing the cabriolet, we might be able to
reach the Croix d’Arcy before this party arrives there. Your voice,
which touched Lacheneur, will touch the hearts of his accomplices. We
will persuade these poor, misguided men to return home. Come, abbe; come
quickly!”

They tarried no longer, but swiftly descended towards the ferry.




XIII.


The clock in the church tower of Sairmeuse was just striking eight when
Lacheneur and his little band of followers left La Reche. An hour later,
Blanche de Courtornieu, after dining alone with Aunt Medea at the
chateau, ordered the carriage to take her to Montaignac. Since her
father’s duties had compelled him to reside in the town they only met on
Sundays, when it either happened that Blanche went to Montaignac, or the
marquis paid a visit to his estate.

Now this was Thursday evening, and the servants were consequently
somewhat surprised when they heard that their young mistress was going
to “the town.” Her journey was prompted, however, by somewhat singular
circumstances.

Six days had elapsed since Martial’s last visit to Courtornieu, six days
of suspense and anguish for the jealous Blanche. What Aunt Medea had to
endure during this interval, only poor dependents in rich families can
understand. For the first three days Blanche succeeded in preserving a
semblance of self-control; but on the fourth she could endure the
suspense no longer, and in spite of the breach of etiquette the step
involved, she despatched a messenger to Sairmeuse to inquire if Martial
were ill, or if he had been summoned away?

The messenger learnt that the young marquis was in very good health, and
that he spent the entire day, from early morn to dewy eve, shooting in
the neighbouring preserves; going to bed every evening as soon as dinner
was over.

What a horrible insult this conduct implied for Blanche! However, it did
not so much distress her as she felt certain that directly Martial heard
of her enquiries he would hasten to her with a full apology. Her hope
was vain; he did not come; nor even condescend to give a sign of life.

“Ah! no doubt he is with that wretch,” said Blanche to Aunt Medea. “He
is on his knees before that miserable Marie-Anne--his mistress.” For she
had finished by believing--as is not unfrequently the case--the very
calumnies which she herself had invented.

Scarcely knowing how to act she at last decided to make her father her
confidant; and accordingly wrote him a note to the effect that she was
coming to Montaignac for his advice. In reality, she wished her father
to compel Lacheneur to leave the country. This would be an easy matter
for the marquis, since he was armed with discretionary judicial
authority at an epoch when lukewarm devotion furnished an ample excuse
for sending a man into exile.

Fully decided upon executing this plan, Mademoiselle Courtornieu grew
calmer on leaving the chateau; and her hopes overflowed in incoherent
phrases, which poor Aunt Medea listened to with all her accustomed
resignation. “At last,” exclaimed the revengeful Blanche, “I shall be
rid of this shameless creature. We will see if he has the audacity to
follow her. Ah, no; he cannot dare to do that!”

She was talking in this strain, or reflecting how she should lay the
matter before her father, while the carriage which she and Aunt Medea
occupied rolled over the highway and through the village of Sairmeuse.

There were lights in every house, the wine-shops seemed full of
tipplers, and groups of people could be seen in every direction. All
this animation was no doubt most unusual, but what did it matter to
Mademoiselle de Courtornieu! It was not until they were a mile or so
from Sairmeuse that she was startled from her reverie.

“Listen, Aunt Medea,” she suddenly exclaimed. “What is that noise?”

The poor dependent listened as she was bid, and both occupants of the
carriage could distinguish a confused babel of shouts and singing, which
grew nearer and more distinct as the vehicle rolled onward.

“Let us find out the meaning of all this hubbub,” said Blanche. And
lowering one of the carriage windows, she asked the coachman if he knew
what the disturbance was about.

“I can see a great crowd of peasants on the hill,” he replied; “they
have torches and--”

“Blessed Jesus!” interrupted Aunt Medea in alarm.

“It must be a wedding,” added the coachman, whipping up his horses.

It was not a wedding, however, but Lacheneur’s little band, which had
now swollen to five hundred men.

The Bonapartist ringleader should have been at the Croix d’Arcy two
hours earlier. But he had shared the fate of most popular chieftains. He
had given an impetus to the movement, and now it was beyond his control.
The Baron d’Escorval had made him lose twenty minutes at La Reche, and
he was delayed four times as long in Sairmeuse. When he reached that
village, a little behind time, he found the peasants scattered through
the wine-shops, drinking to the success of the enterprise; and it proved
a long and difficult talk to wrest them from their merry-making. To
crown everything, when the insurgents were finally induced to resume
their line of march, they could not possibly be persuaded to extinguish
the torches they had lighted. Prayers and threats were alike unavailing.
They declared that they wished to see their way, and their leader had to
submit to this foolish fancy. Poor deluded beings! They had not the
slightest conception of the difficulties and the perils of the
enterprise they had undertaken. They had set out to capture a fortified
town, defended by a numerous garrison, just as if they had been bound on
a pleasure-jaunt. Gay, thoughtless, and animated with childlike
confidence, they marched along, arm in arm, singing some patriotic
refrain. Lacheneur, who was on horseback in the center of the band,
suffered the most intolerable anguish. Would not this delay ruin
everything? What would the others, who were waiting at Croix d’Arcy,
think of him! What were they doing at this very moment? Maurice,
Chanlouineau, Jean, Marie-Anne, and some twenty old soldiers of the
Empire who accompanied the party, understood and shared Lacheneur’s
despair. They knew the terrible danger they were incurring, and like
their captain they constantly repeated: “Faster! Let us march faster!”

Vain was the exhortation! The peasantry openly declared that they
preferred walking slowly. Soon, indeed they did not walk at all, but
came to an abrupt halt. Still it was not hesitation that induced them to
pause. The fact was that some of the band, chancing to look back, had
perceived the lamps of Mademoiselle de Courtornieu’s carriage gleaming
in the darkness. The vehicle came rapidly onward, and soon overtook
them. The peasants at once recognized the coachman’s livery, and greeted
the carriage with derisive shouts.

M. de Courtornieu’s avarice had made him even more enemies than the Duke
de Sairmeuse’s pride, and all the peasants who thought they had more or
less to complain of his extortions were delighted at this opportunity to
frighten him; for as this was his carriage, no doubt he was inside.
Hence, their disappointment was great indeed when, on opening the
carriage-door, they perceived that the vehicle only contained Blanche
and her elderly aunt. The latter shrieked with terror, but her niece,
who was certainly a brave girl, haughtily asked: “Who are you? and what
do you want?”

“You shall know to-morrow,” replied Chanlouineau. “Until then, you are
our prisoners.”

“I see that you do not know who I am, boy.”

“Excuse me. I do know who you are, and, for this very reason, I must
request you to alight from your carriage. She must leave the carriage,
must she not, M. d’Escorval?”

“I won’t leave my carriage,” retorted the infuriated heiress. “Tear me
from it if you dare!”

They would certainly have dared to do so had it not been for Marie-Anne,
who checked several peasants as they were springing towards the vehicle.
“Let Mademoiselle de Courtornieu pass without hindrance,” said she.

But this permission might produce such serious consequences that
Chanlouineau found courage to resist. “That cannot be, Marie-Anne,” said
he. “She will warn her father. We must keep her as a hostage; her life
may save the lives of our friends.”

Blanche had not hitherto recognized her former friend, any more than she
had suspected the intentions of the crowd. But Marie-Anne’s name,
coupled with that of D’Escorval enlightened her at once. She understood
everything, and trembled with rage at the thought that she was at her
rival’s mercy. She immediately resolved to place herself under no
obligation to Marie-Anne Lacheneur.

“Very well,” said she, “we will alight.”

But Marie-Anne checked her. “No,” said she, “no! This is not proper
company for a young girl.”

“For an honest young girl, you should say,” replied Blanche, with a
sneer.

Chanlouineau was standing only a few feet off with his gun in his hand.
If a man had spoken in this manner he would certainly have killed him on
the spot.

“Mademoiselle will turn back,” calmly rejoined Marie-Anne, disdaining to
notice the insult which her former friend’s words implied. “As she can
reach Montaignac by the other road, two men will accompany her as far as
Courtornieu.”

The order was obeyed. The carriage turned and rolled away, though not
before Blanche had found time to cry: “Beware, Marie-Anne! I will make
you pay dearly for your insulting patronage!”

The hours were flying by. This incident had occupied ten minutes
more--ten centuries--and the last trace of order had vanished. Lacheneur
could have wept with rage. Suddenly calling Maurice and Chanlouineau to
his side, he said: “I place you in command, do everything you can to
hurry these idiots onward. I will ride as fast as possible to the Croix
d’Arcy.”

He started, but he was only a short distance in advance of his followers
when he perceived two men running towards him at full speed. One was
clad in the attire of the middle classes; the other wore the old uniform
of captain in the emperor’s guard.

“What has happened?” cried Lacheneur in alarm.

“Everything is discovered!”

“Good heavens!”

“Major Carini has been arrested.”

“By whom? How?”

“Ah! there was a fatality about it! Just as we were perfecting our
arrangements to seize the Duke de Sairmeuse, he himself surprised us. We
fled, but the cursed noble pursued us, overtook Carini, caught him by
the collar, and dragged him to the citadel.”

Lacheneur was overwhelmed; the abbe’s gloomy prophecy again resounded in
his ears.

“So I warned my friends, and hastened to warn you,” continued the
officer. “The affair is an utter failure!”

He was only too correct; and Lacheneur knew it even better than he did.
But, blinded by hatred and anger, he would not acknowledge that the
disaster was irreparable. He affected a calmness which he was far from
feeling. “You are easily discouraged, gentlemen,” he said, bitterly.
“There is, at least, one more chance.”

“The deuce! Then you have resources of which we are ignorant?”

“Perhaps--that depends. You have just passed the Croix d’Arcy; did you
tell any of those people what you have just told me?”

“Not a word.”

“How many men are assembled there?”

“At least two thousand.”

“And what is their mood?”

“They are all eagerness to begin the fight. They are cursing your
slowness, and told me to entreat you to make haste.”

“In that case our cause is not lost,” said Lacheneur, with a determined
gesture. “Wait here until the peasants come up, and impress upon them
that you were sent to tell them to make haste. Bring them on as quickly
as possible, and have confidence in me; I will be responsible for the
success of the enterprise.”

So speaking he put spurs to his horse and galloped away. In point of
fact, he had deceived the men he had just spoken with. He had no other
resources, nor even the slightest hope that the enterprise might now
prove successful. He had told an abominable falsehood. But if this
edifice, which he had raised with such infinite care and labour was to
totter and fall, he wished to be buried beneath its ruins. They would be
defeated; he felt sure of it, but what did that matter? In the conflict
he would seek death and find it.

Bitter discontent pervaded the crowd at the Croix d’Arcy, the murmurs of
dissatisfaction having changed to curses after the messengers despatched
to warn Lacheneur of the disaster at Montaignac had passed by. These
peasants, nearly two thousand in number, were indignant not to find
their leader waiting for them at the rendezvous. “Where is he?” they
asked each other. “Who knows, perhaps he has turned tail at the last
moment? Perhaps he is concealing himself while we are here risking our
lives and our children’s bread.”

Soon the epithets of mischief-maker and traitor flew from lip to lip,
increasing the anger that swelled in every heart. Some were of opinion
that it would be best to disperse; while others wished to march against
Montaignac without waiting any longer for Lacheneur. The point was being
deliberated when a vehicle appeared in sight. It was the Baron
d’Escorval’s cabriolet. He and the abbe were in advance of Lacheneur,
and trusted that they had arrived in time to prevent any further
prosecution of the enterprise. But although only a few minutes
previously several of the insurgents had wavered, the peacemakers found
all their entreaties and warnings useless. Instead of arresting the
movement, their intervention only precipitated it.

“We have gone too far to draw back,” exclaimed one of the neighbouring
farmers, who was the recognized leader in Lacheneur’s absence. “If death
is before us, it is also behind us. To attack and conquer--that is our
only hope of salvation. Forward, then, at once. That is the only way of
disconcerting our enemies. He who hesitates is a coward! So forward!”

“Yes, forward!” re-echoed the excited crowd. They unfurled the
tricolour, the banner banished by the Bourbon kings, which reminded them
of so much glory and such great misfortunes; the drums beat, and with
loud shouts of, “Long live Napoleon the Second!” the whole column took
up its line of march.

Pale, in disordered garb, and with voices husky with emotion and
fatigue, M. d’Escorval and the abbe followed in the wake of the rebels,
imploring them to listen to reason. These two alone perceived the
precipice towards which these misguided men were rushing, and they
prayed to providence for an inspiration that might enable them to arrest
this foolish enterprise while there was yet time. In fifty minutes the
distance separating the Croix d’Arcy from Montaignac is covered. Soon
the insurgents perceive the gate of the citadel, which was to have been
opened for them by their friends within the town. It is eleven o’clock,
and this gate is opened. Does not this circumstance prove that their
friends are masters of the town, and that they are awaiting them in
force? Hence, the column boldly advances, so certain of success that
those who carry guns do not even take the trouble to load them.

M. d’Escorval and the abbe alone foresee the catastrophe. They entreat
the leader of the expedition not to neglect the commonest precautions;
they implore him to send some two men on in advance to reconnoitre; they
themselves offer to go, on condition that the peasants will await their
return before proceeding farther.

But their prayers are unheeded. The peasants pass the outer line of
fortification in safety, and the head of the advancing column reaches
the drawbridge. The enthusiasm now amounts to delirium; and who will be
the first to enter is the only thought.

Alas! at that very moment they hear a pistol fired. It is a signal, for
instantly, and on every side, resounds a terrible fusillade. Three or
four peasant fall, mortally wounded. The remainder pause, terror
stricken and thinking only of escape. Still the leader encourages his
men, there are a few of Napoleon’s old soldiers in the ranks; and a
struggle begins, all the more frightful owing to the darkness!

But it is not the cry of “Forward!” that suddenly rends the air. The
voice of a coward raises the cry of panic: “We are betrayed! Let him
save himself who can!”

Then comes the end of all order. A wild fear seizes the throng; and
these men fly madly, despairingly, scattered like withered leaves are
scattered by the force of the tempest.




XIV.


At first Chupin’s extraordinary revelations and the thought that
Martial, the heir of his name and dukedom, should so degrade himself as
to enter into a conspiracy with vulgar peasants, had well-nigh overcome
the Duke de Sairmeuse. However, M. de Courtornieu’s composure soon
restored his _sang froid_. He hastened to the barracks, and in less than
half-an-hour five hundred linesmen and three hundred Montaignac
chasseurs were under arms. With those forces at his disposal it would
have been easy enough to suppress the movement without the slightest
bloodshed. It was only necessary to close the gates of the city, for it
was not with clubs and fowling-pieces that these infatuated peasants
could force an entrance into a fortified town.

Such moderation did not, however, suit a man of the duke’s violent
nature. Struggle and excitement were his elements, and ambition fanned
his zeal. He ordered the gates of the citadel to be left open, and
concealed numerous soldiers behind the parapets of the outer
fortifications. He then stationed himself where he could command a view
of the insurgents’ approach, and deliberately choose his moment for
giving the signal to fire. Still a strange thing happened. Out of four
hundred shots fired into a dense mass of fifteen hundred men, only three
hit their mark. More humane than their commander, nearly all the
soldiers had fired into the air.

However, the duke had no time to investigate this strange occurrence
now. He leaped into the saddle, and placing himself at the head of
several hundred men, both cavalry and infantry, he started in pursuit of
the fugitives. The peasants were, perhaps, some twenty minutes in
advance. These simple minded fellows might easily have made their
escape. They had only to disperse in twenty different directions; but
unfortunately, this thought never once occurred to the majority of them.
A few ran across the fields and then gained their homes in safety; while
the others fled panic stricken, like a flock of frightened sheep before
the pursuing soldiers. Fear lent them wings, for at each moment they
could hear the shots fired at the laggards.

There was one man, however, who was still steady galloping in the
direction of Montaignac; and this was Lacheneur. He had just reached
the Croix d’Arcy when the firing began. He listened and waited. No
discharge of musketry answered the first fusillade. What could be
happening? Plainly there was no combat. Had the peasantry been butchered
then? Lacheneur had a perception of the truth, and regretted that the
bullets just discharged had not pierced his own heart. He put spurs to
his horse and galloped past the cross-roads towards Montaignac. At last
he perceived the fugitives approaching in the distance. He dashed
forward to meet them, and mingling curses and insults together he vainly
tried to stay their flight. “You cowards!” he vociferated, “you
traitors! you fly and you are ten against one! Where are you going? To
your own homes? Fools! you will only find the gendarmes there, waiting
your coming to conduct you to the scaffold. Is it not better to die with
your weapons in your hands? Come--right about. Follow me! We may still
conquer. Re-enforcements are at hand; two thousand men are following
me!”

He promised them two thousand men; had he promised them ten thousand,
twenty thousand--an army and cannon, it would have made no difference.
Not until they reached the wide open space of the cross-roads, where
they had talked so confidently scarcely an hour before, did the more
intelligent of the throng regain their senses, while the others fled in
every direction.

About a hundred of the bravest and most determined of the conspirators
gathered round Lacheneur. In the midst of the little crowd was the Abbe
Midon with a gloomy and despondent countenance. He had been separated
from the baron, of whose fate he was ignorant. Had M. d’Escorval been
killed or taken prisoner? or was it possible that he had made his
escape? The worthy priest dared not return home. He waited, hoping that
his companion might rejoin him, and deemed himself fortunate in finding
the baron’s cabriolet still standing at a corner of the open space,
formed by the four cross roads. He was still waiting when the remnant of
the column confided to Maurice and Chanlouineau came up. Of the five
hundred men that composed this troop on its departure from Sairmeuse,
only fifteen remained, including the two retired officers, who had
escaped from Montaignac, and brought Lacheneur intelligence that the
conspiracy was discovered. Marie-Anne was in the centre of this little
party.

Her father and his friends were trying to decide what course should be
pursued. Should each man go his own way? or should they unite, and by an
obstinate resistance, give their comrades time to reach their homes?

Chanlouineau’s voice put an end to the hesitation. “I have come to
fight,” he exclaimed, “and I shall sell my life dearly.”

“We will make a stand then!” cried the others.

But Chanlouineau did not immediately follow them to the spot they
considered best adapted for a prolonged defence; he called Maurice and
drew him a little aside. “You must leave us at once M. d’Escorval,” he
said, in a rough voice.

“I--I came here, Chanlouineau, as you did, to do my duty.”

“Your duty, sir, is to serve Marie-Anne. Go at once, and take her with
you.”

“I shall remain,” said Maurice firmly.

He was going to join his comrades when Chanlouineau stopped him. “You
have no right to sacrifice your life here,” he said quickly. “It belongs
to the woman who has given herself to you.”

“Wretch! how dare you--”

Chanlouineau sadly shook his head. “What is the use of denying it?” said
he. “It was so great a temptation that only an angel could have resisted
it. It was not your fault, nor was it hers. Lacheneur was a bad father.
There was a day when I wanted either to kill myself or to kill you, I
didn’t know which. Ah! you certainly were near death that day. You were
scarcely five paces from the muzzle of my gun. It was God who stayed my
hand by reminding me what her despair would be. But now that I have to
die, and Lacheneur as well, some one must take care of Marie-Anne. Swear
that you will marry her. You may be involved in some difficulty on
account of this affair; but I have the means of saving you.”

He was suddenly interrupted by a fusillade. The Duke de Sairmeuse’s
soldiers were approaching. “Good heavens!” exclaimed Chanlouineau, “and
Marie-Anne.”

They rushed in pursuit of her, and Maurice was the first to find her,
standing in the centre of the open space clinging to the neck of her
father’s horse. He took her in his arms, trying to drag her away.
“Come!” said he, “come!”

But she refused. “Leave me, leave me!” she entreated.

“But all is lost!”

“Yes, I know that all is lost--even honour. Leave me here. I must
remain; I must die, and thus hide my shame. It must, it shall be so!”

Just then Chanlouineau reached them. Had he divined the secret of her
resistance? Perhaps so, but at all events without uttering a word, he
lifted her in his strong arms as if she had been a child, and carried
her to the cabriolet, beside which the Abbe Midon was standing. “Get
in,” he said, addressing the priest, “and quick--take Mademoiselle
Lacheneur. Now, Maurice it’s your turn!”

But the duke’s soldiers were already masters of the field. They had
perceived this little group and hastened forward. Brave Chanlouineau
certainly was. He seized his gun, and brandishing it like a club managed
to hold the enemy at bay, while Maurice sprang into the carriage, caught
the reins and started the horse off at a gallop. All the cowardice and
all the heroism displayed on that terrible night will never be really
known. Two minutes after the departure of the vehicle, Chanlouineau was
still battling with the foe. He had at least a dozen men to deal with.
Twenty shots had been fired, and yet he was unwounded, and his enemies
almost believed him to be invulnerable.

“Surrender!” cried the soldiers, amazed by his bravery; “surrender!”

“Never! never!” he shrieked in reply, at the same time warding his
assailants off with well-nigh superhuman strength and agility. The
struggle might have lasted some time longer, had not one of the soldiers
managed to crawl behind him, without being perceived. This linesman
seized Chanlouineau by the legs, and although the latter struggled
furiously, he was taken at such a disadvantage that further resistance
was impossible. He fell to the ground with a loud cry of “Help! friends,
help!”

But no one responded to this appeal. At the other end of the open space
those upon whom he called had virtually yielded, after a desperate
struggle. The main body of the duke’s infantry was near at hand. The
rebels could hear the drums beating the charge; and see the bayonets
gleaming in the moonlight.

Lacheneur, who had remained on horseback amid his partisans, utterly
ignoring the bullets that whistled round him, felt that his few
remaining friends were about to be exterminated. At that supreme moment
a vision of the past flitted before his mind’s eye, with the rapidity of
a flash of lightning. He read and judged his own heart. Hatred had led
him to crime. He loathed himself for the humiliation which he had
imposed upon his daughter, and cursed himself for the falsehoods with
which he had deceived these brave men, for whose death he would be
accountable to God. Enough blood had flowed; he must save those who
remained. “Cease firing, my friends,” he commanded; “retreat!”

They obeyed--he could see them scatter in every direction. He too could
fly, for was he not mounted on a swift steed which would bear him beyond
the reach of the enemy? But he had sworn that he would not survive
defeat. Maddened with remorse, despair, sorrow, and impotent rage, he
saw no refuge except in death. He had only to wait for it, for it was
fast approaching; and yet he preferred to rush to meet it. Gathering up
the reins, and applying the spurs he charged upon the enemy.

The shock was rude, the ranks opened, and there was a moment’s
confusion. Then Lacheneur’s horse, wounded by a dozen bayonet thrusts,
reared on its hind-legs, beat the air with its forehoofs, and, falling
backwards, pinned its rider underneath. And the soldiers marched onward
not suspecting that the rider was struggling to free himself.

It was half-past one in the morning--the open space where the cross
roads met was virtually deserted. Nothing could be heard save the moans
of a few wounded men, calling on their comrades for succour. Before
thinking of attending to the wounded, M. de Sairmeuse had to occupy
himself with his own personal interests and glory. Now that the
insurrection had, so to say, been suppressed, it was necessary to
exaggerate its magnitude as much as possible, in order that his grace’s
reward might be in proportion with the services he would be supposed to
have rendered. Some fifteen or twenty rebels had been captured; but
these were not sufficient to give the victory all the _eclat_ which the
duke desired. He must find more culprits to drag before the
provost-marshal or before a military commission. He, therefore, divided
his troops into several detachments, and sent them in every direction
with orders to explore the villages, search the houses, and arrest all
suspected persons. Having given this order and recommended implacable
severity, he turned his horse and started at a brisk trot for
Montaignac.

Like his friend, M. de Courtornieu, he would have blessed these honest,
artless conspirators, had not a growing fear impaired his satisfaction.
Was his son, the Marquis de Sairmeuse, really implicated in this
conspiracy or not? The duke could scarcely believe in Martial’s
connivance, and yet the recollection of Chupin’s assertions troubled
him. On the other hand, what could have become of Martial? Had he been
met by the servant sent to warn him? Was he returning? And, in that
case, by which road? Had he fallen into the hands of the peasants? So
many questions which could not with certainty be answered.

His grace’s relief was intense when, on reaching his residence in
Montaignac, after a conference with M. de Courtornieu, he learnt that
Martial had returned home about a quarter of an hour before. The servant
who brought him this news added that the marquis had gone to his own
room directly he dismounted from his horse.

“All right,” replied the duke. “I will go to him there.” At the same
time, however, despite his outward placidity of manner, he was secretly
murmuring, “What abominable impertinence! What! I am on horseback at the
head of my troops, my life imperilled, and my son goes quietly to bed
without even assuring himself of my safety!”

He reached Martial’s room, and finding the door closed and locked on the
inside, rapped angrily against the panel.

“Who is there?” inquired the young marquis.

“It is I,” replied the duke; “open the door.”

Martial at once complied, and M. de Sairmeuse entered; but the sight
that met his gaze made him tremble. On the table stood a basin full of
blood, and Martial, with bare chest, was bathing a large wound near the
right nipple.

“You have been fighting!” exclaimed the duke, in an agitated voice.

“Yes.”

“Ah!--then you were, indeed--”

“I was where?--what?”

“Why, at the rendezvous of those miserable peasants who, in their folly,
dared to dream of overthrowing the best of princes!”

“I think you must be jesting, sir,” replied Martial, in a tone of deep
surprise, which somewhat reassured his father, though it failed to
dissipate his suspicions entirely.

“Then these vile rascals attacked you?” inquired M. de Sairmeuse.

“Not at all. I have been simply obliged to fight a duel.”

“With whom? Name the scoundrel who has dared to insult you?”

A faint flush tinged Martial’s cheek; but it was with his usual careless
manner that he replied: “Upon my word, no; I shall not give his name.
You would trouble him, perhaps; and I really owe the fellow a debt of
gratitude. It happened upon the highway; he might have murdered me
without ceremony had he only chosen, but he offered me open combat.
Besides, he was wounded far more severely than I.”

All M. de Sairmeuse’s doubts had now returned. “And why, instead of
summoning a physician, are you attempting to dress this wound yourself?”

“Because it is a mere trifle, and because I wish to keep it a secret.”

The duke shook his head. “All this is scarcely plausible,” he remarked;
“especially after the statements made to me concerning your complicity
in the revolt.”

“Ah!” said the young marquis, “so your head spy has been at work again.
However, I am certainly surprised that you can hesitate for a moment
between your son’s word and the stories told you by such a wretch.”

“Don’t speak ill of Chupin, marquis; he is a very useful man. Had it not
been for him, we should have been taken unawares. It was through him
that I learned of this vast conspiracy organized by Lacheneur--”

“What! is it Lacheneur--”

“Who is at the head of the movement?--yes, marquis. Ah! your usual
discernment has failed you in this instance. What, you were a constant
visitor at his house, and yet you suspected nothing? And you contemplate
a diplomatic career! But this is not everything. Now you know what
became of the money you so lavishly bestowed on these people. They used
it to purchase guns, powder and ammunition.”

The duke was satisfied that his earlier suspicions concerning his son’s
complicity were without foundation; still he could not resist the
temptation to taunt Martial anent his intimacy with the ex-steward of
Sairmeuse. But, despite the bitterness of the situation, it proved a
fruitless effort. Martial knew very well that he had been duped, but he
did not think of resentment. “If Lacheneur has been captured,” he
murmured to himself, “if he were condemned to death, and if I could only
save him, then Marie-Anne would have nothing to refuse me.”




XV.


When the Baron d’Escorval divined the reason of his son’s frequent
absences from home, he studiously avoided speaking on the matter to his
wife; and, indeed, he did not even warn her of his purpose when he went
to ask the Abbe Midon to go with him to Lacheneur’s. This was the first
time that he had ever had a secret from the faithful partner of his
life; and his silence fully explains the intensity of Madame
d’Escorval’s astonishment when at dinner time Maurice was sometimes
late; but the baron, like all great workers, was punctuality itself.
Hence his non-arrival could only be due to some extraordinary
occurrence. Madame d’Escorval’s surprise developed into uneasiness when
she ascertained that her husband had started off in the Abbe Midon’s
company, that they had harnessed a horse to the cabriolet themselves,
driving through the stable-yard into a lane leading to the public road,
in lieu of passing through the court-yard in front of the house, as was
the usual practice. This strange precaution must necessarily conceal
some mystery.

Madame d’Escorval waited, oppressed by vague forebodings. The servants
shared her anxiety; for the baron’s affability and kindness had greatly
endeared him to all his dependants. Long hours passed by, but
eventually, at about ten o’clock in the evening, a peasant returning
from Sairmeuse passed by the chateau, and seeing the servants clustering
in front of the garden gate he stopped short, and with the loquacity of
a man who has just been sacrificing at the altar of Bacchus proceeded to
relate the most incredible stories. He declared that all the peasantry
for ten leagues around were under arms, and that the Baron d’Escorval
was the leader of a revolt organized for the restoration of the Empire.
He did not doubt the final success of the movement, boldly stating that
Napoleon II., Marie-Louise, and all the marshals were concealed in
Montaignac. Alas! it must be confessed that Lacheneur had not hesitated
to utter the grossest falsehoods in his anxiety to gain followers to his
cause. Madame d’Escorval, before whom this peasant was conducted, could
not be deceived by these ridiculous stories, but she could and did
believe that the baron was the prime mover in the insurrection. And this
belief, which would have carried consternation to many women’s hearts,
absolutely reassured her. She had entire, unlimited faith in her
husband. She believed him superior to all other men--infallible, in
short. Hence, if he had organized a movement, that movement was right.
If he had attempted it, it was because he expected to succeed; and if he
looked for success, to her mind it was certain.

Impatient, however, to know the result, she despatched the gardener to
Sairmeuse with orders to obtain information without awakening suspicion,
if possible, and to hasten back as soon as he could learn anything of a
positive nature. He returned shortly after midnight, pale, frightened,
and in tears. The disaster had already become known, and had been
described to him with any amount of exaggeration. He had been told that
hundreds of men had been killed, and that a whole army was scouring the
country, massacring the defenceless peasants and their families.

While he was telling his story, Madame d’Escorval felt as if she were
going mad. She saw--yes, positively, saw her son and her husband,
dead--or still worse, mortally wounded, stretched on the public
highway--lying with their arms crossed upon their breasts, livid,
bloody, their eyes staring wildly--begging for water--a drop of water to
assuage their burning thirst. “I will find them!” she exclaimed, in
frenzied accents. “I will go to the battlefield and seek for them among
the dead, until I find them. Light some torches, my friends, and come
with me, for you will aid me, will you not? You loved them; they were so
good! You would not leave their dead bodies unburied! Oh! the wretches!
The wretches who have killed them!”

The servants were hastening to obey when the furious gallop of a horse
and the rapid roll of carriage-wheels were heard. “Here they come!”
exclaimed the gardener, “here they come!”

Madame d’Escorval, followed by the servants, rushed to the gate just in
time to see a cabriolet enter the courtyard, and the panting horse,
flecked with foam, miss his footing, and fall. The Abbe Midon and
Maurice had already sprung to the ground and were removing an apparently
lifeless body from the vehicle. Even Marie-Anne’s great energy had not
been able to resist so many successive shocks. The last trial had
overwhelmed her. Once in the carriage, all immediate danger having
disappeared, the excitement which had sustained her fled. She became
unconscious, and all efforts had hitherto failed to restore her. Madame
d’Escorval, however, did not recognize Mademoiselle Lacheneur in her
masculine attire. She only saw that the body Maurice and the priest were
carrying was not her husband, and turning to her son exclaimed in a
stifled voice. “And your father--your father where is he?”

Until that moment, Maurice and the cure had comforted themselves with
the hope that M. d’Escorval would reach home before them. They were now
cruelly undeceived. Maurice tottered, and almost dropped his precious
burden. The abbe perceived his anguish and made a sign to two servants
who gently lifted Marie-Anne, and bore her to the house. Then turning to
Madame d’Escorval the cure exclaimed at hazard. “The baron will soon be
here, madame, he fled first--”

“The baron d’Escorval could not have fled,” she interrupted. “A general
does not desert when he is face to face with the enemy. If a panic
seizes his soldiers, he rushes to the front, and either leads them back
to combat, or sacrifices his own life.”

“Mother!” faltered Maurice; “mother!”

“Oh! do not try to deceive me. My husband was the organizer of this
conspiracy--If his confederates have been beaten and dispersed they must
have proved themselves cowards. Heaven have mercy upon me, my husband is
dead!”

In spite of the abbe’s quickness of perception, he could not understand
these assertions on the part of the baroness; and feared that sorrow and
terror had tampered with her mind. “Ah! madame,” he exclaimed, “the
baron had nothing to do with this movement: far from it--” He paused;
they were standing in the court-yard, in the full glare of the torches
lighted by the servants a moment previously. Any one passing along the
public road could hear and see everything; and in the present situation
such imprudence might have fatal results. “Come, Madame,” accordingly
resumed the priest, leading the baroness toward the house “and you
Maurice, come as well!”

Madame d’Escorval and her son passively obeyed the summons. The former
seemed crushed by unspeakable anguish, but on entering the drawing-room
she instinctively glanced at the seemingly lifeless form extended on the
sofa. This time she recognized Marie-Anne. “What, Mademoiselle
Lacheneur!” she faltered, “here in this costume? dead?”

One might indeed believe that the poor girl was dead, to see her lying
there rigid, cold, and as white as if the last drop of blood had been
drained from her veins. Her beautiful face had the motionless pallor of
marble; her half-open colourless lips disclosed her teeth, clenched
convulsively, and a large dark blue circle surrounded her closed
eyelids. Her long black hair, which she had rolled up closely, so as to
slip it under her peasant’s hat was now unwound, and fell confusedly
over the sofa and her shoulders.

“There is no danger,” declared the abbe, after he had examined her. “She
has only fainted, and it will not be long before she regains
consciousness.” And then, rapidly but clearly, he gave the necessary
directions to the servants, who were as astonished as their mistress.

“What a night!” murmured Madame d’Escorval, as staring on the scene
with dilated eyes she mechanically wiped her forehead, covered with cold
perspiration.

“I must remind you, madame,” said the priest sympathizingly, but firmly,
“that reason and duty alike forbid your yielding to despair! Wife, where
is your energy? Christian, what has become of your confidence in a just
and protecting providence!”

“Oh! I have courage left,” faltered the wretched woman. “I am brave!”

The abbe led her to a large arm-chair and compelled her to sit down.
Then in a gentler tone, he resumed: “Besides, why should you despair,
madame? Your son is with you in safety. Your husband has not compromised
himself; he has done nothing more than I have done myself.” And briefly,
but with rare precision, the priest explained the part which he and the
baron had played during this unfortunate evening.

Instead of reassuring the baroness, however, his recital seemed to
increase her anxiety. “I understand you,” she interrupted, “and I
believe you. But I also know that all the people in the country round
about are convinced that my husband commanded the rebels. They believe
it, and they will say it.”

“And what of that?”

“If he has been arrested, as you give me to understand may be the case,
he will be summoned before a court-martial. Was he not one of the
emperor’s friends? That alone is a crime, as you know very well
yourself. He will be convicted and sentenced to death.”

“No, madame, no! Am I not here? I will go to the tribunal, and say: ‘I
have seen and know everything.’”

“But they will arrest you as well, for you are not a priest after their
cruel hearts. They will throw you into prison, and you will meet him on
the scaffold.”

Maurice had been listening with a pale, haggard face. “Ah, I shall have
been the cause of the death of my father,” he exclaimed, as he heard
these last words, and then despite all the abbe’s attempts to silence
him, he continued. “Yes, I shall have killed him. He was ignorant even
of the existence of this conspiracy desired by Lacheneur; but I knew of
it, and wished to succeed, because on it the success, the happiness of
my life depended. And then--wretch that I was!--at times when I wished
to gain a waverer to our ranks, I mentioned the honoured name of
D’Escorval. Ah! I was mad!--I was mad! And yet, even now, I have not the
courage to curse my folly! Oh, mother, mother, if you knew----”

The young fellow paused, the sobs which convulsively rose in his throat,
choking all further utterances. Just then a faint moan was heard.
Marie-Anne was slowly regaining consciousness. She seemed intensely
puzzled by the scene around her, and passed her hands before her
wandering eyes as if to ascertain whether she were really awake or not.
At one moment she opened her mouth as if to speak, but the Abbe Midon
checked her with a hasty gesture. Maurice’s confession, and his mother’s
remarks had fully enlightened the priest as to the danger threatening
the D’Escorvals. How could it be averted? There was no time for
reflection. He must decide, and act at once. Accordingly he darted to
the door, and summoned the servants still clustering in the hall and on
the staircase. “Listen to me attentively,” said he, in that quick
imperious voice which unhesitatingly impresses the hearer with the
certainty of approaching peril, “and remember that your master’s life
depends, perhaps, upon your discretion. We can rely upon you, can we
not?”

Simultaneously the little group of dependents raised their hands, as if
to call upon heaven to witness their fidelity.

“In less than an hour,” continued the priest, “the soldiers sent in
pursuit of the fugitives will be here. Not a word must be said
concerning what has happened this evening. Whoever questions you must be
led to suppose that I went away with the baron, and returned alone. Not
one of you must have seen Mademoiselle Lacheneur. We are going to
conceal her. Remember, my friends that all is lost if the slightest
suspicion of her presence here is roused. Should the soldiers question
you, try and convince them that M. Maurice has not left the house this
evening.” The priest paused for a moment, trying to think if he had
forgotten any other precaution that human prudence could suggest; then
he added again. “One word more; to see you standing about at this hour
of the night will awaken suspicion at once. However, we must plead in
justification the alarm we feel at the baron’s prolonged absence.
Besides, Madame d’Escorval is ill and that will furnish another excuse.
She must go to bed at once, for by this means she may escape all
awkward questioning. As for you, Maurice, run and change your clothes;
and above all, wash your hands, and sprinkle some scent over them.”

Those who heard the abbe were so impressed with the imminence of the
danger, that they were more than willing to obey his orders. As soon as
Marie-Anne could be moved, she was carried to a tiny garret under the
roof; while Madame d’Escorval retired to her own room, and the servants
went back to the kitchen. Maurice and the abbe remained alone in the
drawing-room. They were both cruelly oppressed by anxiety, and shared
the opinion that the Baron d’Escorval had been made a prisoner. In that
event, the abbe Midon felt that all he could usefully attempt, was to
try and save Maurice from any charge of complicity. “And who knows,” he
muttered, “the son’s freedom may save the father’s life.”

At that moment, his meditations were interrupted by a violent pull at
the bell of the front gate. The gardener could be heard hastening to
answer the summons, the gate grated on its hinges, and then the measured
tread of soldiers resounded over the gravel. Half-a-minute later a loud
voice commanded: “Halt!”

The priest looked at Maurice and saw that he was as pale as death. “Be
calm,” he entreated, “don’t be alarmed. Don’t lose your
self-possession--and, above all, don’t forget my instructions.”

“Let them come,” replied Maurice. “I am prepared.”

Scarcely had he spoken than the drawing-room door was flung violently
open, and a captain of grenadiers entered the apartment. He was a young
fellow of five-and-twenty, tall, fair-haired, with blue eyes, and a
little, carefully waxed moustache. No doubt on ordinary occasions this
military dandy’s features wore the coxcomb’s usual look of
self-complacency, but for the time being he had a really ferocious air.
The soldiers by whom he was accompanied awaited his orders in the hall.
After glancing suspiciously round the apartment, he asked in a harsh
voice; “Who is the master of this house?”

“The Baron d’Escorval, my father, who is absent,” replied Maurice.

“Where is he?”

The abbe, who had hitherto remained seated, now rose to his feet. “On
hearing of the unfortunate outbreak of this evening,” he replied, “the
baron and myself went after the peasants in the hope of inducing them to
relinquish their foolish undertaking. They would not listen to us. In
the confusion that ensued, I became separated from the baron; I returned
here very anxious, and am now waiting for his return.”

The captain twisted his moustache with a sneering air. “Not a bad
invention!” said he. “Only I don’t believe a word of it.”

A threatening light gleamed in the priest’s eyes, and his lips trembled
for a moment. However, he prudently held his peace.

“Who are you?” rudely asked the officer.

“I am the cure of Sairmeuse.”

“Honest men ought to be in bed at this hour. And you are racing about
the country after rebellious peasants. Really, I don’t know what
prevents me from ordering your arrest.”

What did prevent him was the priestly robe, all powerful under the
Restoration. With Maurice, however, the swaggering swashbuckler was more
at ease. “How many are there in this family of yours?” he asked.

“Three; my father, my mother--ill at this moment--and myself.”

“And how many servants?”

“Seven--four men and three women.”

“You haven’t housed or concealed any one here this evening?”

“No one.”

“It will be necessary to prove that,” rejoined the captain; and turning
towards the door he called, “Corporal Bavois, step here!”

This corporal proved to be one of the old soldiers who had followed the
emperor all over Europe. Two tiny, but piercing grey eyes lighted his
tanned, weather-beaten face, and an immense hooked nose surmounted a
heavy, bristling moustache. “Bavois,” commanded the officer, “take half
a dozen men and search this house from top to bottom. You are an old
fox, and if there be any hiding-place here, you will be sure to discover
it. If you find any one concealed here, bring the person to me. Go, and
make haste!”

The corporal saluted and turned on his heels; while the captain walked
towards Maurice: “And now,” said he, “what have you been doing this
evening?”

The young man hesitated for a moment: then, with well-feigned
indifference, replied: “I have not put my head out of doors.”

“Hum! that must be proved. Let me see your hands.”

The soldier’s tone was so offensive that Maurice felt the blood rise to
his forehead. Fortunately a warning glance from the abbe made him
restrain himself. He offered his hands for inspection, and the captain,
after examining them carefully on either side, took the final precaution
to smell them. “Ah!” quoth he, “these hands are too white and smell too
sweet to have been dabbling with powder.”

At the same time he was somewhat surprised that this young man should
have so little courage as to remain by the fireside at home, while his
father was leading the peasants on to battle. “Another thing,” said he:
“you must have some weapons here?”

“Yes, a few hunting rifles.”

“Where are they?”

“In a small room on the ground floor.”

“Take me there.”

They conducted him to the room, and on finding that none of the guns had
been used, at least for some days, he seemed considerably annoyed. But
his disappointment reached a climax when Corporal Bavois returned and
stated that he had searched everywhere, without finding anything of a
suspicious character.

“Send for the servants,” was the officer’s next order; but all the
dependents faithfully confined themselves to the story indicated by the
abbe Midon, and the captain perceived that even if a mystery existed, as
he suspected, he was not likely to fathom it. Swearing that all the
inmates of the house should pay a heavy penalty if they were deceiving
him, he again called Bavois and told him that he should resume the
search himself. “You,” he added, “will remain here with two men, and I
shall expect you to render a strict account of all you see and hear. If
M. d’Escorval returns, bring him to me at once; do not allow him to
escape. Keep your eyes open and good luck to you!”

He added a few words in a low voice, and then left the room as abruptly
as he had entered it. Scarcely had the sound of his footsteps died away,
than the corporal gave vent to his disgust in a frightful oath.
“_Hein!_” said he, to his men, “did you hear that cadet. Listen, watch,
arrest, report. So he takes us for spies! Ah! if the Little Corporal
only knew how his old soldiers were degraded!”

The two men responded with sullen growls.

“As for you,” pursued the old trooper, addressing Maurice and the abbe,
“I Bavois, corporal of the grenadiers, declare in my own name and in
that of my comrades here, that you are as free as birds, and that we
shall arrest no one. More than that, if we can aid you in any way, we
are at your service. The little fool who commands us this evening
thought we were fighting. Look at my gun--I have not fired a shot from
it--and my comrades only fired blank cartridges.” The statement might
possibly be a sincere one, but was scarcely probable. “We have nothing
to conceal,” replied the cautious priest.

The old corporal gave a knowing wink. “Ah! you distrust me!” said he.
“You are wrong, as I’ll show you. It may be easy to gull that fool who
has just left here, but it’s not so easy to deceive Corporal Bavois. And
if you had intended to do so, you shouldn’t have left a gun in the
courtyard, which was certainly never loaded for firing at swallows.”

The cure and Maurice exchanged glances of consternation. Maurice now
recollected, for the first time, that on alighting from the cabriolet on
his return, he had hastily propped the loaded gun against the wall. The
weapon had subsequently escaped the servants’ notice.

“Secondly!” resumed Bavois, “there is some one concealed in the attic. I
have excellent ears. Thirdly, I arranged matters so that no one should
enter the sick lady’s room.”

Maurice needed no further proof. He held out his hand to the corporal,
and, in a voice trembling with emotion, replied: “You are a noble
fellow!”

A few moments later--the three grenadiers having retired to another
room, where they were served with supper--Maurice, the abbe, and Madame
d’Escorval were again deliberating concerning their future action, when
Marie-Anne entered the apartment with a pale face, but firm step. “I
must leave this house,” she said, to the baroness, in a tone of quiet
resolution. “Had I been conscious, I would never have accepted
hospitality which is likely to bring such misfortune on your family.
Your acquaintance with me has cost you too much sorrow already. Don’t
you understand now, why I wished you to look on us as strangers? A
presentiment told me that my family would prove fatal to yours!”

“Poor child!” exclaimed Madame d’Escorval; “where will you go?”

Marie-Anne raised her beautiful eyes to heaven. “I don’t know, madame,”
she replied, “but duty commands me to go. I must learn what has become
of my father and brother, and share their fate.”

“What!” exclaimed Maurice, “still this thought of death. You, who no
longer----” He paused; for a secret which was not his own had almost
escaped his lips. But visited by a sudden inspiration, he threw himself
at his mother’s feet. “Oh, my mother! my dearest mother, do not allow
her to go,” he cried. “I may perish in my attempt to save my father. She
will be your daughter then--she whom I have loved so dearly. She cannot
leave us. You will encircle her with your tender and protecting love;
and may be, after all these trials, happier times will come.”

Touched by her son’s despair, Madame d’Escorval turned to Marie-Anne,
and with her winning words soon prevailed upon her to remain.




XVI.


The baroness knew nothing of the secret which Marie-Anne had revealed at
the Croix d’Arcy, when she proclaimed her desire to die by her father’s
side; but Maurice was scarcely uneasy on that score, for his faith in
his mother was so great that he felt sure she would forgive them both
when she learnt the truth. Not unfrequently does it happen, that of all
women, chaste and loving wives and mothers are precisely the most
indulgent towards those whom the voice of passion has led astray.
Comforted by this reflection, which reassured him as to the future of
the girl he loved, Maurice now turned all his thoughts towards his
father.

The day was breaking, and he declared that he would disguise himself as
best he could, and go to Montaignac at once. It was not without a
feeling of anxiety that Madame d’Escorval heard him speak in this
manner. She was trembling for her husband’s life, and now her son must
hurry into danger. Perhaps before the day was over neither husband nor
son would be left to her. And yet she did not forbid his going; for she
felt that he was only fulfilling a sacred duty. She would have loved him
less had she supposed him capable of cowardly hesitation, and would have
dried her tears, if necessary to bid him “go.” Moreover, was not
anything preferable to the agony of suspense which they had been
enduring for hours?

Maurice had reached the drawing-room door when the abbe called him back.
“You must certainly go to Montaignac,” said he, “but it would be folly
to disguise yourself. You would surely be recognized, and the saying:
‘He who conceals himself is guilty,’ would at once be applied to you.
You must proceed openly, with head erect, and you must even exaggerate
the assurance of innocence. Go straight to the Duke de Sairmeuse and the
Marquis de Courtornieu. I will accompany you; we will go together in the
carriage.”

“Take this advice, Maurice,” said Madame d’Escorval, seeing that her son
seemed undecided, “the abbe knows what is best much better than we do.”

The cure had not waited for the assent which Maurice gave to his
mother’s words, but had already gone to order the carriage to be got
ready. On the other hand, Madame d’Escorval now left the room to write a
few lines to a lady friend, whose husband had considerable influence in
Montaignac; and Maurice and Marie-Anne were thus left alone. This was
the first moment of freedom they had found since Marie-Anne’s
confession. “My darling,” whispered Maurice, clasping the young girl to
his heart, “I did not think it was possible to love more fondly than I
loved you yesterday; but now---- And you--you wish for death when
another precious life depends on yours.”

“I was terrified,” faltered Marie-Anne. “I was terrified at the prospect
of shame which I saw--which I still see before me; but now I am
resigned. My frailty deserves punishment, and I must submit to the
insults and disgrace awaiting me.”

“Insults! Let any one dare insult you! But will you not now be my wife
in the sight of men, as you are in the sight of heaven? The failure of
your father’s scheme sets you free!”

“No, no, Maurice, I am not free! Ah! it is you who are pitiless! I see
only too well that you curse me, that you curse the day when we met for
the first time! Confess it!” And so speaking Marie-Anne lifted her
streaming eyes to his. “As for me,” she resumed, “I could not say so.
Grievous my fault is, no doubt, I am disgraced and humiliated, but
still----”

She could not finish; Maurice drew her to him, and their lips and their
tears met in one long embrace. “You love me,” he exclaimed, “you love me
in spite of everything! We shall succeed. I will save your father, and
mine--I will save your brother too.”

He had no time to say more. The baron’s berline, to which a couple of
horses had been harnessed, that they might reach Montaignac with greater
speed, was waiting in the courtyard; and the abbe’s voice could be heard
calling on Maurice to make haste, and Madame d’Escorval, moreover, now
returned, carrying a letter which she handed to her son. One long, last
embrace, and then leaving the two women to their tears and prayers,
Maurice and the abbe sprang into the carriage, which was soon dashing
along the high road towards Montaignac.

“If, by confessing your own guilt, you could save your father,” said the
Abbe Midon as they rolled through the village of Sairmeuse, “I should
tell you to give yourself up, and confess the whole truth. Such would be
your duty. But such a sacrifice would be not only useless, but
dangerous. Your confessions of guilt would only implicate your father
still more. You would be arrested, but they would not release him, and
you would both be tried and convicted. Let us then allow--I will not say
justice, for that would be blasphemy--but these blood-thirsty men, who
call themselves judges, to pursue their course, and attribute all that
you yourself have done to your father. When the trial comes on you will
be able to prove his innocence, and to produce _alibis_ of so
unimpeachable a character, that they will be forced to acquit him. And I
understand the people of our province well enough to feel sure that none
of them will reveal our stratagem.”

“And if we should not succeed in that way,” asked Maurice, gloomily,
“what could I do then?”

The question was so grave a one that the priest did not even try to
answer it, and tortured with anxiety and cruel forebodings, he and
Maurice remained silent during the rest of the journey. When they
reached the town young d’Escorval realised the abbe’s wisdom in
preventing him from assuming a disguise; for, armed as they were with
absolute power the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu had
closed all the gates of Montaignac but one, through which all those who
desired to leave or enter the town were obliged to pass; two officers
being moreover stationed beside it, to examine and question all comers
and goers. Maurice noticed these officers’ surprise when, on being asked
who he was, he gave them the name of d’Escorval. “Ah! you know what has
become of my father!” he exclaimed.

“The Baron d’Escorval is a prisoner,” replied one of the officers.

Although Maurice had expected this reply, he turned pale with suppressed
emotion. “Is he wounded?” he asked, eagerly.

“He hasn’t a scratch,” was the answer; “but please pass on.” From the
tone of this last remark, and the anxious looks the officers exchanged
one might have supposed that they feared they might compromise
themselves by conversing with the son of so great a criminal.

The carriage rolled under the archway, and had gone a couple of hundred
yards or so along the Grande Rue when Maurice noticed a large poster
affixed to one of the walls, and which an elderly man was busy perusing.
Instinctively both the inmates of the vehicle felt that this notice must
have some connection with the revolt; and they were not mistaken, for on
springing to the ground they themselves read as follows: “We, commander
of the Military Division of Montaignac, in virtue of the State of Siege,
decree--Article I.--The inmates of the house in which the elder
Lacheneur is found shall be handed over to a military commission for
trial. Article II.--Whoever shall deliver up the body of the elder
Lacheneur, dead or alive, will receive a reward of twenty thousand
francs. _Signed_: DUKE DE SAIRMEUSE.”

“God be praised!” exclaimed Maurice when he had finished his perusal.
“Then Marie-Anne’s father has escaped! He had a good horse, and in two
hours--”

A glance and a nudge from the abbe checked him; and in turning he
recognized that the man standing near them was none other than Father
Chupin. The old scoundrel had also recognized them, for he took off his
hat to the cure, and with an expression of intense covetousness
remarked: “Twenty thousand francs! What a sum! A man could live
comfortably all his life on the interest.”

The abbe and Maurice shuddered as they re-entered the carriage.
“Lacheneur is lost if that man discovers his whereabouts,” murmured the
priest.

“Fortunately he must have crossed the frontier before now,” replied
Maurice. “A hundred to one he is beyond reach.”

“And if you should be mistaken. What, if wounded and faint from loss of
blood, Lacheneur only had strength enough to drag himself to the nearest
house and implore the hospitality of its inmates?”

“Oh! even in that case he is safe; I know our peasants. There is not one
who is capable of selling the life of a proscribed man.”

This youthful enthusiasm elicited a sad smile from the priest. “You
forget the dangers to be incurred by those who shelter him,” he said.
“Many a man who would not soil his hands with the price of blood might
deliver up a fugitive from fear.”

They were passing through the principal street, and were struck with the
mournful aspect of the little city, usually so gay and full of bustle.
The shops were closed; and even the window shutters of the houses had
not been opened. So lugubrious was the silence that one might have
supposed there was a general mourning, and that each family had lost one
or more of its members. The manner of the few persons passing along the
footways testified to their deep anxiety. They hurried along, casting
suspicious glances on every side; and two or three who were
acquaintances of the Baron d’Escorval averted their heads directly they
saw his carriage, so as to avoid the necessity of bowing.

The terror prevailing in the town was explained when Maurice and the
abbe reached the Hotel de France, where they proposed taking up their
quarters; and which establishment the former’s father had always
patronized whenever he visited Montaignac; the landlord being
Laugeron--Lacheneur’s friend, who had been so anxious to warn him of
the Duke de Sairmeuse’s return to France. On catching sight of his
visitors, this worthy man hastened into the courtyard, cap in hand, to
give them a fitting greeting. In such a situation politeness amounted to
heroism; but it has always been supposed that Laugeron was in some way
connected with the conspiracy. He at once invited Maurice and the abbe
to take some refreshments, doing so in such a way as to make them
understand that he was anxious to speak to them in private. Thanks to
one of the Duke de Sairmeuse’s valets who frequented the house, the
landlord knew as much as the authorities; and, indeed, he knew even
more, since he had also received information from several rebels who had
escaped capture. He conducted Maurice and the abbe to a room looking on
to the back of the house, where he knew they would be secure from
observation, and then it was that they obtained their first positive
information. In the first place, nothing had been heard either of
Lacheneur or his son Jean, who had so far eluded all pursuit. Secondly,
there were, at that moment, no fewer than two hundred prisoners in the
citadel, including both the Baron d’Escorval and Chanlouineau. And
finally, that very morning there had been at least sixty additional
arrests in Montaignac. It was generally supposed that these arrests were
due to traitorous denunciations, and all the inhabitants were trembling
with fear. M. Laugeron knew the real cause, however, for it had been
confided to him under pledge of secrecy by his customer, the duke’s
valet. “It certainly seems an incredible story, gentlemen,” he remarked;
“but yet it is quite true. Two officers, belonging to the Montaignac
militia, were returning from the expedition this morning at daybreak,
when on passing the Croix d’Arcy they perceived a man, wearing the
uniform of the emperor’s body guard, lying dead in a ditch. Not
unnaturally they examined the body, and to their great astonishment they
found a slip of paper between the man’s clenched teeth. It proved to be
a list of Montaignac conspirators, which this old soldier, finding
himself mortally wounded, had endeavored to destroy; but the agonies of
death had prevented him from swallowing it----.”

The abbe and Maurice had no time to listen to the general news the
landlord might have to impart. They requested him to procure a
messenger, who was at once despatched to Escorval, so that the baroness
and Marie-Anne might be made acquainted with the information they had
obtained concerning both the baron and Lacheneur. They then left the
hotel and hastened to the house occupied by the Duke de Sairmeuse. There
was a crowd at the door; a crowd of a hundred persons or so--men with
anxious faces, women in tears--all of them begging for an audience.
These were the friends and relatives of the unfortunate men who had been
arrested. Two footmen, wearing gorgeous liveries, of haughty mien, stood
in the doorway, their time being fully occupied in keeping back the
struggling throng. Hoping that his priestly dress would win him a
hearing, the Abbe Midon approached and gave his name. But he was
repulsed like the others. “M. le Duc is busy, and can receive nobody,”
said one of the servants. “M. le Duc is preparing his report to his
majesty.” And in support of his assertion, he pointed to the horses,
standing saddled in the courtyard, and waiting for the couriers who were
to carry the despatches.

The priest sadly rejoined his companions. “We must wait!” said he. And
yet, intentionally or not, the servants were deceiving these poor
people; for, just then, the duke was in no wise troubling himself about
his despatches. In point of fact, he happened to be engaged in a violent
altercation with the Marquis de Courtornieu. Each of these noble
personages was anxious to play the leading part--that which would meet
with the highest reward at the hands of the supreme authorities at
Paris. This quarrel had begun on some petty point, but soon they both
lost their tempers and stinging words, bitter allusions, and even
threats were rapidly exchanged. The marquis declared it necessary to
inflict the most frightful--he said the most _salutary_ punishment upon
the offenders; while the duke, on the contrary, was inclined to be
indulgent. The marquis opined that since Lacheneur, the prime mover, and
his son, had both eluded pursuit, it was absolutely requisite that
Marie-Anne should be arrested. M. de Sairmeuse, however, would not
listen to the suggestion. To his mind it would be most impolitic to
arrest this young girl. Such a course would render the authorities
odious, and would exasperate all the rebels who were still at large.

“These men must be put down with a strong hand!” urged M. de
Courtornieu.

“I don’t wish to exasperate the populace,” replied the duke.

“Bah! what does public sentiment matter?”

“It matters a great deal when you cannot depend upon your soldiers. Do
you know what happened last night? There was enough powder burned to win
a battle, and yet there were only fifteen peasants wounded. Our men
fired in the air. You forget that the Montaignac corps is for the most
part composed of men who formerly fought under Bonaparte, and who are
burning to turn their weapons against us.”

Thus did the dispute continue, ostensibly for motives of public policy,
though, in reality, both the duke and the marquis had a secret reason
for their obstinacy. Blanche de Courtornieu had reached Montaignac that
morning and had confided her anxiety and her sufferings to her father,
with the result that she had made him swear to profit of this
opportunity to rid her of Marie-Anne. On his side, the duke was
convinced that Marie-Anne was his son’s mistress, and wished, at any
cost, to prevent her appearance at the tribunal. Finding that words had
no influence whatever on his coadjutor, his grace at last finished the
dispute by a skillful stratagem. “As we are of different opinions we
can’t possibly work together,” quoth he; “we are one too many.” And
speaking in this fashion he glanced so meaningly at a pair of pistols
that the noble marquis felt a disagreeable chilliness creep up his
spine. He had never been noted for bravery, and did not in the least
relish the idea of having a bullet lodged in his brains. Accordingly he
waived his proposal, and eventually agreed to go to the citadel with the
duke to inspect the prisoners.

The whole day passed by without M. de Sairmeuse consenting to give a
single audience, and Maurice spent his time in watching the moving arms
of the semaphore perched on the tall keep-tower. “What orders are
travelling through space?” he said to the abbe. “Are these messages of
life, or death?”

The messenger despatched from the Hotel de France had been instructed
to make haste, and yet he did not reach Escorval until night-fall. Beset
by a thousand fears, he had taken the longest but less frequented roads,
and had made numerous circuits to avoid the people he had seen
approaching in the distance. Scarcely had the baroness read the letter,
written to her by Maurice, than turning to Marie-Anne, she exclaimed,
“We must go to Montaignac at once!”

But this was easier said than done; for they only kept three horses at
Escorval. The one which had been harnessed to the cabriolet the
preceding night was lame--indeed, nearly dead: while the other two had
been taken to Montaignac that morning by Maurice and the priest. What
were the ladies to do? They appealed to some neighbours for assistance,
but the latter, having heard of the baron’s arrest, firmly refused to
lend a horse, believing they should gravely compromise themselves if
they in any way helped the wife of a man charged with such grievous
offences as high treason and revolt. Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne
were talking of making the journey on foot, when Corporal Bavois, still
left on guard at the chateau, swore by the sacred name of thunder that
this should not be. He hurried off with his two men, and, after a brief
absence, returned leading an old plough-horse by the mane. He had, more
or less forcibly, requisitioned this clumsy steed, which he harnessed to
the cabriolet as best he could. This was not his only demonstration of
good will. His duties at the chateau were over, now that M. d’Escorval
had been arrested, and nothing remained for him but to rejoin his
regiment. Accordingly he declared that he would not allow these ladies
to travel unattended at night-time, along a road where they might be
exposed to many disagreeable encounters, but should escort them to their
journey’s end with his two subordinates. “And it will go hard with
soldier or civilian who ventures to molest them, will it not, comrades?”
he exclaimed.

As usual, his companions assented with an oath; and as Madame d’Escorval
and Marie-Anne journeyed onward, they could perceive the three men
preceding or following the vehicle, or oftener walking beside it. Not
until they reached the gates of Montaignac did the old soldier forsake
his protegees, and then, not without bidding them a respectful
farewell, in his own name and that of his subordinates, adding that if
they had need of his services, they had only to call upon Bavois,
corporal of grenadiers in company No. 1., stationed at the citadel.

The clocks were striking half-past ten when Madame d’Escorval and
Marie-Anne alighted at the Hotel de France. They found Maurice in
despair, and even the abbe disheartened, for since the morning events
had progressed with fearful rapidity. The semaphore signals were now
explained; orders had come from Paris; and there they could be read in
black and white, affixed to the walls of the town. “Montaignac must be
regarded as in a state of siege. The military authorities have been
granted discretionary powers. A military commission will exercise
jurisdiction in lieu of all other courts. Let peaceable citizens take
courage; let the evil disposed tremble! As for the rabble, the sword of
the law is about to strike!” Only six lines in all--but each word
fraught with menace!

The abbe most regretted that trial before a military commission had been
substituted for the customary court-martial. Indeed this upset all the
plans he had devised in the hope of saving his friend. A court-martial
is, of course, hasty and often unjust in its decisions; but still, it
observes some of the forms of procedure practiced in judicial tribunals.
It still retains some of the impartiality of legal justice, which asks
to be enlightened before condemning. But the military commission now to
be appointed would naturally neglect all legal forms; and the prisoners
would be summarily condemned and punished after the fashion in which
spies are treated in time of war.

“What!” exclaimed Maurice, “would they dare to condemn without
investigating, without listening to testimony, without allowing the
prisoners time to prepare their defence?” The abbe remained silent. The
turn events had taken exceeded his worst apprehensions. Now, indeed, he
believed that anything was possible.

Maurice had spoken of investigation. Investigation, if such it could be
called, had indeed begun that very day, and was still continuing by the
light of a jailor’s lantern. That is to say, the Duke de Sairmeuse and
the Marquis de Courtornieu were passing the prisoners in review. They
now numbered three hundred, and the duke and his companion had decided
to begin by summoning before the commission thirty of the most
dangerous conspirators. How were they to select them? By what method
could they hope to discover the extent of each prisoner’s guilt? It
would have been difficult for them to explain the course they took. They
simply went from one man to another, asking any question that entered
their minds, and when the terrified captive had answered them they
either said to the head jailor, “Keep this one until another time,” or,
“This one for to-morrow,” their decision being guided by the impression
the man’s language and demeanour had created. By daylight, they had
thirty names upon their list, at the head of which figured those of the
Baron d’Escorval and Chanlouineau.

Although the unhappy party at the Hotel de France were not aware of this
circumstance, they passed a sleepless, anxious night; and it was relief,
indeed, when the daylight peered through the windows and the _reveille_
could be heard beating at the citadel; for now at least they might renew
their efforts. The abbe intimated his intention of going alone to the
duke’s house, declaring that he would find a way to force an entrance.
He had just bathed his red and swollen eyes in fresh water, and was
preparing to start, when a rap was heard at the door. Directly
afterwards M. Laugeron, the landlord, entered the room. His face
betokened some dreadful misfortune; and indeed he had just been made
acquainted with the composition of the military commission. In defiance
of all equity and justice, the presidency of this tribunal of vengeance
had been offered to the Duke de Sairmeuse who had unblushingly accepted
it--he who was at the same time both witness and executioner. Moreover,
he was to be assisted by other officers hitherto placed under his
immediate orders.

“And when does the commission enter upon its functions?” inquired the
abbe.

“To-day,” replied the host, hesitatingly; “this morning--in an
hour--perhaps sooner!”

The priest understood well enough what M. Laugeron meant, but what he
dared not say: “The commission is assembling, make haste.” “Come!” said
the abbe Midon turning to Maurice, “I wish to be present when your
father is examined.”

The baroness would have given anything to accompany the priest and her
son; but this could not be; she understood it, and submitted. As
Maurice and his companion stepped into the street they saw a soldier a
short distance off who made a friendly gesture. Recognizing Corporal
Bavois, they paused instinctively. But he now passing them by with an
air of the utmost indifference, and apparently without observing them,
hastily exclaimed: “I have seen Chanlouineau. Be of good cheer: he
promises to save the baron!”




XVII.


Within the limits of the citadel of Montaignac stands an old building
known as the chapel. Originally consecrated to purposes of worship, this
structure had, at the time of which we write, fallen into disuse. It was
so damp that it could not even be utilized for storage purposes, and yet
this was the place selected by the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de
Courtornieu for the assembling of the military commission. When Maurice
and the abbe entered this gloomy building they found that the
proceedings had not yet commenced. The little trouble taken to transform
the old chapel into a hall of justice impressed them sadly, for it
testified beyond power of mistake to the precipitation of the judges,
and revealed their determination to carry out the work of vengeance
without either delay or mercy. Three large tables taken from a soldier’s
mess-room, and covered with horse blankets instead of baize, stood on a
raised platform formerly occupied by the chief altar. Behind these
tables were ranged a few rush-seated chairs, waiting the president’s
assessors, and in their midst glittered a richly-carved and gilt arm
chair which his grace had had sent from his own house for his personal
accommodation. In front of the tables three or four long wooden benches
had been placed in readiness for the prisoners, while several strong
ropes were stretched from one wall to the other, so as to divide the
chapel into two parts and allow considerable room for the public. This
last precaution had proved quite superfluous, for, contrary to
expectation, there were not twenty persons in the building. Prominent
among these were ten or twelve men of martial mien, but clad in civilian
attire. Their scarred and weather beaten features testified to many an
arduous campaign fought in imperial times; and indeed they had all
served Napoleon--this one as a lieutenant, that other as a captain--but
the Restoration had dismissed them with scanty pensions and given their
well-earned commissions to cadets of the old nobility. Their pale faces
and the sullen fire gleaming in their eyes showed plainly enough what
they thought of the Duke de Sairmeuse’s proceedings. In addition to
these retired officers there were three men dressed in professional
black who stood conversing in low tones near the chapel door; while in a
corner one could perceive several peasant women with their aprons thrown
over their faces; they were the mothers, wives, and daughters of some of
the imprisoned rebels. Save for their constant sobs the silence would
have been well-nigh undisturbed.

Nine o’clock had just struck when a rolling of drums shook the window
panes; a loud voice was heard outside exclaiming, “Present arms!” and
then the members of the commission entered, followed by the Marquis de
Courtornieu and various civil functionaries. The Duke de Sairmeuse was
in full uniform, his face rather more flushed, and his air a trifle more
haughty than usual. “The sitting is open!” he announced, and adding in a
rough voice, “Bring in the culprits.”

They came in, one by one, to the number of thirty, and sat themselves
down on the benches at the foot of the platform. Chanlouineau held his
head proudly erect, and looked about him with an air of great composure.
The Baron d’Escorval was calm and grave; but not more so than when, in
days gone by, he had been called upon to express his opinion in the
councils of the empire. Both of them perceived Maurice, who was so
overcome that he had to lean upon the abbe for support. But while the
baron greeted his son with a simple bend of the head, Chanlouineau made
a gesture that clearly signified: “Have confidence in me--fear nothing.”
The attitude of the other prisoners indicated surprise rather than fear.
Perhaps they were unconscious of the peril they had braved, and the
extent of the danger that now threatened them.

When the prisoners had taken their places, a colonel who filled the
office of commissary for the prosecution rose to his feet. His
presentation of the case was violent but brief. He narrated a few
leading facts, exalted the merits of the government of his majesty King
Louis XVIIIth, and concluded by demanding that sentence of death should
be pronounced upon the culprits. When he had ceased speaking, the duke
rudely bade the first prisoner on the nearest bench to stand up and give
his name, age, and profession.

“Eugene Michel Chanlouineau,” was the reply, “aged twenty nine, a farmer
by occupation.”

“An owner of national lands, probably?”

“The owner of lands which, having been paid for with good money and made
fertile by my own labour, are rightfully mine.”

The duke did not wish to waste time in useless discussion. “You took
part in this rebellion?” he asked; and receiving an affirmative reply,
pursued, “You are right in confessing, for witnesses will be introduced
who will prove this fact conclusively.”

Five grenadiers entered--the same that Chanlouineau held at bay while
Maurice, the abbe, and Marie-Anne were getting into the cabriolet near
the cross roads. They all of them declared upon oath that they
recognized the prisoner; and one of them even went so far as to say he
was a solid fellow of remarkable courage. During this evidence
Chanlouineau’s eyes betrayed an agony of anxiety. Would the soldiers
allude to the circumstance of the cabriolet and Marie-Anne’s escape?
Perhaps they might have done so had not the Duke de Sairmeuse abruptly
stated that as the prisoner confessed he had heard quite enough.

“What were your motives in fomenting this outbreak?” asked his grace,
turning to Chanlouineau.

“We hoped to free ourselves from a government brought back by foreign
bayonets; to free ourselves from the insolence of the nobility, and to
retain the lands that are justly ours.”

“Enough! You were one of the leaders of the revolt?”

“One of the leaders--yes.”

“Who were the others?”

A faint smile flitted over the young farmer’s lips as he replied: “The
others were M. Lacheneur, his son Jean, and the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”

The duke bounded from his carved arm-chair. “You wretch! you rascal! you
vile scoundrel!” he exclaimed, catching up a heavy inkstand that stood
on the table before him. Every one supposed that he was about to hurl
it at the prisoner’s head.

But Chanlouineau stood perfectly unmoved in the midst of the assembly,
which had been excited to the highest pitch by his startling
declaration. “You questioned me,” he resumed, “and I replied. You may
gag me if my answers don’t please you. If there were witnesses _for_ me
as there are against me, I could prove the truth of what I say. As it
is, all the prisoners here will tell you that I am speaking the truth.
Is it not so, you others?”

With the exception of the Baron d’Escorval, there was not one of the
other prisoners who was capable of understanding the real bearing of
these audacious allegations; nevertheless, they all nodded assent.

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse was so truly our leader,” exclaimed the daring
peasant, “that he was wounded by a sabre-thrust while fighting by my
side.”

The duke’s face was as purple as if he had been struck with apoplexy;
and his fury almost deprived him of the power of speech. “You lie,
scoundrel! you lie!” he gasped.

“Send for the marquis,” said Chanlouineau, quietly, “and see whether
he’s wounded or not.”

A refusal on the duke’s part was bound to arouse suspicion. But what
could he do? Martial had concealed his wound on the previous day, and it
was now impossible to confess that he had been wounded. Fortunately for
his grace, one of the commissioners relieved him of his embarrassment.
“I hope, sir,” he said, “that you will not give this arrogant rebel the
satisfaction he desires. The commission opposes his demand.”

“Very naturally,” retorted Chanlouineau. “To-morrow my head will be off,
and you think nothing will then remain to prove what I say. But,
fortunately, I have other proof--material and indestructible
proof--which it is beyond your power to destroy, and which will speak
when my body is six feet under ground.”

“What is this proof?” asked another commissioner, on whom the duke
looked askance.

The prisoner shook his head. “You shall have it,” he said, “when you
promise me my life in exchange for it. It is now in the hands of a
trusty person, who knows its value. It will go to the king if necessary.
We should like to understand the part which the Marquis de Sairmeuse
played in this affair--whether he was truly with us, or whether he was
only an instigating agent.”

A tribunal regardful of the simplest rules of justice, or even of its
own honour, would have instantly required the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s
attendance. But the military commission considered such a course quite
beneath its dignity. These men arrayed in glittering uniforms were not
judges charged with the vindication of the law; but simply agents
selected by the conquerors to strike the conquered in virtue of that
savage saying, “Woe to the vanquished!” The president, the noble Duke de
Sairmeuse, would not have consented to summon Martial on any
consideration. Nor did his associate judges wish him to do so. Had
Chanlouineau foreseen this result? Probably he had; and yet, why had he
ventured on so hazardous a course? The tribunal, after a short
deliberation, decided that it would not admit this “unjustifiable”
denunciation which, while exciting the whole audience, had quite
stupefied Maurice and the Abbe Midon.

The examination was continued, therefore, with increased bitterness.
“Instead of designating imaginary leaders,” resumed the duke, “you would
do well to name the real instigator of this revolt--not Lacheneur, but
an individual seated at the other end of the bench, the elder
D’Escorval--”

“Monsieur le Baron d’Escorval was entirely ignorant of the conspiracy, I
swear it by all that I hold most sacred--”

“Hold your tongue!” interrupted the emmissary for the prosecution.
“Instead of trying the patience of the commission with such ridiculous
stories, you should endeavour to merit its indulgence.”

Chanlouineau’s glance and gesture expressed such disdain that his
interrupter was abashed. “I wish for no indulgence,” said the young
farmer. “I have played my game and lost it; here is my head. But if you
are not wild beasts you will take pity on the poor wretches who surround
me. I see at least ten among them who were not our accomplices, and who
certainly did not take up arms. Even the others did not know what they
were doing.”

With these words he resumed his seat, proud, indifferent, and apparently
oblivious of the murmur which ran through the audience, the soldiers of
the guard, and even to the platform, at the sound of his ringing voice.
His appeal for clemency towards his fellow prisoners had reawakened the
grief of the poor peasant women, whose sobs and moans now filled the
hall. The retired officers had grown paler than before, and as they
nervously pulled at their long moustaches they murmured among
themselves, “That’s a man, and no mistake!” Just then, moreover, the
abbe leant towards Maurice and whispered in his ear: “Chanlouineau
evidently has some plan. He intends to save your father, though I don’t
at all understand how.”

The judges were conversing with considerable animation, although in an
undertone. A difficulty had presented itself. The prisoners, ignorant of
the charges which would be brought against them, and not expecting
instant trial, had not thought of procuring defenders. And this
circumstance, bitter mockery! caused great annoyance to this iniquitous
tribunal, despite the complacency with which it was prepared to trample
justice under foot. The commissioners had made up their minds, they had
already determined on their verdict, and yet they wished to hear a voice
raised in defence of those who were already doomed. It chanced that
three lawyers, retained by the friends of a few prisoners, were in the
hall. They were the three men whom Maurice had noticed conversing near
the door when he entered the chapel. The duke was informed of their
presence. He turned to them, and motioned them to approach; then,
pointing to Chanlouineau, asked, “Will you undertake this culprit’s
defence?”

For a moment the lawyers hesitated. They were disgusted with these
monstrous proceedings, and looked inquiringly at one another. “We are
all disposed to undertake the prisoner’s defence,” at last replied the
eldest of the three; “but we see him for the first time; we do not know
what defence he can present. He must ask for a delay; it is
indispensable, in order to confer with him.”

“The court can grant you no delay,” interrupted M. de Sairmeuse; “will
you undertake his defence, yes or no?”

The advocate hesitated, not that he was afraid, for he was a brave man:
but he was endeavouring to find some argument strong enough to turn
these mock judges from the course on which they seemed bent. “I will
speak on his behalf,” said the advocate, at last, “but not without
first protesting with all my strength against these unheard of modes of
trial.”

“Oh! spare us your homilies, and be brief.”

After Chanlouineau’s examination, it was difficult to improvise any plea
for him, and especially so on the spur of the moment. Still, in his
indignation, the courageous advocate managed to present a score of
arguments which would have made any other tribunal reflect. But all the
while he was speaking the Duke de Sairmeuse fidgeted in his arm-chair
with every sign of angry impatience. “Your speech was very long,” he
remarked, when the lawyer had finished, “terribly long. We shall never
get through with this business if each prisoner takes up as much time!”

He turned to his colleagues and proposed that they should unite all the
cases, in fact try all the culprits in a body, with the exception of the
elder d’Escorval. “This will shorten our task,” said he, “and there will
then be but two judgments to be pronounced. This will not, of course,
prevent each individual from defending himself.”

The lawyers protested against such a course; for a general judgment such
as the duke suggested would destroy all hope of saving any one of these
unfortunate men. “How can we defend them,” pleaded one advocate, “when
we know nothing of their precise situations; why, we do not even know
their names. We shall be obliged to designate them by the cut of their
coats or by the colour of their hair.”

They implored the tribunal to grant a week for preparation, four days,
even twenty-four hours; but all their efforts were futile, for the
president’s proposition was adopted by his colleagues. Consequently,
each prisoner was called to the table, according to the place which he
occupied on the different benches. Each man gave his name, age, dwelling
place, and profession, and received an order to return to his seat. Six
or seven of the prisoners were actually granted time to say that they
were absolutely ignorant of the conspiracy, and that they had been
arrested while conversing quietly on the public highway. They begged to
be allowed to furnish proof of the truth of their assertions, and they
invoked the testimony of the soldiers who had arrested them. M.
d’Escorval, whose case had been separated from the others, was not
summoned to the table. He would be examined last of all.

“Now the counsel for the defence will be heard,” said the duke; “but
make haste; lose no time for it is already twelve o’clock.”

Then began a shameful and revolting scene. The duke interrupted the
lawyers every other moment, bidding them be silent, questioning them, or
jeering at their arguments. “It seems incredible,” said he, “that any
one can think of defending such wretches!” Or again: “Silence! You
should blush with shame for having constituted yourself the defender of
such rascals!”

However, the advocates courageously persevered, even although they
realized the utter futility of their efforts. But what could they do
under such circumstances? The defence of these twenty-nine prisoners
lasted only one hour and a half.

Before the last word was fairly uttered, the Duke de Sairmeuse gave a
sigh of relief, and in a tone which betrayed his inward delight,
exclaimed: “Prisoner d’Escorval, stand up.”

Thus called upon, the baron rose to his feet, calm and dignified.
Terrible as his sufferings must have been, there was no trace of them on
his noble face. He had even repressed the smile of disdain which the
duke’s paltry spite in not giving him the title he had a right to almost
brought to his lips. But Chanlouineau sprang up at the same time,
trembling with indignation, and his face all aglow with anger.

“Remain seated,” ordered the duke, “or you shall be removed from the
court-room.”

Despite this order the young farmer declared that he would speak: that
he had some remarks to add to the plea made by the defending counsel. At
a sign from the duke, two gendarmes approached him and placed their
hands on his shoulders. He allowed them to force him back into his seat,
though he could easily have crushed them with one blow of his brawny
arm. An observer might have supposed that he was furious; but in reality
he was delighted. He had attained the end he had in view. Whilst
standing he had been able to glance at the Abbe Midon, and the latter
had plainly read in his eyes: “Whatever happens, watch over Maurice;
restrain him. Do not allow him to defeat my plans by any outburst.”

This caution was not unnecessary, for Maurice was terribly agitated;
his sight failed him, his head swam, he felt that he was suffocating,
that he was losing his reason. “Where is the self-control you promised
me?” murmured the priest.

But no one observed the young man’s condition. The attention of the
audience was elsewhere, and the silence was so perfect that one could
distinctly hear the measured tread of the sentinels pacing to and fro in
the courtyard outside. It was plain to every one that the decisive
moment for which the tribunal had reserved all its attention and efforts
had now arrived. The conviction and condemnation of the poor peasants
were, after all, mere trifles; otherwise, indeed, was the task of
humbling a prominent statesman, who had been the emperor’s faithful
friend and counsellor. Seldom could circumstances offer so splendid an
opportunity to satisfy the cravings of royalist prejudice and ambition;
and the Duke de Sairmeuse and his colleagues had fully determined not to
allow it to slip by. If they had acted informally in the case of the
obscure conspirators, they had carefully prepared their suit against the
baron. Thanks to the activity of the Marquis de Courtornieu, the
prosecution had found no fewer than seven charges against him, the least
notable of which was alone punishable with death. “Which of you,” asked
the president, turning to the lawyers, “will consent to defend this
great culprit?”

“I!” exclaimed the three advocates all in one breath.

“Take care,” said the duke, with a malicious smile; “the task may prove
a difficult one.”

“Difficult, indeed!” It would have been better to have said dangerous,
for the defender risked his career, his peace, his liberty, and very
probably--his life.

“Our profession has its exigencies,” nobly replied the oldest of the
advocates. And then the two courageously took their places beside the
baron, thus avenging the honour of their robe.

“Prisoner,” resumed M. de Sairmeuse, “state your name and profession.”

“Louis Guillaume, Baron d’Escorval, Commander of the order of the Legion
of Honour, formerly Councillor of State under the Empire.”

“So you avow these shameful services? You confess----”

“Excuse me; I am proud of having had the honour of serving my country,
and of being useful to her in proportion to my abilities----”

“Ah ha! very good indeed!” interrupted the duke with a furious gesture.
“These gentlemen, my fellow commissioners, will appreciate those words
of yours. No doubt it was in the hope of regaining your former position
that you entered into this shameful conspiracy against a magnanimous
prince.”

“You know as well as I do myself, sir, that I have had no hand in this
conspiracy.”

“Why, you were arrested in the ranks of the conspirators with weapons in
your hands!”

“I was unarmed, as you are well aware; and if I was among the peasantry,
it was only because I hoped to induce them to relinquish their senseless
enterprise.”

“You lie!”

The baron paled beneath the insult, but he made no response. There was,
however, one man in the assemblage who could no longer endure such
abominable injustice, and this was the Abbe Midon, who, only a moment
before, had advised Maurice to remain calm. Abruptly leaving his place,
he advanced to the foot of the platform.

“The Baron d’Escorval speaks the truth,” he cried, in a ringing voice:
“as each of the three hundred prisoners in the citadel will swear. Those
who are here would say the same, even if they stood upon the guillotine;
and I, who accompanied him, who walked beside him, I, a priest, swear
before the God who one day will judge us all, Monsieur de Sairmeuse, I
swear we did everything that was humanly possible to do to arrest this
movement!”

The duke listened with an ironical smile. “I was not deceived, then,” he
answered, “when I was told that this army of rebels had a chaplain! Ah!
sir, you should sink to the earth with shame. What! You, a priest,
mingle with such scoundrels as these--with these enemies of our good
king and of our holy religion! Do not deny it! Your haggard features,
your swollen eyes, your disordered attire, plainly betray your guilt.
Must I, a soldier, remind you of what is due to your sacred calling?
Hold your peace, sir, and depart!”

But the prisoner’s advocates were on their feet. “We demand,” cried
they, “we demand that this witness be heard. He must be heard! Military
commissions are not above the laws that regulate ordinary tribunals.”

“If I do not speak the truth,” resumed the abbe, “I am a perjured
witness--worse yet, an accomplice. It is your duty, in that case, to
have me arrested.”

The duke’s face assumed a look of hypocritical compassion. “No, Monsieur
le Cure,” said he, “I shall not arrest you. I wish to avert the scandal
which you are trying to cause. We will show your priestly garb the
respect the wearer does not deserve. Again, and for the last time,
retire, or I shall be obliged to employ force.”

What would further resistance avail? Nothing. The abbe, with a face
whiter than the plastered walls, and eyes filled with tears, returned to
his place beside Maurice.

In the meanwhile, the advocates were protesting with increasing energy.
But the duke, hammering on the table with both fists, at last succeeded
in reducing them to silence. “Ah! you want evidence!” he exclaimed.
“Very well then, you shall have it. Soldiers, bring in the first
witness.”

There was some little movement among the guards, and then Father Chupin
made his appearance. He advanced with a deliberate step, but his
restless, shrinking eyes showed plainly enough that he was ill at ease.
And there was a very perceptible tremor in his voice when, with hand
uplifted, he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but
the truth.

“What do you know concerning the prisoner d’Escorval?” asked the duke.

“I know that he took part in the rising the other night.”

“Are you sure of this?”

“I can furnish proofs.”

“Submit them to the consideration of the commission.”

The old scoundrel began to grow more confident. “First of all,” he
replied, “directly Lacheneur had given up your grace’s family estates,
much against his will, he hastened to M. d’Escorval’s house, where he
met Chanlouineau. It was then that they plotted this insurrection
between them.”

“I was Lacheneur’s friend,” observed the baron, “and it was perfectly
natural that he should come to me for consolation after a great
misfortune.”

M. de Sairmeuse turned to his colleagues. “Do you hear that!” said he.
“This D’Escorval calls the restitution of a deposit a great misfortune!
Proceed, witness.”

“In the second place,” resumed Chupin, “M. d’Escorval was always
prowling round about Lacheneur’s house.”

“That’s false,” interrupted the baron. “I never visited the house but
once, and on that occasion I implored him to renounce--” He paused,
understanding only when it was too late the terrible significance of
these few words. However, having begun, he would not retract, but calmly
added: “I implored him to renounce all idea of provoking an
insurrection.”

“Ah! then you knew of his infamous intentions?”

“I suspected them.”

“At all events you must be perfectly well aware that the fact of not
revealing this conspiracy made you an accomplice, which implies the
guillotine.”

The Baron d’Escorval had just signed his death-warrant. How strange is
destiny! He was innocent, and yet he was the only one among all the
prisoners, whom a regular tribunal could have legally condemned. Maurice
and the abbe were overcome with grief; but Chanlouineau, who turned
towards them, had still the same smile of confidence on his lips. How
could he hope when all hope seemed absolutely lost?

The commissioners made no attempt to conceal their satisfaction, and M.
de Sairmeuse, especially, evinced an indecent joy. “Ah, well! gentlemen,
what do you say to that?” he remarked to the lawyers, in a sneering
tone.

The counsel for the defence were unable to conceal their discouragement;
though they still endeavoured to question the validity of their client’s
declaration. He had said that he _suspected_ the conspiracy, not that he
_knew_ of it, which was a very different thing.

“Say at once that you wish for still more overwhelming testimony,”
interrupted the duke. “Very well! You shall have it. Continue your
evidence, witness.”

“The prisoner,” continued Chupin, “was present at all the conferences
held at Lacheneur’s house; and having to cross the Oiselle each time,
and fearing lest the ferryman might speak about his frequent nocturnal
journeys, he had an old boat repaired, which he had not used for years.”

“Ah! that’s a remarkable circumstance, prisoner; do you recollect having
your boat repaired?”

“Yes; but not for the purpose this man mentions.”

“For what purpose, then?”

The baron made no reply. Was it not in compliance with Maurice’s
request, that this boat had been put in order?

“And finally,” continued Chupin, “when Lacheneur set fire to his house
as a signal for the insurrection, the prisoner was with him.”

“That,” exclaimed the duke, “is conclusive evidence.”

“Yes, I was at La Reche,” interrupted the baron; “but as I have already
told you, it was with the firm determination of preventing this
outbreak.”

M. de Sairmeuse laughed disdainfully. “Ah, gentlemen!” he said,
addressing his fellow commissioners, “you see that the prisoner’s
courage does not equal his depravity. But I will confound him. What did
you do, prisoner, when the insurgents left La Reche?”

“I returned home with all possible speed, took a horse and hastened to
the Croix-d’Arcy.”

“Then you knew that this was to be the general meeting place?”

“Lacheneur had just informed me of it.”

“Even if I believed your story,” retorted the duke, “I should have to
remind you, that your duty was to have hastened to Montaignac and
informed the authorities. But what you say is untrue. You did not leave
Lacheneur, you accompanied him.”

“No, sir, no!”

“And what if I could prove that you did so, beyond all question?”

“Impossible, since such was not the case.”

By the malicious satisfaction that sparkled in M. de Sairmeuse’s eyes,
the Abbe Midon divined that he had some terrible weapon in reserve, and
that he was about to overwhelm the Baron d’Escorval with false evidence,
or fatal coincidence, which would place Maurice’s father beyond all
possibility of being saved. At a sign from the commissary for the
prosecution the Marquis de Courtornieu now left his seat and advanced to
the front of the platform. “I must request you, Monsieur le Marquis,”
said the duke, “to be kind enough to read us the statement your daughter
has prepared and signed.”

This scene had evidently been prepared beforehand. M. de Courtornieu
cleared his glasses, produced a paper which he slowly unfolded, and then
amid a death-like silence, emphatically read as follows: “I, Blanche de
Courtornieu, do declare upon oath that, on the evening of the fourth of
March, between ten and eleven o’clock on the public road leading from
Sairmeuse to Montaignac, I was assailed by a band of armed brigands.
While they were deliberating as to whether they should take possession
of my person and pillage my carriage, I overheard one of them say to
another, speaking of me: ‘She must get out, must she not, M.
d’Escorval?’ I believe that the brigand who uttered these words was a
peasant named Chanlouineau, but I can not assert this, on oath.”

At this moment a loud cry of anguish abruptly interrupted the marquis’s
perusal. The trial was too great for Maurice’s reason, and if the Abbe
Midon had not restrained him, he would have sprung forward, and
exclaimed: “It was to me, not to my father that Chanlouineau addressed
those words. I alone am guilty; my father is innocent!” But fortunately
the abbe had sufficient presence of mind to hold the young fellow back,
and place his hand before his mouth. One or two of the retired officers
standing near, also tendered their help, and probably divining the
truth, seized hold of Maurice, and despite all his attempts at
resistance carried him from the room by main force. The whole incident
scarcely occupied ten seconds.

“What is the cause of this disturbance!” asked the duke, looking angrily
at the spectators, none of whom uttered a word. “At the least noise the
hall shall be cleared,” added his grace. “And you, prisoner, what have
you to say in self-justification, after Mademoiselle de Courtornieu’s
crushing evidence?”

“Nothing,” murmured the baron.

But to return to Maurice. Once outside the court-room, the Abbe Midon
confided him to the care of three officers, who promised to go with him,
to carry him by main force, if need be, to the Hotel de France, and keep
him there. Relieved on this score, the priest re-entered the hall just
in time to see the baron re-seat himself without replying to M. de
Sairmeuse’s final sneer, that by bearing Mademoiselle Blanche’s
testimony unchallenged M. d’Escorval had virtually confessed his guilt.
But then in truth, how could he have challenged it? How could he defend
himself without betraying his son? Until this moment every one present
had believed in the baron’s innocence. Could it be that he was guilty?
His silence seemed to imply that such was the case; and this alone was a
sufficient triumph for the Duke de Sairmeuse and his friends. His grace
now turned to the lawyers, and with an air of weariness and disdain,
remarked. “At present you may speak, since it is absolutely necessary;
but no long phrases, mind! we ought to have finished here an hour ago.”

The eldest of the three advocates rose, trembling with indignation, and
prepared to dare anything for the sake of giving free utterance to his
thoughts, but before a word was spoken the baron hastily checked him.
“Do not try to defend me,” he said calmly; “it would be labour wasted. I
have only one word to say to my judges. Let them remember what noble
Marshal Moncey wrote to the king: ‘The scaffold does not make friends.’”

But this reminder was not of a nature to soften the judges’ hearts. For
that very phrase the marshal had been deprived of his office, and
condemned to three months’ imprisonment. As the advocates made no
further attempt to argue the case, the commission retired to deliberate.
This gave M. d’Escorval an opportunity to speak with his defenders. He
shook them warmly by the hand, and thanked them for their courage and
devotion. Then drawing the eldest among them on one side, he quickly
added, in a low voice: “I have a last favour to ask of you. When
sentence of death has been pronounced upon me, go at once to my son. Say
to him that his dying father commands him to live--he will understand
you. Tell him that it is my last wish; that he live--live for his
mother!”

He said no more; the judges were returning. Of the thirty prisoners,
nine were declared not guilty, and released. The remaining twenty-one
including both M. d’Escorval and Chanlouineau were then formally
condemned to death. But Chanlouineau’s lips still retained their
enigmatical smile.




XVIII.


The three military men to whose care the Abbe Midon had entrusted
Maurice had considerable difficulty in getting him to the Hotel de
France, for he made continual attempts to return to the court-room,
having the fallacious idea that by telling the truth he might yet save
his father. In point of fact, however, the only effect of his confession
would have been to provide the Duke de Sairmeuse with another welcome
victim. When he and his custodians at length entered the room where
Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne were waiting in cruel suspense, the
baroness eagerly asked whether the trial was over.

“Nothing is decided yet,” replied one of the retired officers. “The cure
will come here as soon as the verdict is given.”

Then as the three military men had promised not to lose sight of
Maurice, they sat themselves down in gloomy silence. Not the slightest
stir could be heard in the hotel, which seemed indeed as if it were
deserted. At last, a little before four o’clock, the abbe came in,
followed by the lawyer, to whom the baron had confided his last wishes.

“My husband!” exclaimed Madame d’Escorval, springing wildly from her
chair. The priest bowed his head. “Death!” she faltered, fully
understanding the significance of this impressive gesture. “What? they
have condemned him!” And overcome with the terrible blow, she sank back,
with hanging arms. But this weakness did not last long. “We must save
him!” she exclaimed, abruptly springing to her feet again, her eyes
bright with some sudden resolution, “we must wrest him from the
scaffold. Up, Maurice! up, Marie-Anne! No more lamentations. To wor

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