Certainly, she was not in doubt, but she wanted to see with her own eyes. She was one of those souls who enjoy a bitter and frightful pleasure in delving to the bottom of their misfortune. So, as soon as she had left her father, she forced Aunt Médie to dress hurriedly and, without a word of explanation, she led her to La Rèche, to a place where she could spy on the Lacheneur house. This was the day when Monsieur d’Escorval had come to ask his former friend for an explanation. She had seen him arrive, then, a little later, Martial had followed. The gossips had been right. She could leave now. But no, she condemned herself to count the seconds that Martial spent near Marie-Anne. Monsieur d’Escorval did not stay long. Then, she saw Martial hurry after him and speak to him. She breathed again. His visit had not lasted a half hour, and doubtless, he was going away. Not at all. After having said good-bye to the Baron, Martial went back up the hill and into the Lacheneur house again.

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

“Let me alone,” Blanche answered harshly. “Be quiet!”

Then she heard something like the sound of wheels, horses hooves, some whip lashes, and swearing.

The carts Martial had mentioned, carrying the household items and effects of Monsieur Lacheneur, were arriving. Martial heard this noise too, and came out, followed by Lacheneur, his son, Chanlouineau, and finally, Marie-Anne. Everyone got busy taking things off the carts, and, judging from the actions of the Marquis de Sairmeuse, one would positively have sworn that he was in charge of the work. He came and went, hurrying to speak to everybody, and even from time to time, being willing to give a hand.

“He’s at home in that house,” Blanche said. “How horrible! A gentleman! Ah! That dangerous creature will make him do whatever she wants…”

That wasn’t all. A third cart appeared, drawn by a single horse, filled with pots of flowers and bushes. That sight drew a cry of rage from Blanche, which struck fear in Aunt Médie’s heart.

“Flowers!” she said in a low voice. “Just like he brings me! Except, he only sent me a bouquet and for her, he strips all the flower beds of Sairmeuse.”

“What flowers are you talking about?” interrupted the poor relative.

Blanche wanted to answer but could not. She was choking on her bile. Nevertheless, she forced herself to remain there three long hours, the whole time it took to take everything in. The carts had already been gone for a while when Martial appeared on the threshold. Marie-Anne accompanied him and they were chatting. He seemed reluctant to leave. He finally decided to go and walked away slowly, as if regretfully. Marie-Anne, still standing at the door, threw him a friendly wave.

“I want to talk to that creature!” cried out Blanche. “Come, Aunt Médie. I must talk to her.”

There is no doubt that if Marie-Anne had been at that moment within voice range, Mademoiselle de Courtomieu would have blurted out the tale of her sufferings. But from the woods where Blanche had been hiding to the Lacheneur house was a good 100 meters over rocky, hard to climb terrain, covered with briars and grouse bushes. It took Blanche a minute to cross that distance, and that minute was enough to change her mind. She had not crossed a quarter of the way when she already bitterly regretted having climbed up. But there was no going back. Marie-Anne, standing on the threshold, must have seen her. She could only take advantage of the rest of the climb to compose her face. She did so. When she got to Marie-Anne, she had her best, sweetest smile on her lips. However, she was embarrassed. She did not know what pretext she could invent to justify her visit, and to gain time, she pretended to be out of breath, almost as much as Aunt Médie.

“Ah! It isn’t easy to get to your house, dear Marie-Anne,” she finally said. “You live on a mountain.”

Mademoiselle Lacheneur did not say anything. She was extremely surprised and did not know how to hide the fact.

“Aunt Médie claimed she knew the way,” continued Blanche, “but she got me lost, didn’t you, Aunt Médie?”

As usual, the poor relative agreed, and her niece continued.

“But, finally, we’re here. I couldn’t resign myself, my dear, not to have news of you, especially after your misfortune. What have you been doing? Did my recommendation get you the work you were hoping for?”

Since she did not suspect anything, Marie-Anne was easily taken in by her former friend’s touching tone of interest. It was, therefore, with the utmost frankness, without making a show of sadness or false shame, that she admitted the futility of almost all of her contacts. It even seemed to her that several women took pleasure in receiving her ungraciously.

But Blanche was not really listening. The cases of flowers brought from Sairmeuse were within two steps of her and their perfume reignited her anger.

“At least,” she interrupted, “you have something here that will make you forget the gardens of Sairmeuse. Who was it who sent you these beautiful flowers?”

Marie-Anne turned red, stayed silent a moment, and finally answered, or rather blurted out:

“It’s… a gift from Monsieur le Marquis.”

“So, she admits it!” Blanche thought, stunned by what she considered remarkable impudence. But she managed to hide her rage under a burst of laughter, and it was in a joking tone that she replied:

“Take care, my dear friend, I might become angry with you. You’ve accepted these flowers from my fiancé.”

“What, the Marquis de Sairmeuse…”

“Asked for my hand, yes, my dear sweet thing, and my father gave it to him. It’s still a secret, but I don’t see any problems in entrusting it to your friendship.”

She thought that, in this way, she would strike at Marie-Anne’s heart, but she did not see the slightest change of expression on her face.

“What heroic concealment!” she thought.

Then, aloud, with an effort to appear joyous, she added:

“And the county will see two marriages at the same time, because you’re going to be married too, aren’t you, my dear?”

“Me!”

“Yes, you, secretive little thing! Everybody says that you’ll be marrying a young farmer whose name is…. wait… I know… Chanlouineau!”

So the gossip that distressed Marie-Anne was coming back to haunt her from all directions, ironic, persisting.

“Everybody is wrong,” she said a little too forcefully. “I’ll never be that man’s wife.”

“Really! Why not? They say he’s rather nice-looking and rich too.”

“Because,” stammered Marie-Anne. “Because…”

Maurice d’Escorval’s name almost came to her lips. Unfortunately, she did not say it, stopped by a strange look from her former friend. How many destinies have depended on such a trifling circumstance!

“What a hussy!” thought Blanche. “The impudent girl! She wants the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”

And while Marie-Anne was embarrassed, trying to find a plausible excuse, Blanche began again, in a cold and mocking tone which finally exposed all her resentment:

“You are wrong, my dear, believe me, to refuse this offer. This Chanlouineau would keep you from the painful obligation of working with your hands and going from door to door, looking for work that no one will give you. But that doesn’t matter, I will be more generous than your former acquaintances. I have some petticoat straps that need to be embroidered. I will have my maid bring them to you; you can settle the price with her. Let’s go. Good-bye, my dear. Are you coming, Aunt Médie?”

She left, laughing insultingly, leaving Marie-Anne petrified with surprise, sadness, and indignation. Without being as sophisticated as Blanche, she clearly understood that Mademoiselle de Courtomieu’s visit hid some mystery, but what was it? She was still standing immobile in the same spot a minute, when a hand rested lightly on her arm. She shuddered, turned around and found herself facing her father. Lacheneur was whiter than his shirt and his eyes burned with a sinister glow.

“I was there,” he said, motioning to the door. “I heard everything.”

“Father…”

“Are you, by any chance, thinking of defending her, after she had the infamy to come to your house, to crush you with her insolent happiness, after she heaped her pity and disdain on you! See! I told you, they’re all alike, these girls whose heads are turned by vanity and who think they have different blood in their veins. But be patient! The day of our revenge will come…”

There was so much rage in his voice that those he was threatening would have trembled if they had heard and seen him at this moment, so formidable did he appear.

“And you,” he continued, “my beloved daughter, my poor Marie-Anne, you didn’t understand anything of that noble heiress’s outrages. You were wondering, weren’t you, in your innocence, what reasons she had to be angry with you? Well, I’m going to tell you. She thinks the Marquis de Sairmeuse is your lover.”

Marie-Anne reeled and a nervous spasm shook her entire body.

“Is that possible?” she stammered. “Grand Dieu! What shame! What humiliation!”

“What’s there in that to astonish you?” Lacheneur continued. “Didn’t you expect such a thing when, as a devoted daughter, you resigned yourself to serve my plans, to submit to the insipid and nauseating attentions of this young Marquis whom you abhor and I despise?”

“But Maurice will hate me! I can accept everything, yes, everything, but not that.”

Lacheneur did not answer. Marie-Anne’s despair was heart-rending. He felt himself relenting and so, he left. But his analysis had been correct. While waiting to find some revenge worthy of herself, Blanche determined to use a weapon that jealousy and hate always love: slander. Still, the two or three abominable tales which she thought up, and which she forced Aunt Médie to spread everywhere, did not produce the effect she had hoped. Marie-Anne’s reputation was ruined, but Martial, far from stopping his visits to the Lacheneur house, made them longer and more frequent. But fearing to be made a fool, he started keeping watch. And that was why, one evening, when he was sure that Lacheneur, his son, and Chanlouineau were out, Martial saw a man who came out of the house and went running across La Rèche. He started in pursuit of that man, but lost him. However, he thought he had recognized Maurice d’Escorval. 

 

 

XVIII

 

 

After receiving his son’s confidences, Monsieur d’Escorval had the prudence to remain silent about the favorable chances that he could foresee.

“My poor Maurice,” he thought, “is miserable but resigned. It would be better to leave him with the certainty of unhappiness than expose him to more disappointments.”

But passion sometimes has second sight. Maurice guessed what the Baron was keeping to himself. He held on to this puny hope with the bitter tenacity of a drowning man who, as he goes under the waves, still grasps between his clenched hands the plank which cannot save him. If he did not ask any questions, it was because he was completely persuaded that his father would not tell him the truth. But, from that moment on, he watched very carefully everything that went on in the house, helped by that enormous subtlety of the senses which fever gives. He was in his bed, apparently drowsy, but not one of the Baron’s movements escaped him. Thus, he heard him put on his boots, ask for his hat, and take out a cane among those in the vestibule. He could distinguish the creaking of the iron work of the outside gate.

“My father’s going out,” he said.

And despite of his extreme weakness, he managed to drag himself to the window in time to see that he was right.

“If my father’s going out,” he continued to think, “it can only be to go see Monsieur Lacheneur. Then he hasn’t totally given up hope.”

He let himself fall into an armchair near him, thinking that if he kept watch at the window for his father’s return, he would know his fate a few seconds sooner. He found it out at the end of three deadly hours. Just seeing Monsieur d’Escorval’s face, he understood that, this time, all was lost for good. He was as sure of it as the accused man who reads on the gloomy face of the jury members the death sentence they are going to pronounce.

It took all his energy to get back to his bed; he thought he was going to die. But soon, he was ashamed of that weakness which he thought unworthy. He wanted to know what happened, to ask for details. He rang and told the servant he wanted to talk to his father. Monsieur d’Escorval came quickly.

“So?” Maurice cried out.

Just at the intonation of the question, Monsieur d’Escorval knew that he had been found out. Since that was true, why deny it?

“Lacheneur was deaf to my remonstrance and my prayers,” he answered in a grave tone. “There is nothing more to do but submit, my son, without thinking of the past. I’m not going to tell you that time will blot out the memory of a sadness which, to you, at this moment, must seem eternal. You wouldn’t believe me. It’s better to tell you: ‘You’re a man. Show it by your courage.’ I will also advise you to stop thinking about Marie-Anne, just as the traveler standing at the edge of a precipice mustn’t think about vertigo.”

“You saw Marie-Anne, father; you talked to her?”

“I found her more inflexible than Lacheneur.”

“Both inflexible! They won’t see me and yet, they see Chanlouineau.”

“Chanlouineau has become their lodger.”

“Mon Dieu! And what about Martial de Sairmeuse?”

“He comes there informally; I saw him there.”

Each of his answers fell like a death blow on Maurice’s forehead; that was only too obvious. But Monsieur d’Escorval had armed himself with the impassive courage of the surgeon who, undertaking a perilous operation, does not put down his scalpel just because the patient is screaming and writhing under the steel. Monsieur d’Escorval wanted to extinguish the last glimmer of hope in his son’s heart.

“It’s over,” repeated Maurice, “Monsieur Lacheneur has lost his senses.”

Monsieur d’Escorval shook his head with a discouraged air.

“That’s what I at first thought too,” he murmured.

“But what did he say to justify his conduct. Did he say anything?”

“Nothing. He evaded any explanation.”

“And you, father, you know a lot about men. With all your experience, weren’t you able to get some insight into his plans?”

From the time that Martial de Sairmeuse had left him in the middle of the woods to the present moment, Monsieur d’Escorval had had time to reflect.

“I have some suspicions,” he said, “but only suspicions. It could be that Lacheneur, giving in to his hate, is dreaming of some terrible vengeance. Who knows what plot he’s concocted? But that would explain everything. Chanlouineau is his partner and he’s keeping the Marquis de Sairmeuse around to get useful information from him.”

Blood returned to Maurice’s pale checks.

“A plot,” he said, “doesn’t explain why Lacheneur turned me down.”

“Yes, it does, my poor child. It’s through Marie-Anne that he holds on to Chanlouineau and the Marquis de Sairmeuse. If she becomes your wife, he would lose them. Also, because he loves you, he wouldn’t want you to get mixed up in a situation which might turn dangerous. But these are only guesses.”

“I see,” stammered Maurice. “I now recognize that I’ll have to give up, resign myself, forget, if that’s possible.”

He was saying that because he wanted to reassure his father, but he was thinking the exact opposite. An idea had just hatched in his brain, vague still, undetermined, obscure even, but which he thought might be his salvation. And, in fact, as soon as he was alone, it took shape, grew, and became more precise.

“If Lacheneur is organizing some kind of plot,” he told himself, “he needs accomplices. He must even be looking for them. Why don’t I go offer to help him? From the day that I’m part of his plans, when I share his dangers and his hopes, it would be impossible for him to refuse to give me his daughter. Whatever he intends to undertake, I’m worth more than Chanlouineau.”

 From that point to resolving to offer his services to Lacheneur, there was only a step. Maurice took it, and from that moment, he thought only of doing everything he could to hasten his convalescence. Hope has marvelous healing powers. His recovery was so quick that it astonished Father Midon, who had replaced the doctor from Montaignac.

“I would never have thought that Maurice could console himself this way,” said Madame d’Escorval, happy to see her son’s renewed interest in life. But the Baron did not answer. He thought that this almost miraculous return to health was suspicious. He was filled with doubt. Worried, he questioned his son, but, no matter however cleverly he tried, he could get nothing out of him. Maurice, that just the temptation to lie made blush right up to his ears before, now used the imperturbable dissimulation of an old diplomat. He had decided that he would not say anything to his parents. What was the use upsetting them? He also dreaded their protests, knowing very well that, rather than submitting to any obstacles, he would leave his father’s house. So, toward the second week in September, Father Midon declared that Maurice could return to his normal life if the beautiful weather continued and even strenuous exercises would do him good. Maurice would gladly have kissed the worthy priest.

“How wonderful!” he cried out. “I can go hunting!”

He had been only moderately interested in hunting up to that time, but he judged it useful to claim that passion which could furnish him constant excuses for absence. He had never felt so happy as that morning when, around 7 a.m., his gun on his shoulder, he crossed the Oiselle to reach Lacheneur’s house. Having thought about his father’s suppositions, he took them for certainties, and he had no doubts about what he was doing. However, reaching the La Rèche woods, he stopped for a moment at the spot from which he could see Lacheneur’s house. He did well to do so, because he saw Jean Lacheneur and Chanlouineau come out, one after the other. Both carried a peddler’s knapsack. Now, he was sure that Lacheneur and his daughter were alone. He ran to the house. Without waiting to knock, he went in. In the first room, Marie-Anne and her father were bent over the fireplace where a big fire was blazing. At the sound of the door opening, they turned around. Seeing Maurice they straightened up, each as red and as startled as the other.

“What are you doing here?” they both cried out at once.

In any other circumstances, Maurice would have been overwhelmed by such an openly hostile reception. But at this moment, not only was he not bothered, he hardly noticed it.

“It’s too much stubbornness to return here against my wishes and after what I said to you, Monsieur d’Escorval,” Lacheneur said in a rude voice.

Maurice smiled. He had all his cool-headedness, and even something more, the clarity of great crises. With just one look, he had noticed all the details of the room, and if he had any doubts, they had vanished. He saw in the fire a huge bowl of molten lead and two molds to make bullets near the andirons.

“If I dare to come to your house, Monsieur,” he pronounced in a firm and serious tone, “it’s because I know everything. I’ve found out about your plans for revenge. You’re looking for men to help you, aren’t you? Well! Look me in the face, in my eyes, and tell me that I’m not one of those that a leader would count himself lucky to enroll.”

It was Lacheneur who did not know what to say.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered, forgetting his fake anger. “I don’t have any plans…”

“Would you swear to it? Then why these bullets you’re busy making? Clumsy conspirators! You should at least lock your door. Someone other than me might have entered,” he said.

Adding example to the precept, he turned around and locked the latch.

“This was only an oversight,” he said, “but to dismiss the soldier who comes to you freely would be a mistake that your other accomplices would have the right to hold you accountable for. I don’t claim, understand me, to force your confidence. No, I give myself to you, body and soul, with my eyes closed. Whatever your cause, I declare it to be mine. What you want, I want; I adopt your plans. Your enemies are my enemies. Command, and I will obey. I ask only one favor, to fight, to triumph, or to be killed at your side.”

“Oh! Refuse, father!” Marie-Anne cried out. “To accept would be a crime you can’t commit!”

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

“Because, unhappy man, our cause is not yours, because the end is uncertain, the success improbable… Because there’s danger everywhere, on every side!”

A disdainful and ironic exclamation from Maurice interrupted her.

“And you’re the one,” he said, “who thinks you can stop me by telling me of the dangers that you face…”

“Maurice…”

“So, then, if I were facing some peril, imminent, immense, instead of helping me, you would abandon me? You would go hide yourself, like a coward, saying: ‘Let him perish, as long as I’m safe!’ Is that really what you would do?”

She turned her head and did not answer. She did not have the strength to lie, and she did not want to say, “I’d do just the same.”

Now she left the decision to her father.

“If I gave in to your prayers, Maurice,” Lacheneur said, “before three days, you’d curse me and betray us by some outburst. You love Marie-Anne. Would you be able to look on her terrible position with an impassive eye? Think of the fact that she mustn’t discourage either Chanlouineau or the Marquis de Sairmeuse. You’re staring at me. Oh! I know as well as you do that it’s an unworthy role that I’m forcing her to play, an odious role where she’ll give up what a young girl has the most precious in the world—her reputation.”

Maurice did not blink an eye.

“So be it!” he pronounced coldly. “Marie-Anne’s fate will be that of all women who devote themselves to the passions of the man whom they love—father, brother, or lover. She may be wounded, outraged and reviled. What does it matter! She can go on with her task; I’ll suffer, but I’ll never doubt her, and I’ll be silent. If we triumph, she’ll become my wife; if we are defeated…”

A gesture completed his thought, telling more strongly than all his claims, that he was resigned, prepared for anything. Lacheneur was visibly shaken.

“At least, give me time to think about it,” he said.

“There is nothing more to think about, Monsieur.”

“But you’re a child, Maurice; your father is my friend.”

“What does that matter?”

“Foolish boy! You don’t understand what you’re getting into. You’re fatally drawing in the Baron d’Escorval. You think you’re risking just your head, but you’re risking your father’s life as well.”

Maurice violently interrupted him.

“Enough hesitation!” he cried out. “Enough protests. Answer me in one word. Only understand this, if you send me away, I will return to my father’s house and, with this gun I’m carrying, I’ll blow my brains out.”

That was not an idle threat. You could understand by his tone that he would do what he said. It was so clear that Marie-Anne, leaning toward her father, her hands joined, looked at him begging.

“All right, then, be one of us,” Lacheneur said harshly. “But never forget the threat which forced my consent. Whatever happens to you or yours, please remember that you willed it.”

But these sinister words could not touch Maurice; he was delirious; he was drunk with joy.

“Now,” continued Lacheneur. “The only thing left for me to do is to tell you what I hope for and to tell you the cause…”

“What difference is that to me?” Maurice said carelessly.

He went to Marie-Anne, took her hand, which he carried to his lips, and laughing the happy laugh of youth, he cried out:

“My cause… There she is!”

Lacheneur turned around. Maybe he was thinking that just a change of mind, a sacrifice of his pride, would be enough to secure the happiness of these two poor children. But if the thought of going back crossed his mind, he pushed it away. It was with the most somber attitude that he began again.

“We still need to draw up our agreement, Monsieur d’Escorval.”

“State your conditions, Monsieur.”

“First of all, your visits here, after certain reports I spread about, will raise suspicions. You won’t come to see us except at night, at hours agreed on, never unexpectedly.”

Maurice’s attitude confirmed his agreement.

“Next, how will you get across the Oiselle without taking the barge, which is a dangerous tell-tale?”

“We have an old canoe; I’ll ask my father to have it repaired.”

“Good. Will you also promise me to avoid the Marquise de Sairmeuse?”

“I’ll flee from him.”

“Wait. We have to anticipate everything. It may happen by chance, despite our precautions, that you’ll meet Monsieur de Sairmeuse here, who is arrogance itself. He detests you. You hate him and you’re violent. Swear to me that if he challenges you, you’ll not answer his provocations.”

“But I would seem a coward, Monsieur!”

“Probably. Do you swear?”

Maurice hesitated. A look from Marie-Anne decided him.

“I do swear!” he answered.

“As for Chanlouineau, it would be good not to let him know too much about our agreement… That’s my business.”

Lacheneur stopped, thinking, searching his memory to see if he had forgotten anything.

“I’ve only one more thing to tell you, Maurice, a last and very important recommendation. You know my son?”

“Of course! We were playmates when he came on vacation…”

“Well! When you’ve learned all I have to tell you, because I’ll tell you everything, beware of Jean.”

“Oh! Monsieur…”

“Stay on your guard… I’m telling you…”

The unhappy man turned exceedingly red, and added:

“This is a painful admission for a father to make, but I have no confidence in my son. He knows nothing about my plans, except what I told him the day he arrived. Now, I deceive him as if he would betray us. Maybe it would be better to send him away. But what would people think? They would probably say that I am sparing the blood of my own children, while risking the life of so many other brave people. But, I could be wrong…” He sighed and then concluded: “Take your precautions.”

 

 

XIX

 

 

So it was really Maurice d’Escorval whom the Marquis de Sairmeuse had unexpectedly seen leaving Lacheneur’s house. Martial was not entirely certain; it was possible that he had been deceived by the darkness. But the doubt was enough to fill his heart with anger.

“What kind of person am I!” he cried out. “What a fool I am!”

The blindfold tied over the eyes by passion was so thick that it could see nothing of the most obvious circumstances. He took Lacheneur’s friendship as sincere. He believed Jean’s studied respect. Chanlouineau’s almost servile eagerness did not astonish him. And, last of all, because Marie-Anne received him without anger, he concluded that he was gaining a place in her mind and her heart. Having himself forgotten past misdeeds, he imagined that others did not remember them either. In addition, he thought he had shown himself generous enough to merit some gratitude. Lacheneur, in addition to the objects he had taken from the chateau, had received the entire legacy left by Mademoiselle Armande, plus an indemnity. The total amounted to 60,000 francs.

“Jarnibleu! It would be appalling if he wasn’t satisfied!” had grumbled the Duke, furious at a prodigality which, however, had cost him nothing.

Still caught up in his illusions, Martial thought himself at home in Lacheneur’s house. Maurice’s visits suddenly awakened his suspicions.

“Am I being tricked?” he wondered.

His vexation was such that he made a point of not climbing up to La Rèche for more than a week. The Duc de Sairmeuse guessed what caused that pouting and, exploiting it with the cleverness his self-interest had been waiting for, he gained his son’s consent for the alliance with Blanche de Courtomieu. Until then, wracked by the cruelest indecision, Martial had evaded giving a firm answer. Now, cleverly provoked, he finally said:

“All right! I’ll marry Blanche.”

The Duke was not one to let this good frame of mind grow cold. In less than 48 hours, the official arrangements were completed; a marriage contract was drawn up; verbal assurances were exchanged and it was decided that the marriage would be scheduled for the spring. The engagement dinner took place at Sairmeuse, a dinner which was even more festive because it celebrated two small victories. The Duc de Sairmeuse had just received his commission as Lieutenant-General at Montaignac. The Marquis de Courtomieu, who had to live down the adulation he had heaped upon the Emperor, had just obtained the Presidency of the Provost Court, also at Montaignac. Mademoiselle Blanche had won. After that celebration, and a public declaration, Martial was bound to her. In fact, for two weeks, he had almost not left her side. She filled him with an infinite charm whose sweetness almost made him forget the violence of his feelings for Marie-Anne. Unfortunately, the proud heiress could not resist the pleasure of risking a rather oblique allusion to her whom she called “the Marquis’s former flame.” She found an opportunity to mention that she had been giving Marie-Anne work to help her survive. Martial forced himself to smile, but the indignity of her behavior made him pity Marie-Anne. And the next day, he ran straight to Lacheneur’s house. At the warm reception they gave him, all his resentment fell away, all his suspicions evaporated. The joy of seeing him again shone, even in Marie-Anne’s eyes. He took special notice.

“Oh! I’ll have her!” he thought.

In reality, they were happy about his return. Son of the commander of the military forces of Montaignac, almost son-in-law of the President of the Provost Court, Martial had become a precious tool.

“Though him,” Lacheneur had said, “we’ll have an eye and an ear in the enemy camp The Marquis de Sairmeuse will be our unwitting spy.”

He was indeed, because he quickly resumed his daily visits. December had come, the roads were muddy, but neither rain, nor snow, nor mud, stopped Martial. He arrived toward 10 a.m. Seating himself on a stool, in front of the fireplace, he talked. Marie-Anne seemed interested in events of the day, so he told her everything he could find out. Sometimes, they were alone. Lacheneur, Chanlouineau and Jean scoured the countryside on their “business.” Business was, in fact, good enough that Lacheneur had bought a horse in order to extend the range of his territory. But often, Martial’s chats were interrupted. He should have been surprised at the large number of peasants who arrived to speak to Lacheneur. There was an interminable procession. And Marie-Anne had something to say in private to all these clients. Then, she offered them something to drink. The house had almost become a cabaret. Who knows where covetousness may lead a man in love? Nothing chased Martial away. He joked with those who came and went. He shook hands, and he sometimes had a drink with them. He would have accepted a lot more. Hadn’t he offered to help Lacheneur with his accounts? And once, toward the middle of February, when he saw Chanlouineau, very embarrassed, trying to compose a letter, he had insisted on acting as his secretary.

“That damned letter isn’t for me,” Chanlouineau said. “It’s for my uncle who’s marrying his daughter.”

Martial sat down at a table and, under Chanlouineau’s direction, wrote:

My Dear Friend,

We have finally agreed and the marriage has been decided. We now are planning the wedding ceremony, which is set for ____. We invite you to give us the pleasure of your company. We are counting on you and, please, know that the more friends you can bring, the happier we will be. As the celebration is informal, and there will be many of us, you would help us out by bringing some provisions.

If Martial had been able to see Chanlouineau’s smile when he asked him to leave the date of the “wedding ceremony” blank, he would surely have recognized that he had fallen into a trap. But instead, he was fascinated.

“Come now, Marquis,” his father said to him. “Père Chupin says that you’re always at Lacheneur’s house. When will you be done with that girl?”

Martial did not answer. He knew he was at the discretion of “that girl.” Near her, he lost his free will, and each of her glances stirred him like an electric shock. If she had asked him to marry her, he could not have refused. But that wasn’t Marie-Anne’s goal. All her thoughts, all her wishes, were for her father’s success.

Maurice and Marie-Anne were probably the two most intrepid of Lacheneur’s helpers. After triumph, they could see a magnificent recompense. Maurice’s feverish activity could barely be described. All day long, he ran about the hamlets in the area, and after dinner, he slipped away, went across the Oiselle in his canoe and flew to La Rèche. After a while, Monsieur d’Escorval could not fail to notice his son’s absences. He kept watch and became certain that Lacheneur had “gotten hold” of him—that was the expression he used. Frightened, he resolved, without telling Maurice, to find his old friend, but expecting another failure, he asked Father Midon to go with him.

On March 4, toward 4:30 p.m., Monsieur d’Escorval and the Priest of Sairmeuse started on the road toward La Rèche. They were so sad and worried that they barely exchanged ten words on the way. A strange sight awaited them as they came out of the woods. Night was falling, but you could still distinguish objects. A group of a dozen people stood in front of Lacheneur’s house. Lacheneur was speaking. What was he saying? Neither the Baron nor the Priest could hear him, but there was a moment when his words were welcomed with lively applause. Soon a match burned between his fingers. He lit a torch and threw it on the thatch roof on his house, crying out in a strong voice:

“The die is cast! That should prove to you that I won’t turn back!”

A few minutes later, the house was ablaze. In the distance, the windows of the Montaignac Citadel blazed like a lighthouse and the lights of fires reddened the horizon in all directions. They were answering Lacheneur’s signal.

 

 

XX

 

 

Ah! Ambition is a beautiful thing! The Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtomieu were already old men, tested by all the century’s storms, millionaires, possessing the most sumptuous dwellings of the region; they had nothing more to aspire to, it would seem, than the quiet of a domestic household. It would have been so easy for them to create a happy life for themselves, spreading goodness around, creating a concert of blessings, preparing for their last hour.

But no! They wanted to take an important position in the “ship of state,” in which no one will consent to be just a mere passenger. One had been named Lieutenant-General, the other President of the Provost Court, so they had to leave their chateaux and set themselves up as well as they could in Montaignac. The Duc de Sairmeuse was now living on the Place d’Armes, in a big, old, dilapidated house, a ruin where, at night, the wind blew under the doors, setting off his rheumatism. The Marquis de Courtomieu had established temporary quarters in the home of one of his relatives in the Rue de la Citadelle. Their senile vanity was satisfied; everything was for the best.

Those who lived through that sad period of the Restoration have not forgotten what has since been called the White Terror. Reprisals were freely exercised; vengeance was satiated in broad daylight; and private hatred and terrible covetousness hid under the name of political resentment. Even those who had purchased land from the State were threatened, so much so that the lower classes, the poor people in the cities and the peasants in the country, frightened and intimidated, turned their thoughts and wishes toward the Emperor. It seemed to them that the ship which carried the man defeated at Waterloo to his exile in St. Helena, was carrying at the same time all their hopes. But nothing of the kind troubled  the Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtomieu. Louis XVIII now reigned in Paris; their prejudices had triumphed. They were happy. What cad would dare not be! Therefore, no worries troubled their serene satisfaction. If worse came to worse, they still had hundreds and thousands of Coalition troops close at hand! Some fretful minds talked to them about “dissatisfaction;” they told them they were dreaming. However, on March 4, 1816, the Duc de Sairmeuse was sitting down to dinner when a great noise came from the vestibule. He got up, but at the same time, the door opened and a man out of breath entered. That man was Père Chupin, the old petty thief, elevated by Monsieur de Sairmeuse to the rank of game-keeper. Obviously, something extraordinary was happening.

“What is it?” asked the Duke.

“They’re coming, Monsieur le Duc!” cried out Chupin. “They’re on their way!”

“Who’s they?”

As the only answer, the old man held out a copy of the letter written by Martial under Chanlouineau’s dictation.

Monsieur de Sairmeuse read aloud:

We have finally agreed and the marriage has been decided. We now are planning the wedding ceremony, which is set for March 4…

The date was no longer blank this time, but the Duke was so blind that he persisted in not understanding.

“So?” he asked.

Chupin was tearing his hair.

“They’re on their way!” he repeated. “I’m talking about the peasants. They plan to take over Montaignac, chase off His Majesty and bring back the Emperor, or at least his son. The scoundrels! They’ve fooled me. I suspected something like this, but I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

This terrible event struck the Duke with amazement. He asked:

“How many are there?”

“How would I know, Monsieur? Maybe 2000, maybe 10,000.”

“But the city folk are with us.”

“No, Monsieur le Duc, no! They have accomplices here as well. All the officers on half-pay are waiting to join them.”

“Who are the leaders?”

“Lacheneur, Father Midon, Chanlouineau, Baron d’Escorval…”

“That’s enough!” shouted the Duke.

The danger clear, his level head returned. His Herculean physique, bent by age, came upright.

He rang, almost breaking the bell; a valet appeared.

“My uniform,” commanded the Duc de Sairmeuse. “My insignia, my sword, my pistols! Hurry up!”

The servant left, dumbfounded.

“Wait!” the Duke yelled again. “Have someone take a horse and go tell my son to hurry here, giving his horse free rein. Take my best horses. They can go to Sairmeuse and return in two hours.”

Chupin pulled the Duke by his tail coat. He turned around.

“Something more?”

The old petty thief put his finger to his lips, ordering silence in this way; but as soon as the valet had left, he said:

“It’s useless, Monsieur le Duc, to send for the Marquis.

“Why, you fool?”

“Because… Because, forgive me, I’m devoted to you…”

“Jarnibleu! Will you speak up!”

“All right, then,” he stuttered. “The Marquis…”

“Well?”

“He’s one of them!”

With a massive blow of his fist, Monsieur de Sairmeuse banged the table.

“You’re lying, you low-life!” he shouted, swearing loud enough to make the windows vibrate. “You’re lying!”

At this point, he was so menacing and terrible that the old thief bounded to the door, turning the handle, ready to flee.

“May I have my neck slit if I’m not telling the truth,” he insisted. “Lacheneur’s daughter is a fine bamboozler. All the young men have been taken in: Chanlouineau, the young d’Escorval, my Duke’s son, and others.”

Monsieur de Sairmeuse was beginning to vomit out a torrent of oaths against Marie-Anne when his valet returned. He stopped talking, put on his uniform, ordered Chupin to follow him, and dashed outside. He was still hoping that Chupin was exaggerating, but when he arrived at the Place d’Armes, from which a wide expanse of the countryside could be seen, his last illusions evaporated. The horizon was aflame. Montaignac was surrounded by a circle of fire.

“That was the signal!” murmured the old thief. “That was the order to get on the road for the ‘wedding,’ as they called it in the letter. They’ll be at the gates soon.”

The Duke did not answer. There was nothing more for him to do but join forces with Monsieur de Courtomieu. He was walking rapidly toward the Marquis’ house when, turning onto the Rue de la Citadelle, he made out, in a doorway, two men talking, who, seeing his epaulettes shining in the night, took flight. Instinctively, he gave chase, and, catching one of them, he grabbed him by the collar,

“Who are you?” he asked. “What’s your name?”

When the man did not answer, he shook him so violently that the two pistols he had hidden under his coat fell to the ground.

“Ah! Thief!” cried out Monsieur de Sairmeuse. “You’re a conspirator!”

Immediately, without a word, he dragged the man to the military post, threw him to the amazed soldiers and dashed off to Monsieur de Courtomieu’s house. He thought the Marquis would be terrified. Not at all. His friend seemed delighted.

“Finally!” he pronounced. “Here is an opportunity to show off our devotion and our zeal! And without any danger! We have thick walls, solid doors, troops, three thousand men! These peasants are fools! But bless their folly, my dear friend! Hurry and get the cavalry mounted.”

But a sudden thought sobered him.

“Diable! I was expecting Blanche this evening! She was supposed to leave Courtomieu after dinner… I hope nothing has happened to her!”

 

 

XXI

 

 

The Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtomieu had more time ahead of them than they thought. The peasants were advancing, but not as fast as Père Chupin had claimed. Two of those circumstances which, fatally, are beyond human calculations were to hamper Lacheneur’s plan. Standing at the top of La Rèche, a little ahead of his group, Lacheneur had counted the number of fires which had answered the one he had just lit. The number answered his hopes. He shouted with joy.

“All our friends are keeping their word to us. They’re ready! They’re on their way! Let’s go then. We should be first at the meeting place.”

Somebody brought his horse and he already had his foot in the stirrup when two men jumped out of the bushes and threw themselves on him. One of the two seized the horse by its bridle.

“Father Midon!” Lacheneur exclaimed, stunned, “Monsieur d’Escorval!”

And anticipating, perhaps, what was going to happen, he added in a tone of total fury:

“What do you want now?”

“We want to prevent you from carrying out your mad plan!” cried out Monsieur d’Escorval. “Hate has led you astray, Lacheneur!”

“You know nothing of my plans, Monsieur!”

“Don’t you think I can guess them? You want to take Montaignac.”

“What’s that to you?” interrupted Lacheneur violently.

But Monsieur d’Escorval was not a man to let himself be silenced.

“You’re out of your mind! You’re forgetting that Montaignac is a place of war, defended by deep trenches and high walls. You’re also forgetting that behind these fortifications is a large garrison commanded by a man whom—don’t deny it—has rare energy and unmatched bravery: the Duc de Sairmeuse.”

Lacheneur struggled, trying to get free.

“Everything has been prepared,” he answered, “and we’re expected in Montaignac. You’d be sure of that if, like me, you’d seen the light shining from the windows of the Citadel. Look! You can still see it! That light tells me that 200 or 300 officers on half-pay will come and open the city gates as soon as we appear.”7

“Well, after that, I can accept the impossible. You may take Montaignac after all. But then what will you do? Do you think the English are going to give you back the Emperor? Isn’t Napoleon II prisoner of the Austrians? Don’t you remember that the Coalition still have 130,000 soldiers within a day’s march of Paris?”

Muffled murmurs could be heard among Lacheneur’s friends.

“However, all that is nothing,” continued the Baron. “You don’t know what any school child would know, which is that in an enterprise like yours, there are always as many traitors as there are dupes.”

“Who are you calling dupes, Baron?”

“All those who, like you, take their illusions for realities. All those who, strongly wishing for something, imagine that that something has become a fact. Do you really believe that neither the Marquis de Courtomieu, nor the Duc de Sairmeuse have been warned?”

Lacheneur shrugged.

“Who would have warned them?” he asked.

But his calm was faked; the look he gave his son, Jean, proved it. However, it was with the coldest tone that he added:

“It’s probable that, right now, the Duke and the Marquis are already in our friends’ hands.”

Nothing could shake the man’s resolution. Neither force nor reason could remove the blindfold from his eyes.

It was up to Father Midon to add his efforts to those of the Baron d’Escorval.

“You aren’t going to leave, Lacheneur,” he maintained. “You won’t be deaf to the voice of reason. You’re an honest man. Think of the terrible responsibility you’re accepting. On a flight of fancy, you dare risk the lives of thousands of brave people and the existence of their families. You’ve been told you can’t succeed. You’ve probably been betrayed. I’m sure of it!”

The place, the time, the peril, the strangeness of that scene lit by the fire, the black robe of the priest, his vehement gestures, his resounding speech, all that would have troubled the firmest soul. For ten seconds, an inexpressible horror contracted Lacheneur’s face. Everyone could see that he was shaken to his inmost being. Who could say what would have happened without Chanlouineau’s intervention. The strong man came forward, brandishing his double-barreled gun.

“Par le Saint Nom de Dieu!” he cried out. “This is enough time wasted in useless talk!”

Lacheneur jumped as if he had been struck with a whip. He abruptly wrenched himself loose and jumped in the saddle.

“Let’s go!” he commanded.

But the Baron and the Priest had not yet given up. They threw themselves at the horse’s head.

“Lacheneur,” cried out the Priest, “you’re insane. Watch out! The blood you’re going to spill will fall on your head and the head of your children!”

Terrified by these prophetic tones, the little troop stopped. Then, one of the accomplices, dressed like one of the peasants of Sairmeuse, walked out of the ranks and stepped forward.

“Marie-Anne!” the Baron and the Priest, stupefied, cried out at the same time.

“Yes,” answered the young girl, taking off the large hat which had partially hidden her face. “I, who wish my share of the dangers incurred by those dear to me, my part in their victory or their defeat. Your advice comes too late, Messieurs. Do you see those lights on the horizon? They tell us that the people of the entire County are armed and going to the the general rendezvous at the crossroads at Croix-d’Arcy, one league from Montaignac. Before 2 a.m., there will be 1500 men there. My father is supposed to lead them. And you would wish him to leave these men he snatched from their homes without a leader? That’s impossible!”

Her father’s and her lover’s exaltation had won her over. She shared their madness, even if she did not share their hopes. Her beauty had something of the lightning in it. The flashes from her eyes matched those of the flames. It was truly then that she merited the name “Angel of the Uprising,” which Martial had given her.

“No more hesitation, no more thinking! It’s caution now that would be folly. The greatest danger is backward. Let my father pass, Messieurs; every minute you make us lose may perhaps cost a man’s life. And us, my friends, let’s go!”

A huge applause answered her and the little troop went forward across the moor.

Nothing more could be done. Monsieur d’Escorval was dismayed, but he could not let his son, whom he saw in the ranks, go like this.

“Maurice!” he cried out.

The young man hesitated but finally came forward.

“You’re not going to follow these lunatics, Maurice!” exclaimed the Baron.

“I must, father.”

“I forbid you.”

“Alas, father, I can’t obey you. I’m committed. I’ve sworn a oath. I’m second in command after Lacheneur.”

His voice was sad, but it showed unshakable determination.

“My son!” said Monsieur d’Escorval. “Fool! You’re marching to your death, to certain death.”

“All the more reason not to go back on my word, father.”

“And your mother, Maurice, you’re forgetting your mother!”

A tear shone in the young man’s eyes.

“My mother,” he answered, “would rather weep for her dead son than to keep him near her dishonored, branded with the name of coward and traitor. Good-bye, father!”

Monsieur d’Escorval was capable of understanding Maurice’s conduct. He reached out and, convulsively, clasped this beloved son to his heart, as if for the last time.

“Good-bye then,” he stammered. “Good-bye.”

Maurice had already rejoined the others, whose cheers were becoming lost in the distance, while the Baron d’Escorval stayed in the same spot, crushed under the excess of his sadness. Suddenly, he straightened up.

“We still have a chance, Father,” he cried out to the Priest.

“Which one?” asked Midon.

“Didn’t Marie-Anne just tell us where the rendezvous was? By hurrying to Escorval, and quickly hitching up a carriage, we can get to the crossroad at Croix-d’Arcy before they do. Your voice, which moved Lacheneur, will touch his accomplices. We can persuade these poor misguided people to turn back and go home. Come, Father, come quickly!”

 

 

XXII

 

 

8 p. m. rang from the Sairmeuse bell tower when Monsieur Lacheneur and his group left La Rèche. An hour later, at Courtomieu, Mademoiselle Blanche was finishing her dinner and ordering her carriage to go and join her father in Montaignac. The smallness of the lodging put at his disposal had forced the Marquis to separate himself from his daughter. They saw each other only on Sundays when Blanche either went to the city, or the Marquis came to the chateau. So this trip did not follow their established habits. Grave circumstances explained it. Martial had not appeared at Courtomieu for six days, and Blanche was half-insane with sadness and anger. What Aunt Médie had to endure during this time, no one could understand except those who have seen, in some rich families, these poor relatives, reduced to owing everything to pity: clothing, bread, even the sou to pay for a seat at church. During the first three days, Blanche had been able to maintain some self-control. On the fourth, she could not  hold back any longer and, despite the impropriety of her action, she dared to send for news of Martial. Was he sick? Away? They answered her messenger that the Marquis was as fit as a fiddle, but since he hunted from dawn to dusk, he went to bed every night right after supper. What a horrible insult! But at least, she was persuaded that Martial, aware of her action, would hurry the next day to apologize. Vain illusion caused by pride! He did not appear. He did not even deign to give signs of life.

“Ah! He’s probably with that other woman,” she said to Aunt Médie. “He’s at the knees of that miserable Marie-Anne, his mistress.”

She was saying this, having wound up believing the slanders that she herself had invented. In this difficult moment, she decided to confide in her father and she had written to him to inform him of her arrival. To show her soul torn apart, the excess of her love and her jealousy, seemed an atrocious humiliation, but her sufferings were even more intolerable. She wanted her father to force Lacheneur to leave the country. That should be child’s play for him, vested with almost discretionary power at a time when a mere luke-warm attitude towards the King could be a pretext for banishment. When she left Courtomieu, her calm from having made a decision had returned, and her hopes overflowed in passionate sentences which the poor parent would submit to with her usual resignation.

“Finally,” she said, “I’ll be rid of that fast woman, that brazen hussy. We’ll certainly see if he has the audacity to follow her. Will he follow her? Oh, no, he wouldn’t dare!”

When the carriage went through Sairmeuse, Blanche noticed some unusual activity there. There were still lights in all the houses; the bars seemed full of customers; there were animated groups on the town square; and finally, gossips were chatting on the doorsteps. But what did that matter to Mademoiselle de Courtomieu! She was only brought out of her preoccupations a league from Sairmeuse.

“Listen, Aunt Médie,” she said. “Do you hear something?”

The poor relative listened. Noise was heard in the distance, which at each turn of the wheel became more distinct.

“Let’s find out what it is,” said Blanche.

She lowered one of the carriage widows and questioned the driver.

“It seems to me,” that man said, “that I see a large troop of peasants high on the hill carrying torches.”

“Doux Jésus!” interrupted Aunt Médie, now frightened.

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

It was not a wedding, but Lacheneur’s mob, now larger by a contingent of four or five villages. The column had risen to approximately 500 men. Lacheneur was already two hours overdue at the crossroads of Croix-d’Arcy. What always happens to leaders of the common people had happened to him. Once the impetus had been given, he discovered that he was no longer in charge. The Baron d’Escorval had made him lose 20 minutes. He had lost four times as much at Sairmeuse. There, the two villages had mingled and the peasants had soon spread out into the bars to drink to the success of the operation. Snatching them from their bottles had taken a long time and been difficult. And to top it off, once they had gotten back on the march, it was impossible to persuade them to put out the branches which they had lit as torches. Pleading, threats, everything failed against their incomprehensible stubbornness. They wanted to see where they were going, they said. Poor people! They certainly were aware neither of the difficulties, nor of the perils of their undertaking. They had been made such beautiful promises when they had enrolled. They had been made drunk with so many hopes. They were marching to lay siege to a fortified military installation defended by a large number of troops as if to a celebration. Gay, carefree, animated by unshakeable childish confidence, they marched along, arm in arm, singing patriotic songs. Riding in the middle of the troop, Lacheneur felt his hair turn white with agony. Might the delay of two hours cause him to lose everything? What must the others at the crossroads at Croix-d’Arcy think? What were they doing right then?

“Forward!” he kept repeating, “Forward!”

Only the leaders, Maurice, Chanlouineau, Jean, Marie-Anne and about 20 former soldiers of the Empire, understood and shared Lacheneur’s despair. They themselves knew what they were risking in the terrible game they were playing. And they, too, were repeating:

“Faster! Walk faster!”

Fruitless exhortations! It pleased these people to walk that way, slowly. And then, suddenly, the whole band stopped. Some of them, turning their head, had seen the lanterns of Mademoiselle de Courtomieu’s carriage. It came up at a fast trot and joined the column. Some recognized the livery. A loud shout greeted her. Monsieur de Courtomieu, through his greed, had made more enemies than the Duc de Sairmeuse. All these peasants who, more or less, had a complaint because of his covetousness were delighted. This arrival offered them a chance to give him an enormous scare. In fact, they were thinking only revenge; what happened next was to prove it. They were greatly disappointed when the door opened. They saw no one inside but Mademoiselle Blanche and her Aunt Médie, who was screaming loudly in fright. Blanche, however, was brave.

“Who are you?” she demanded harshly, “and what do you want?”

“You’ll know tomorrow,” answered Chanlouineau, who had stepped forward. “For this evening, you’re our prisoner.”

“I see that you don’t know who I am, boy.”

“That’s why I’m asking you to step down. She has to step down, doesn’t she, Monsieur d’Escorval?”

“Well! I’m not getting out,” said Blanche. “Drag me out if you dare!”

They would certainly have dared without Marie-Anne, who stopped several peasants ready to spring forward.  “Let Mademoiselle de Courtomieu pass freely,” she said.

But that could have had such consequences that Chanlouineau had the courage to resist.

“We can’t do that, Marie-Anne,” he said. “She will warn her father. We have to take her hostage. Her life may be exchanged for our friends’ lives.”

Blanche had no more recognized the masculine disguise of her former friend than she had suspected the purpose of this large assembly. Marie-Anne’s name pronounced after that of d’Escorval enlightened her. She understood everything and shook with rage that she was at the mercy of her rival. At least, she would not submit to protection.

“All right,” she said. “I’m getting out.”

Her former friend stopped her.

“No!” she said. “This isn’t the place for a girl.”

“An honest girl, you mean.”

Chanlouineau was two steps away, and armed. If a man had said that, he would already be dead. Marie-Anne did not deign to understand the rebuke.

“Mademoiselle de Courtomieu will turn around, and since she can’t get to Montaignac, two men will accompany her back to Courtomieu…”

She commanded. They obeyed. The carriage turned around, started on its way, but not so quickly that Marie-Anne could not hear Blanche shouting at her:

“Watch out for yourself, Marie-Anne! I’ll make you pay dearly for your insulting generosity.”

However, time was running out. That incident had cost ten more minutes, ten more centuries, and the appearance of order had disappeared. Lacheneur wept with rage, but he knew the necessity of a supreme effort. Any further delay would be deadly. He called Maurice and Chanlouineau.

“I put you in charge,” he said to them. “Do everything possible to hurry up these crazy people. I’ll ride to Croix-d’Arcy. This means all our lives.”

He left at a gallop, but only ten meters ahead of his troops, he made out in the distance, on the white road, two advancing black dots, getting larger rapidly. It was two men, their shoulders hugging their bodies, their chest out, running, saving their breath. One was dressed like a well-off middle class man; the other wore an old uniform of a Captain in the Emperor’s guard. A cloud passed in front of Lacheneur’s eyes when he recognized two of the officers on half-pay who were supposed to open the doors at Montaignac, devoted accomplices who hated the Restoration as much as he did.

“What happened?” he yelled to them in a terribly changed voice.

“Everything has been discovered!”

“Grand Dieu!”

“Major Carini has been arrested.”

“By whom? How?”

“Ah! It’s a disaster! Just as we were getting together, planning to surprise the Duke at his house, the Duke himself appeared. We all fled, but he followed Carini, caught up with him, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the Citadel.”

Lacheneur was devastated. Father Midon’s sinister prophecy buzzed in his ears.

“So,” the officer continued, “I alerted  a few friends and ran to warn you. The coup is a failure.”

He was only too right, and Lacheneur knew it better than anyone. But blinded by hate and anger, he did not want to admit it. He did not want to admit to himself the irreparable disaster. By enormous will-power, he managed to remain outwardly calm.

“You’re very quick to throw down the ax after the first blow at the tree, Messieurs,” he said in a bitter tone. “We have one less chance, that’s all.”

“Diable! Do you have resources we don’t know about?”

“Maybe, that depends. You’ve just passed Croix-d’Arcy. Did you tell anyone anything you’ve just told me?”

“Not a word… to nobody.”

“How many men do we have at the rendezvous?”

“At least 2000.”

“How are they holding up?”

“They’re impatient to get started. They’re cursing our slowness. They suggested we beg you to hurry.”

Lacheneur made a threatening gesture.

“In that case, the situation is not lost. Wait here for the people following me and tell them only that you’ve been sent to make them hurry. Above all, insist. And count on me. I’ll answer for success.”

Saying that, he dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and got on his way again. He had just deceived these two men. He did not have anymore resources. He had not even the puniest hope left. It was an abominable lie, but he had, in some way, lost his free will. What he had so laboriously built was crumbling away. He wanted to be buried under the ruins. They were going to be beaten; he was sure of it. That didn’t matter; they would fight. He would look for death and he would find it. And he thought:

“Provided they don’t tire out back there!”

Back at Croix-d’Arcy, the mood was foul. After the two officers had come by, the murmurs changed into curses. The 2000 peasants, arriving successively at the rendezvous, were indignant at not seeing their leader, the one who, because of his resentment, had lured them from the plow and turned them into soldiers.

“Where is Lacheneur?” they said to each other. “Is he afraid at the last moment? Maybe he’s hiding, while we’re risking our skin and our children’s bread.”

And already, terrible epithets, Traitor! Rabble Rouser! circulated from mouth to mouth and made every breast swell with anger. Some now thought they should disperse, but others, and these were the most influential, thought that, on the contrary, they should march on Montaignac without Lacheneur, and when they got there, not even wait for the moment set for the attack. But these deliberations were interrupted by the furious gallop of a horse. A carriage appeared and stopped in the middle of the crossroad. Two men got out: Baron d’Escorval and Father Midon.

They had taken the back road and got there ahead of Lacheneur. They breathed easy. They thought they had arrived in time. Alas! Here, as up there on La Rèche, all their efforts, all their supplications and threats, fell apart against the blindest stubbornness. They had come hoping to stop the revolution; they only caused it to accelerate.

“We’ve come too far to turn back,” cried out a property owner of the region, seen as leader in Lacheneur’s absence. “If death is in front of us, it’s also behind us. Attack and win, that’s our only chance of salvation. Let’s march on, immediately; it’s the only way to upset our enemies. He’s a coward who hesitates. Forward!”

The same shout as if by one voice answered him: “Forward!”

On that, they took from its cover a tricolor flag, that much lamented flag which recalled so much past glories and such great misfortunes. A drum beat the march and the entire column moved off with cries of: “Long Live Napoleon II!”

Pale, their clothes in disorder, their voice broken by fatigue and emotion, Monsieur d’Escorval and Father Midon stubbornly followed the rebels. They saw what a precipice the poor people were hurrying to. They were praying to God for some inspiration to stop them. The distance which separates Croix-d’Arcy from Montaignac could be in crossed in 50 minutes. Soon, they saw the door of the Citadel, the one the officers were supposed to open. It was 11 p.m. and that door was nevertheless open. Didn’t that circumstance prove to those gathered together that their friends on the inside were in control of the city and were expecting them in force? Therefore, they went in without mistrust, so certain of success that those who had guns did not even take the trouble to load them. Alone, Monsieur d’Escorval and Father Midon foresaw a catastrophe. The leader of the expedition was near them. They begged him not to neglect the most common precautions. They insisted that he send some men to reconnoiter. They offered to go themselves, on condition that he wait for their return before going any further.

“If there is a trap set for you” they told him, “don’t fall into it.” But the revolutionaries did not listen. They had already gone beyond the outer fortifications. The head of the column had reached the draw-bridge. Enthusiasm had become delirium. The race was on to see who would go in first. Alas! At this moment, a pistol shot rang out. This was a signal, because immediately, from all directions, there was a terrible continuous burst of gunfire. Three or four peasants fell, mortally wounded. All the others stopped, frozen with amazement, trying to see where the shots were coming from. The indecision was frightful. However, an energetic leader got them back into action. There were former Napoleon soldiers among them. The battle started, horrible, in the darkness. But it was not the cry “Forward” that was heard. A coward’s voice threw out a cry of panic:

“We’ve been sold out! Every man for himself!”

At that, the expedition was done for. Fear, mindless terror took hold of all those brave people, and they fled, swept away like dry leaves in a storm.

 

 

XXIII

 

 

Chupin’s staggering revelations, the idea that Martial, the heir to his name, was perhaps conspiring with the peasants, the unexpected arrest of one of the conspirators on the inside, all these circumstances had stunned the Duc de Sairmeuse. The Marquis de Courtomieu’s level-headed advice put his faculties back in equilibrium. Finding again his youthful energy, he hurried to the barracks, and less than a half-hour later, 500 infantrymen and 300 cavalrymen were armed, their knapsacks filled with bullets. With just these forces, to quash the movement without bloodshed would have been child’s play. It would have been enough to shut the gates to the city. It was not with their hunting rifles and torches that these poor country people could force entry into a fortified stronghold. But so much moderation would not do for a man of violent temperament such as Monsieur de Sairmeuse, eager for battle and fury, and motivated by ambition to display his Royalist zeal.

Therefore, he ordered the gate to the Citadel, which was supposed to be controlled by the insiders on half-pay, to be left open, and had a party of infantrymen hidden behind the inner fortifications. As for him, he took a position at a gate where, seeing the road clearly, he could choose the best moment to give the signal to fire. There was a strange thing, however. Of the 400 shots fired at less than 20 meters, on a crowd of 1500 men, only three hit their target. More humane than their leader, almost all the men had fired their guns in the air. But the Duc de Sairmeuse did not have time to lose on these considerations. He jumped on his horse, and leading about 500 men, cavalry and infantrymen, he threw himself after the fleeing peasants. The peasants had more than a 20 minutes’ head start. It would have been easy for them to escape. They would only have had to separate, to “fan-out” as the fellows in the Vendée had done in the past. Unfortunately, few thought to dash across the fields. The others, lost, confused, seized with the inconceivable terror of having just been crushed by an overwhelming force, followed the main road like a frightened flock of sheep. They were running fast, however; fear gave them wings. Couldn’t they already hear shots fired at those lagging behind? But there was one man to whom each of these shots was like death…

Lacheneur. leaning over the shoulder of his horse, panting, consumed by worry, was nearing Croix-d’Arcy at breakneck speed, when he heard the shots fired at Montaignac. Terrified, he jerked his horse to a halt, so violently that she tottered on her hocks. He listened and waited. Nothing. No guns answered that initial discharge. There could have been a slaughter, a battle. But there was not. Lacheneur understood everything. He guessed the bloody debacle. He imagined all those peasants, raised by his voice, machine-gunned point blank. He wished all those bullets were in his chest. He again dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and his ride became even more furious. He went like the wind through the cross-roads at Croix-d’Arcy; it was empty. He saw the carriage which had brought Monsieur d’Escorval and Father Midon—it was abandoned; no one was taking care of it. Finally, Lacheneur saw the men fleeing. He rode straight to them, shouting horrible curses and heaping insults on them.

“Cowards!” he yelled. “Traitors! You’re running away when you’re ten to one! Where are you going like this? To your houses? You fools! You’ll find gendarmes there, waiting to take you to the scaffold. Wouldn’t it be better to die fighting? Let’s go! Turn around, follow me! We can still win. I’m bringing reinforcements. 2000 are following me.”

He was promising 2000 men. He would have promised 10,000, 100,000. He would have promised an army and canons as well. Even if he had had all that, short of using force, he could not have stopped the flight. He was carried along like a dead branch in the current. Only at Croix-d’Arcy, that place where, only an hour before, the peasants were talking with such confidence, could the courageous recognize and count each other, while the rest continued running in all directions. The bravest men surrounded Lacheneur. Among them was Father Midon, somber, desperate. A shove had separated him from Monsieur d’Escorval and he had not seen him again. What had become of the Baron? Had he been captured or killed? Had he made it to the open fields? The good priest didn’t dare go any further; he was waiting, fortunate in his misfortune to have found the carriage and to have succeeded in defending it from a dozen peasants who had been trying to take it. He was listening to Lacheneur and his friends’ discussion. Should they disband? Should they stubbornly keep up the fight to give the others time to reach their homes? They were hesitating when the remnants of the column assigned to Maurice and Chanlouineau finally arrived at the rendezvous. Comprised of 500  at Sairmeuse, only 15 remained, counting the two officers on half-pay. Marie-Anne marched in the middle of that little group. Chanlouineau’s voice put an end to the hesitation.

“I came to fight,” he said, “and I’ll sell my life dearly.”

“Then let’s fight,” said the others.

But Chanlouineau did not follow them to the terrain which had been judged best to mount a lengthy defense. He drew Maurice aside.

“You, Monsieur d’Escorval, you’re going to leave,” he told him brusquely.

“Leave? I’m going to do my duty, just like you, Chanlouineau”

“Your duty, Monsieur, is to save Marie-Anne. Leave and take her away.”

“I’m staying!” pronounced Maurice.

He was going to join the last combatants. Chanlouineau stopped him.

“You don’t have the right to get yourself killed here,” he said in a somber voice. “Your life belongs to the woman who gave herself to you.”

“How dare you say that!”

Chanlouineau shook his head slowly.

“What’s the use denying it?” he said. “What’s happened had to happen. There are temptations so great that an angel couldn’t resist them. It’s neither your fault, nor hers. Lacheneur has been a bad father. There was one day when I was sure, when I wanted to kill myself, or you to kill me; I don’t know which. You’ll never have Death so near you as that time. I had you five feet from the end of my gun. It was the Bon Dieu Himself who halted my hand by showing me his despair. Now that I, as well as Lacheneur, am going to die, someone has to stay to take care of Marie-Anne. Swear to me that you’ll marry her. They’ll give you some trouble, maybe, for this night’s affair, but I have here something that’ll save you…”

Sporadic gunshots interrupted him. The Duc de Sairmeuse soldiers were coming.

”Saint Bon Dieu!” Chanlouineau cried out. “Marie-Anne!”

They dashed off and Maurice was the first to see her, standing in the middle of the crossroad, leaning on the shoulder of her father’s horse. He took her arm, trying to drag her away.

“Come!” he said to her. “Come!”

But she resisted. “Please,” she said, “leave me alone.”

“But everything is lost, my love!”

“Yes, everything, I know, even honor. And that’s why I must stay and die. I have to; I want to.” She leaned toward Maurice and with a barely intelligible voice, she added: “I must, so that my dishonor won’t become public.”

The gunfire was extraordinarily violent. They were standing in the most dangerous spot. They were almost certainly going to be hit, when Chanlouineau suddenly reappeared. Had he guessed the reason for Marie-Anne’s resistance? Perhaps. In any case, without saying a word, he lifted her in his strong arms like a child and carried her to the carriage guarded by Father Midon.

“Get in, Priest,” he commanded, “and hold on to Mademoiselle Lacheneur. Good! Thank you. Now, Monsieur Maurice, it’s your turn.”

But Monsieur de Sairmeuse’s soldiers were already in control of the cross-road. Seeing a group in the shadows, they ran forward. Then the heroic peasant grabbed his gun by the barrel, and using it like a club, he held the enemy at bay, giving Maurice time to get in, take the reins and whip the horse, which left at a gallop.

That lamentable night hid cowardice or heroism, useless cruelties or magnificent acts of devotion; which was which was never exactly known.

Two minutes after Marie-Anne and Maurice left, Chanlouineau was still fighting, stubbornly barring the road. There were at least 12 men in front of him. That didn’t matter. 20 shots had been fired at him; not a bullet had touched him; he seemed invincible.

“Surrender!” the soldiers, touched by so much bravery, yelled to him.

“Never! Never!”

He was horrifying. His courage gave him superhuman strength and agility. It was too bad for whoever got in the way of the terrible swings of his gun butt. Then a soldier, giving his gun to a comrade, threw himself on his stomach and crawled in the darkness, grabbing the legs of this obscure hero from behind. He wobbled like an oak under the ax, fighting furiously, until, losing his footing, he fell, crying out in a loud voice:

“Come help me! Friends! Come help me!”

There was no answer to his plea.

At the other end of the crossroad, the rebels, after a desperate fight, a combat of men sacrificing their lives, surrendered. The major part of the Duc de Sairmeuse infantry ran forward. They could hear the drums beating the order to charge; they could see the gun barrels shining in the night. Lacheneur, who had stayed in the same spot, motionless under the gun fire, knew that his last companions were going to be crushed. At this supreme moment, the past flashed before him, as rapid as a bolt of lightning. He saw and judged himself. Hate had led him to crime. He was horrified by the shame he had forced upon his daughter. He damned himself for the lies with which he had deceived all these brave people who were getting killed. There had been enough blood; those remaining had to be saved.

“Cease fire, friends!” he commanded. “Leave.”

They obeyed him and he could see shadows scattering in all directions. He, too, could have fled; wasn’t he mounted on a strong horse which would carry him quickly away from the enemy?

But he had sworn to himself that he would not survive the disaster. Torn by remorse, desperate, mad with sadness and impotent rage, he saw no other refuge but death. The enemy was approaching; he could have waited. He preferred to run toward them. He readied his horse; raised its bridle, dug in his spurs and dashed toward the Duke de Sairmeuse’s men.

There was a great shock; the ranks opened and there was a moment of wild confusion. But soon Lacheneur’s horse, his chest opened by bayonets, reared. He beat the air with his hooves, then his hocks folded and he fell backward, dragging his rider with him. The soldiers passing could not know that, under the horse’s body, the rider, unharmed, was struggling to get out. It was 1:30 a.m. The crossroad was deserted. Nothing broke the silence except the moans of the wounded calling to their companions, imploring help.

Before worrying about the wounded, Monsieur de Sairmeuse was wondering how to use the events of the night to the advantage of his political fortune. Now that the uprising had been quashed, the important thing was to exaggerate it. The rewards would be proportionate to the service rendered. They had picked up, he knew, a few rebels, 15 to 20, but that wasn’t enough for the splendid victory he wanted. He wanted more accused to drag before the Provost’s court, or a military tribunal. He therefore divided his troops into several detachments, which he sent in all directions with the order to search the villages, ransack isolated houses and arrest people who were suspect.

His task after that was finished; he recommended once more the most implacable severity and started on the road back to Montaignac at a fast trot. He was delighted. Like Monsieur de Courtomieu, he blessed these honest and naïve conspirators; but one fear, that he was vainly trying to put aside, poisoned his satisfaction. Was his son, the Marquis de Sairmeuse, part of the conspiracy or not? He could not, did not want to believe it; nevertheless, Père Chupin’s assurance troubled him. What had become of Martial. Had the servant sent to get him found him? Had he started back? Which way? Had he, perhaps, fallen into the hands of the peasants?

Monsieur de Sairmeuse’s joy could barely be described when, going back to his chateau after a talk with Monsieur de Courtomieu, he learned that Martial had been back a quarter of an hour.

“But the Marquis went up to his bedroom immediately as soon as he got off his horse,” added the servant.

“That’s good!” said the Duke. “I’ll join him there.”

In front of his servants, he said aloud, “That’s good.” But silently, he said to himself:

“This is the height of impertinence! I’m on a horse, firing a gun, and Monsieur, my son, goes to bed peacefully, without even asking about me!”

He came to his son’s bedroom, but the door was locked from the inside. He knocked.

“Who’s there?” asked Martial.

“It’s me! Open the door!”

Martial drew back the lock. Monsieur de Sairmeuse entered and what he saw make him shake. On the table was a washbasin full of bloodied water and Martial, his torso naked, was washing a large wound located a little above the right breast.

“You’ve been fighting!” exclaimed the Duke in a strangled voice.

“Yes.”

“You were part of it then!”

“Part of what?”

“Of the conspiracy of these miserable peasants who, in their folly, dared to dream of overturning the best of princes!”

Martial’s face showed successively profound surprise and the most violent urge to laugh.

“I think you’re joking, Monsieur,” he said

The young man’s attitude and tone somewhat reassured the Duke without, however, entirely removing his suspicions.

“Then it was those vile wretches who attacked you?” he asked.

“Not at all! I was simply obliged to fight a duel.”

“With whom? Tell me the name of the rascal who dared provoke you.”

A slight flush colored Martial’s cheeks, but with his habitual light tone, he answered:

“Ma foi, non! I won’t tell you who he is. You might upset him; and I owe this boy gratitude. It was on the main highway. He could have killed me without any trouble and he offered me a fair fight. Besides, he’s wounded more seriously than I am.”

All Monsieur de Sairmeuse’s doubts returned.

“If that’s true,” he said, “why, instead of calling a doctor, have you locked yourself here to take care of your wound?”

“Because it’s not serious and I want to keep it a secret.”

The Duke shook his head.

“All that’s not very plausible,” he stated, “especially after the assurances I was given of your complicity in the revolt.”

The young man shrugged in a most irreverent way.

“Really?” he said. “By whom? By your chief spy, probably, this worthless fellow Chupin. It astonishes me, Monsieur, that you hesitate even one moment between your son’s word and this rascal’s reports.”

“Don’t badmouth Chupin, Marquis. He’s a valuable man. Without him, we would have been taken by surprise. It’s through him that I learned of the plot put together by Lacheneur.”

“What! It was Lacheneur…!”

“Who was the head of the conspiracy? Yes, Marquis, they played you like a fiddle. You were always crammed into that house, and yet you didn’t suspect a thing! Your mistress’ father conspires; she herself conspires, and you didn’t suspect a thing! You saw only an ordinary home, and you seek to enter the diplomatic service! But wait, there’s something even better. Do you know what the money you so magnificently gave to these people was used for? It was used to buy guns, power and bullets to shoot at us.”

Now, the Duke was sneering as much as he liked. From that point on, he was completely reassured and was only trying to goad his son. That was a vain effort. Martial recognized that he had been fooled, but he was far from being indignant.

“If Lacheneur was captured,” he was thinking, “if he is condemned to death, and if I save him, Marie-Anne won’t be able to refuse me anything.”

 

 

XXIV

 

 

Having discovered the reason for Maurice’s constant absences, the Baron d’Escorval had been able to hide his grief and his fears from his wife. That was the first time that he had kept a secret from his life’s faithful and valiant companion. He had gone to beg Father Midon to follow him to Lacheneur’s house without telling her. He had hidden from her his dash to the Croix-d’Arcy. That silence explained Madame d’Escorval’s astonishment, when neither her husband nor her son appeared at dinner time. Maurice was sometimes late, but the Baron, like all hard workers, was timeliness itself. What unusual event had happened? Her surprise turned to concern when she was told that her husband had just left with Father Midon. They had hurriedly hitched up the carriage themselves without saying a word, and instead of driving through the courtyard as usual, they had gone through the back gate. What did that mean? Why these strange precautions?

Madame d’Escorval waited, shaking with unexplained foreboding. The servants shared her fright. Being fair, with a constant character, the Baron was adored by his staff; all of them would have gone through fire for him. So, toward 10 p.m., they hurried to take to their mistress a peasant who came from Sairmeuse and who had been spreading the news of the uprising. That man, suffering from a hangover, recounted strange things. He assured them that the whole countryside, ten leagues in any direction, had taken up arms, and that the Baron d’Escorval was the leader of the uprising. He himself would have volunteered if he hadn’t had a cow about to calve. He did not doubt their success, claiming that Napoleon II, Marie-Louise, and all the Imperial Marshals were hidden at Montaignac. Alas! It must be admitted that Lacheneur himself had not held back from even bigger lies when he was trying to gain recruits for his cause.

Madame d’Escorval could not swallow these ridiculous fables, but she could believe, and in fact did believe, that the Baron was the leader of this plot. What would have dismayed many women in her place, reassured her. She had entire, absolute, unwavering faith in her husband. She saw him as superior to all other men, that is to say, faultless, infallible. When he said: “That is so,” she believed him. Therefore, if her husband had organized a plot, it was right. If he had hoped for success, she was sure of it. Impatient, however, to know the result, she sent the gardener to Sairmeuse with orders to get information surreptitiously, and to hurry back as soon as he had collected something positive.

He returned exactly two hours later, pale, frightened, in tears. The disaster was already known and the peasants had recounted it with the most horrifying exaggerations. They told him that thousands of men had been killed and that an entire army had spread throughout the countryside, massacring everybody. While he was speaking, Madame d’Escorval thought she was going mad. She positively saw her husband and her son dead; worse still, mortally wounded and in agony on the highway. They were stretched out on their backs, their arms crossed, pale, bleeding, their eyes wide open, throats rattling, asking for a drop of water!

“I want to see them!” she cried out in the most frightful voice. “I’ll go to the battlefield. I’ll search among the dead until I find them. Light some torches, my friends, and come with me. You’ll help me, won’t you? You loved them; they were so good! You wouldn’t leave their bodies unburied! Oh! Those good for nothings… Those good for nothings who killed them.”

The servants were hurrying to obey, when they heard the irregular, convulsive gallop of an overworked horse and the wheels of a carriage on the road.

“There they are!” cried out the gardener. “There they are!”

Madame d’Escorval, followed by her servants, hurried outside just in time to see a carriage enter the courtyard, and to see the horse founder, give up, worn out, stumble and fall down. Father Midon and Maurice had already jumped to the ground. They were picking up and lifting out an inanimate body, stretched out on cushions in the back. Marie-Anne’s great strength had not been able to hold up under so many successive shocks; the last scene had broken her. Once in the carriage, all immediate danger gone, the desperate exaltation sustaining her courage exhausted, she became sick, and all Maurice and the Priest’s efforts to revive her were useless. Madame d’Escorval did not recognize Marie-Anne under her masculine clothes. She saw only that she was not her husband and a deadly shiver ran from her feet to her heart.

“Your father! Maurice,” she said in a stifled voice. “Where is your father?”

Up to this moment, Maurice and Father Midon had cherished the hope that Monsieur d’Escorval had returned before them. Maurice staggered and almost dropped his precious burden. The Priest saw this and, at a sign from him, two servants gently lifted Marie-Anne and carried her in. Then he went to Madame d’Escorval.

“The Baron won’t be long in arriving, Madame,” he ventured. “He probably was one of the first to flee.”

Maurice had judged his mother correctly. Hearing this, she straightened up.

“The Baron d’Escorval cannot have fled,” she interrupted. “A general doesn’t desert his men in face of the enemy. If there is a rout among his soldiers, he would throw himself in front of them. He would lead them to combat where he would be killed.”

“Mother!” stammered Maurice. “Mother!”

“Don’t try to deceive me! My husband was the leader of the rebellion. The defeated and scattered cowards ran away. God have pity on me! My husband is dead!”

As intelligent as Father Midon was, he could not understand Madame d’Escorval. He thought that grief had made that suffering woman lose her mind.

“Madame!” he cried out, “the Baron didn’t have anything to do with this insurrection, far from it.”

He stopped. All this was happening in a courtyard closed off only by an iron fence, in the light of torches lit by the servants. People could see from the road. He understood the need for discretion.

“Come inside, Madame,” he said, while leading the Baroness toward the house. “And you too, Maurice, follow me!”

Madame d’Escorval followed the Priest with the silent and passive docility of great sorrow. Her body moved mechanically. Her soul and her thoughts had flown across space towards the man who had been everything to her, and whose soul and thoughts were probably calling him from the abyss where he had fallen. But after she had crossed the doorway of the drawing room, she dropped the Priest’s arm, suddenly returning to the reality of the present situation. She had just noticed Marie-Anne lying on the couch where the servants had placed her.

“Mademoiselle Lacheneur!” she stammered, “Here in that dress… dead!”

In fact, seeing her thus, stiff and cold, pale as if someone had drawn the last drop of blood from her veins, anyone would have thought her dead, the poor child. Her beautiful face was as expressionless as marble; her white lips were parted over convulsively clenched teeth, and there were large, dark blue circles under her closed eyelids. Her long dark hair, that she had pinned up to push them under her peasant’s hat, had come undone. It spread out, full and shining onto her shoulders and reached the floor. After examining her, Father Midon declared:

“This isn’t serious, just a fainting spell. She’ll come around soon.”

Then, quickly and clearly, he showed the servants, as confused as their mistress, what needed to be done. Madame d’Escorval watched, her pupils dilated with fear. She seemed to doubt her sanity and she constantly passed her hand over her forehead damp with cold sweat.

“What a night!” she murmured. “What a night!”

“You must get hold of yourself, Madame,” the Priest declared in an understanding but firm tone. “Religion and duty forbid you to give way like this! Where is your strength as a wife? As a Christian, where’s your confidence in the just and good God?”

“Oh! I have courage, Monsieur,” the unfortunate woman stammered.

Father Midon led her to an armchair where he forced her to sit down while the maids took care of Marie-Anne. With a gentler tone, he continued:

“Then, why despair, Madame? Your son is safe and near you. Your husband can’t be implicated in the rebellion. He didn’t do anything that I myself didn’t do.”

And, in a few words, with unusual clarity, he explained the Baron’s and his role during that fatal evening. But this account, far from reassuring the Baroness, seemed to increase her fear.

“I hear you, Father, and I believe you, but I also know that all the country people are convinced that my husband led the uprising. They believe that and they are saying that.”

“So?”

“If he’s been taken prisoner, as you think he has, he’ll be sent before the Provost Court. He was the Emperor’s friend. That’s a crime in itself. You know that very well! He will be tried and condemned to death.”

“No, Madame, no! Wasn’t I there? I’ll go before the Court and I’ll say: ‘I was there, I saw it, adsum qui vidi.’ ”

“And they’ll arrest you too, Father, because you’re not the kind of priest who appeals to these men’s cruel hearts. They’ll throw you in jail, and then they’ll send you to the scaffold!”

Maurice had been listening for a moment, pale, crushed, nearly fainting.

At the last words, he fell to the floor, kneeling on the rug, hiding his face in his hands.

“Ah! I’ve killed my father!” he cried out.

“Unfortunate child! What are you saying?”

The Priest motioned him to be silent, but he did not see him.

“My father didn’t even know the existence of this uprising Monsieur Lacheneur inspired, but I, I knew about it. I wanted it to succeed because my life’s happiness depended on its success. And then, worthless person that I am, when it was a matter of drawing into our ranks some indecisive and timid accomplices, I brought up the respected and beloved name of d’Escorval. Ah! I was such a fool!”

He gave a desperate gesture and, with a heart-rending expression, he added:

“And even right now, I don’t have the courage to curse my folly! Oh! Mother! Mother! If you only knew!”

Sobs cut off his words. Then, a feeble movement was heard. Marie-Anne was regaining consciousness. She was already half sitting up on the couch and she gazed at that heart-breaking scene with profound amazement, as if she understood nothing. With a slow, gentle gesture, she brushed her hair back from her forehead and blinked her eyes, dazzled by the candles’ light. She wanted to talk, to ask questions. She was trying to get her thoughts together and was looking for words to express them. Father Midon commanded silence. He was the only one among all these maddened, distracted people to keep his calm and clear-headedness. Enlightened by Madame d’Escorval’s and Maurice’s testimonies, he understood everything and clearly discerned the terrible danger which threatened the Baron d’Escorval and his son. How could he ward it off? What plan should he devise? What should he do? There was no time to explain or to think. The chances for escape were growing slimmer by the minute. It was necessary to decide something immediately and to take action. Father Midon had the courage to do so. He ran to the drawing room door and called to the servants grouped on the stairway.

“Listen to me carefully,” he told them in that short commanding voice which reveals the certainty of approaching danger. “And remember that the lives of your masters may depend on your discretion. We can count on you, can’t we?”

Everyone’s hand was raised as if to swear.

“In less than an hour,” continued the Priest, “the soldiers following the trail of the fleeing conspirators will be here. Not a word of what has happened this evening must be said. So far as anyone knows, I left with the Baron and came back alone. None of you saw Mademoiselle Lacheneur. We’re going to find her a hiding place. Remember, my friends, just a suspicion of her presence here will lose everything. If the soldiers question you, persuade them that Monsieur Maurice didn’t go out this evening.”

He stopped, trying to see if he had forgotten anything that human prudence could suggest, and added:

“Just one more word. To see us all up at this hour might appear suspicious. Here’s what I propose: We will claim, to justify ourselves, that we were worried about the absence of the Baron, and that Madame la Baronne had a serious indisposition. She is going to go to bed immediately. This way, she’ll avoid a possible interrogation. And you, Maurice, go and change your clothes… and above all, wash your hands very well, and afterwards, put some perfume on them.”

Everyone, fearing an imminent catastrophe, in less than no time, did everything that the Priest had commanded. Marie-Anne, although far from recovered, was taken to a little room in the attic. Madame d’Escorval retired to her bedroom and the servants went back to their duties. Maurice and the Priest remained alone in the drawing room, silent and worried. Father Midon’s calm face hid his terrible anxiety. At this moment, he believed that Monsieur d’Escorval had been taken prisoner, and all his precautions had only one aim: to keep any suspicions of complicity away from Maurice. He thought that was the only way he could save the Baron. Would his efforts succeed? A loud bell ringing at the gate interrupted him. One could hear footsteps in the garden going to open the gate, the creaking of the wrought iron gate itself, then the trampling sounds of a company of soldiers in the courtyard. A loud voice commanded:

“Halt. Rest your arms!”

The Priest looked at Maurice and saw that he was as pale as if he were about to die.

“Calm down!” he said. “Don’t look afraid. Keep calm. And don’t forget my instructions.”

“They can come in,” said Maurice. “I have courage.”

The drawing room door opened, pushed so hard that the two sides of the French doors gave way as if struck by a shoulder. A young man wearing the uniform of a captain of the Grenadiers entered. He appeared hardly 25 years old. He was tall, thin, blond, with blue eyes and a little mustache. His whole outfit showed that his striving for elegance was exaggerated even to the ridiculous. Ordinarily, his face showed only self-satisfaction, but at this moment, it bore a savage expression. Behind him, in the landing’s shadow, one could see several soldiers’ arms shining. He glanced around the room defiantly and then asked in a rough voice:

“Where is the master of the house?”

“My father is not at home,” answered Maurice.

“Where is he?’

Father Midon, who had remained seated to that point, stood up.

“At the sound of this evening’s disastrous uprising,” he replied, “the Baron and I went to find the peasants to beg them to give up their insane enterprise. Alas, they wouldn’t listen to us. During the retreat, I was separated from Baron d’Escorval. I came back here, alone, and I’m expecting him…”

The captain twirled his mustache with the most jeering air.

“Not a bad story!” he said. “Only I don’t believe a word of that lie.”

At that, the priest’s eyes flashed, his lips trembled, but he didn’t speak.

“But, as a mater of fact,” the officer continued, “who are you?”

“I am Father Midon, priest of Sairmeuse.”

“Well! Honest priests should be in bed at this hour, instead of going gallivanting at night with rebelling peasants. I really don’t know what keeps me from arresting you.”

What held him back was the priest’s robe, all powerful under the Restoration. With Maurice, the officer was less restrained.

“How many residents are there here?”

“Three. My father, my mother, who is sick right now, and I.”

“And servants?”

“Seven, four men and three women.”

“You haven’t taken in or hidden anyone this evening?”

“No one.”

“That’s what we’re going to check,” said the Captain. “Corporal Bavois!” he called out.

Bavois was one of those old men who, for 15 years, had followed the Emperor across Europe. He was dryer than his gun’s flint. Two terrible gray eyes lit up his tanned face, divided by an enormous, thin nose bent over a huge, scrubby moustache.

“Bavois,” the officer commanded, “take half a dozen men and search this house from top to bottom. You’re an old fox who knows all the hiding places. If there’s one, you’ll find it. If someone is hidden anywhere, bring him to me. Get going and don’t waste any time!”

After the Corporal had left, the Captain went back to his questions.

“Just the two of us now,” he said to Maurice.” What have you done this evening?”

The young man hesitated a moment, but, with well-acted casualness, he answered:

“I haven’t put my nose outside.”

“Hum! That’s what you’ll have to prove. Let me see your hands.”

This handsome officer’s tone of voice was so offensive that Maurice felt anger rising to his face. Fortunately, a glance from Father Midon told him to be calm. He held out his hands and the Captain examined them minutely, turned them over and over, and finally smelled them.

“All right,” he said. “Your hands are too white and smell too good to have fired a gun.”

It was clear that he was surprised that the son had stayed by the fireside while his father had led peasants into battle.

“Something else. You must have guns here?”

“Yes, hunting guns.”

“Where are they?’

“In a little room on the ground floor.”

“You’ll have to take me there.”

Seeing that not one of the double-barreled shot guns had been fired for several days, the officer appeared vexed. When the Corporal returned to tell him that, having searched everywhere, he had not found anything suspicious, he became furious.

“Call the servants,” he ordered.

But the servants did nothing except faithfully repeat what the Priest had told them. The Captain understood that, if there was anything suspect, as he believed, he would not find it out. He swore that if they were deceiving him, they would pay dearly for it, and then, he called Bavois again.

“I have to continue my rounds,” he told him. “But you, Corporal, you’re going to stay here with these two men. You’ll have to report everything you see and hear. If Monsieur d’Escorval returns, grab him for me and don’t let him go. And keep your eyes open! Good!”

He added some other instructions in a low voice, and then he left as he had entered, without saluting.

The sound of the troops going had barely faded in the night when the Corporal let out a terrible oath.

“Did you hear him, that pretty Cadet? Listen, watch, arrest, report. Tonnerre de Dieu! He takes us for spies. Ah! If the Emperor could only see what they’ve made of his old soldiers!”

The other two soldiers answered with a deep groan.

“As for you,” the old soldier went on, addressing Maurice and Father Midon, “I, Bavois, Corporal of the Grenadiers, tell you, both in my name and in the name of my two men here, that you’re free as a bird, and that we won’t arrest anyone. Even if you need a hand to get the young Monsieur’s father out of a mess, we’re your men. He thinks, that pretty darling who commands us, that we fought for him this evening! Come here! Look at my gun. I didn’t fire a shot. And my friends did the same.”

That man, assuredly, could be sincere—but he might not be.

“We have nothing to hide,” said the circumspect Father Midon.

The old corporal winked with a knowing look.

“Right,” he said, “you don’t trust me. You’re wrong, and I’m going to prove it to you. Because, you see, it’s easy to pull the wool over the eyes of that green-horn who’s just left here. It’s a little harder to fool Corporal Bavois. That’s how it is. You shouldn’t leave around in the courtyard a gun which certainly wasn’t used to shoot blackbirds.”

The Priest and Maurice looked at each other astounded. Maurice, then, remembered that when he jumped from the carriage to support Marie-Anne, he had leaned his gun against the wall. It had been overlooked by the servants.

“Secondly,” continued Bavois. “There’s somebody hidden up here. I have sharp ears! Thirdly, I arranged it so no one entered the bedroom of the sick lady.”

Maurice could not contain himself any longer. He held out his hand to the Corporal and in an emotion voice said:

“You’re a good man!”

Some instants later, Maurice, Father Midon, and Madame d’Escorval, united again in the drawing room, were deliberating on what safety measures had to be taken. Suddenly, Marie-Anne appeared. She had repaired the disorder of her attire as well as she could. She was still terribly pale, but her step was firm.

“I’m going to leave, Madame,” she said to the Baroness. “Now that I’m conscious, I can’t accept hospitality which might bring so many misfortunes on your house. Alas! Having known me has already cost your house so many tears and so much mourning. Do you understand now why I wanted to keep myself at a distance? I had a foreboding that my family would be fatal to yours. “

“Unfortunate child! Where will you go?”

Marie-Anne lifted her eyes toward Heaven, where she was placing all her hopes.

“I don’t know, Madame,” she said, “but duty calls. I must learn what’s happened to my father and my brother and share their fate.”

“What!” cried out Maurice. “Are you still thinking about death! You know very well that you don’t have the right to dispose of your life!”

He stopped. He had almost let escape a secret which was not his. But an idea came to him. He threw himself at Madame d’Escorval’s feet.

“Oh! Mother!” he said to her. “Will you let her leave? I might die trying to save my father. She whom I’ve loved so much would become your daughter then. You could lavish your divine tenderness on her.”

 

 

XXV

 

 

Madame d’Escorval did not know the secret that the approach of death had snatched from Marie-Anne at the height of the gunfire at the Croix-d’Arcy, when she joined her voice to her son’s prayers to beg the unhappy young girl to stay. But that fact did not upset Maurice. His faith in his mother was absolute and complete. He was sure she would pardon him when she learned the truth. Loving women, chaste wives and mothers without reproach, keep at the bottom of their heart treasures of indulgence for the impulses of passion. They can feel contempt for, and stand up to, the hypocritical prejudices of those whose immaculate virtue has never had to withstand the shameful compromises of society. Besides, was there ever a mother who, secretly, did not excuse the young girl unable to defend herself from her son’s love, that son whom her imagination endows with irresistible seduction? All these thoughts had gone through Maurice’s mind, and more calm about Marie-Anne’s situation, he thought only of his father.

At daylight, Maurice declared that he was going to put on a disguise and go to Montaignac. At these words, Madame d’Escorval turned away, hiding her face to stifle her sobs in the cushions of the couch. She was trembling for her husband’s life, and now her son was throwing himself into danger. She might have neither husband nor son before the Sun, now rising, set. However, she did not say, “No! I don’t wish it!” Wasn’t Maurice fulfilling a sacred duty? She would love him less if she thought him capable of a cowardly hesitation. If it was necessary, she would dry her tears to say, “Go!” Wasn’t anything preferable to the horrors of that uncertainty which they had endured for hours? Maurice had already reached the door to go upstairs to don a disguise when Father Midon motioned him to stay.

“It is, in fact, necessary to hurry to Montaignac,” the Priest said, “but to don a disguise would be folly. You would surely be recognized and, without a doubt, they would characterize you with the axiom: “You’re hiding; therefore, you’re guilty.” You must go openly, your head held high, exaggerating your assurance of innocence. Go straight to the Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtomieu, and shout injustice loudly. But I want to go with you. We’ll take a two-horse carriage.”

Maurice seemed undecided.

“Follow Father Midon’s advice, my son,” said Madame d’Escorval. “He knows better than we what we should do.”

“So I will, Mother!”

The Priest had not waited for this agreement to order the carriage to be hitched up. Madame d’Escorval went out to write a few lines to a friend whose husband carried a certain influence in Montaignac. Maurice and his love remained alone. It was the first moment of solitude and freedom they had had since Marie-Anne’s confession. They were standing within two steps of each other, their eyes still shining with tears shed. They remained thus an instant, motionless, pale, overwhelmed, and too emotional to translate their feelings into words. Finally, Maurice went forward to embrace his lover.

“Marie-Anne, my beloved,” he murmured. “I didn’t know anyone could love more than I loved you yesterday. And you, you wanted to die when another precious life depends on your life!”

She shook her head sadly.

“I was terrified,” she stammered. “The shameful future I saw, and which, alas, I still see, spread out before me, horrified me enough to make me insane. Now, I’m resigned. I’ll accept without complaint whatever punishment I receive for my horrible sin. I will humble myself under the outrages which await me.”

“Outrages! To you! Woe to whoever would dare! But wouldn’t you be my wife before men as you are before God? Our bad luck must end, at last!”

“No, Maurice, no! It will never end.”

“Ah! You’re the one without pity! I see it only too well. You despise me; you despise the day we first looked at each other! Admit it! Say it!”

Marie-Anne straightened up.

“I would be lying if I said that,” she replied. “My cowardly heart doesn’t have that courage. I’m suffering; I’m humiliated and broken, but I don’t regret anything…”

She didn’t finish; he drew her to him; their faces were near and their lips and their tears mingled in a kiss.

“You love me! You love me!” Maurice cried out. “We’ll triumph! I’ll find a way to save my father and yours; I’ll save your brother!”

In the courtyard, the horses were pawing the ground. Father Midon shouted:

“Well, are we leaving?”

Madame d’Escorval came out with a letter that she gave to Maurice. She trembled and convulsively embraced the son she feared she would never see again. Then, gathering all her strength, she pushed him away, saying only one word:

“Go!”

He left, and as the rolling of the carriage carrying him away grew faint in the distance, Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne fell on their knees, imploring pity from the God of just causes. They could do nothing but pray.

Father Midon, on the other hand, was doing something, or rather he was beginning to set in motion a plan of salvation which he had conceived. He explained it to Maurice as they drove the galloping horses.

“If, by giving yourself up, you could save your father,” he said, “I would be the first to shout: ‘Give yourself up and confess the truth; it’s your absolute duty.’ But your sacrifice would be more than useless; it would be dangerous. The prosecution would never agree to treat you separately from your father. They would keep you, but they wouldn’t let him go, and both of you would undoubtedly be condemned. Instead, let—I won’t say ‘justice’ for that would be blasphemous—the rascals who dare call themselves judges be led astray about your father’s participation in the rebellion, and attribute to him everything you did. At the trial, we’ll come in with the most glaring proofs of innocence, with an alibi so unbreakable that they’ll be forced to acquit him. And I know enough people in the region to make sure that not one of those accused will reveal our maneuver.”

“But if we don’t succeed,” Maurice asked darkly, “what is there left for me to do?”

The question was so terrible that the Priest did not dare answer. Maurice and he remained silent all the rest of the way.

They finally arrived, however, and Maurice recognized how wise Father Midon had been in keeping him from disguising himself .

Armed with the widest powers, the Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtomieu had all the gates of Montaignac but one closed. Those who wanted to enter or leave had to go through that one. Two officers there examined those entering and leaving, questioned them, and even wrote down their names and descriptions. At the name of d’Escorval, Maurice could not help noticing that the two officers were obviously startled.

“Ah! So you know what’s happened to my father!” he asked.

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

As prepared as he was for that reply, Maurice turned pale.

“Is he wounded?” he quickly asked.

“He doesn’t have a scratch! But go in, Monsieur, go in!”

Judging by the worried looks of these officers, one would have thought that they feared being compromised by merely chatting with the son of such a great criminal. Perhaps, in fact, they were compromising themselves. The carriage rolled on and it had not gone 100 meters when Father Midon and Maurice noticed several posters stuck to the walls in the main street.

“We have to find out what that is,” they said at the same time.

They had the carriage stop near one of the posters where there was already a reader standing. They got down and read:

WARRANT FOR ARREST

ARTICLE I: The inhabitants of the house in which Monsieur Lacheneur is found will be turned over to a military commission for having taken up arms.

ARTICLE II: A reward of 20,000 francs will be given to whoever delivers the afore-mentioned Monsieur Lacheneur dead or alive.

It was signed: Duc de Sairmeuse.

“Dieu soit loué!” Maurice exclaimed. “Marie-Anne’s father has escaped. He had a good horse, and in two hours…”

A shoulder nudge and a look from Father Midon stopped him. The Priest pointed out to him the man standing near them. It none other than Père Chupin. The old petty thief had recognized them, because he took off his hat before Father Midon, and, with looks which glowed with the most ardent covetousness, he said:

“20,000 francs! That’s some reward, that is! Putting it out for interest, you could live your whole life on just the interest!”

Father Midon and Maurice shivered as they got back in the carriage. It had been impossible for them to misunderstand Chupin’s tone. The great amount had dazzled and fascinated the rascal to the point that he had dropped his usual cunning mask. He had given himself away. He had shown his detestable projects and what abominable hopes were stirring within his filthy soul.

“Lacheneur is lost if that man discovers his hiding place,” murmured Father Midon.

“With some luck,” answered Maurice, “he must have crossed the border. It’s 100 to one that he’s now too far away to risk being captured.”

“What if you’re mistaken? What if, wounded and losing blood, Lacheneur had just enough strength to drag himself to the nearest house to ask for shelter?”

“Oh! Father, I know our people. There isn’t one who would be capable of selling a wanted man!”

That noble youthful enthusiasm drew from the Priest the sad smile of experience.

“You’re forgetting,” he said, “the threats tacked up beside the instigations to treason and murder. Someone who might not soil his hands with blood money, may still be carried away by fear.”

They were following the main road and they were struck by the gloomy aspect of Montaignac, a little city that was usually so lively and happy. Dismay and fright reigned everywhere. The shops were closed; the shutters of the houses remained shut. There was a dismal silence everywhere. One would have said there was general mourning and that each family had lost one of its members. The walk of the few passersby was uneasy and odd. They hurried along, throwing worried looks in all directions. Two or three, who were the Baron’s acquaintances, and who crossed in front of the carriage, turned away with a frightened look to avoid a greeting.

Father Midon and Maurice were to find out the explanation of these terrors at the hotel where they had instructed their coachman to take them. They had asked to be taken to the Hotel de France, where the Baron d’Escorval stayed when he came to Montaignac, and whose proprietor was none other than Monsieur Langeron, that friend of Lacheneur who was the first to tell him about the Duc de Sairmeuse’s return. That brave man, learning what guests were arriving, went to greet them, right in the middle of the courtyard, his white cap in his hand. That day, this politeness was heroism. Was he part of the uprising? He was always thought to be. The fact is that he invited Maurice and the Priest to have something to drink in a way so as to let them know that he wanted to speak to them, and he took them to a room which he knew safe from listening ears.

Thanks to one of the Duc de Sairmeuse’s valets who frequented his establishment, Langeron knew as much as the authorities; he knew even more, since he had received, at the same time, information from those of the rebels who were still at large. Through him, Maurice and Father Midon learned what was going on. First of all, there was no news of Lacheneur, nor of his son, Jean; they had escaped the most strenuous searches. In the second place, there was, right then, about 200 prisoners held inside the Citadel, and the Baron d’Escorval and Chanlouineau were among those. Finally, since that morning, there had not been fewer than 60 arrests, even in Montaignac. It was generally thought that these arrests were the work of a traitor and the entire city was trembling.

But Langeron knew their source, which his guest, the Duke’s valet, had given him, swearing him to secrecy.

“It’s an unbelievable story, Messieurs,” he said. “However, it’s true. Two officers of the legion were returning from a scouting mission this morning, walking through the crossroad at Croix-d’Arcy, when they saw a dead man in a ditch, dressed in the uniform of the former Imperial Guard.”

Maurice was shaking. That unfortunate man was undoubtedly the brave officer on half-pay who had come to join his column on the road to Sairmeuse, after speaking to Lacheneur.

“Naturally,” Langeron went on, “the two officers approached the body. They examined it, and what did they find? A paper between the lips of the poor dead man. As you well might think, they grabbed it, opened it and read it. It was a list of all the conspirators in the city and some others too, whose names had only been put there as bait. Knowing he was dying, the former guide had wanted to do away with the fatal list, but dying convulsions kept him from swallowing it.”

However, neither the Priest nor Maurice had time to listen to the commentaries with which the hotel keeper accompanied his story. They hastened to send an express letter to Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne, meant to reassure them, and, without losing a minute, decided to risk everything.

 They started toward the house occupied by the Duc de Sairmeuse. When they got there, an emotional crowd thronged in front of the door. They found there at least 100 persons, men with stunned faces, women in tears, who were begging for an audience. These were the relatives of the unfortunate men who had been arrested. Two footmen in superb livery, with an important air, had all the trouble in the world holding back the growing wave of supplicants. Father Midon, hoping that his clerical robe would gain them admittance, went forward and introduced himself. He was pushed back like the others.

“The Duke is working and can’t see anyone,” replied a footman. “The Duke is drawing up a report for his Majesty.”

And to back up his words, the footman pointed into the courtyard at the already saddled horses of the couriers who were to carry the dispatches. The Priest sadly rejoined his companion.

“Let’s wait!” he told him.

Willingly or not, the footmen had deceived all these poor people. Monsieur de Sairmeuse, at this very moment, was not concerned about his reports. A scene of the worst violence had just broken out between Monsieur de Courtomieu and himself. Each one of these noble heads claimed he had played the primary role—the one that would be the highest paid, undoubtedly—in quashing the rebellion. This was a conflict of ambitions and powers. They had begun by exchanging a few recriminations, and they had quickly escalated to sharp words, bitter allusions, and, finally, to threats. The Marquis wanted to use the most terrible—he called it the most beneficial—punishments. The Duc de Sairmeuse, on the contrary, inclined toward indulgence. The first held that since Lacheneur, the chief of the conspirators, and his son had not yet been captured by those tracking them, it was urgent to arrest Marie-Anne. The other declared that seizing and imprisoning a young girl would be an impolitic act, an error which would make the authorities look more odious and the rebels more sympathetic. And each man, stubborn in his opinion, argued without convincing the other.

“We must discourage the rebels by filling their hearths with terror!” shouted Monsieur de Courtomieu.

“I don’t want to aggravate public opinion!”

“What does public opinion matter?”

“All right! But then, give me soldiers whose loyalties are assured. Don’t you know what happened last night? They burned enough powder to win a battle, but there weren’t 15 peasants lying on the ground. Most of our men fired in the air. You don’t understand that the Montaignac legion is comprised more than half of Buonaparte’s former soldiers, who would prefer to turn their guns against us!”

Neither one, nor the other, wanted to say out loud the true reason for their stubbornness. Mademoiselle Blanche had arrived in Montaignac that morning. She had told her father her anguish and her suffering, and she had made him swear that he would take advantage of this opportunity to get Marie-Anne out of her way. For his part, the Duc de Sairmeuse, convinced that Marie-Anne was his son’s mistress, did not want her at any price to appear before a tribunal. Finally, the Marquis gave in. The Duke had said to him:

“All right! Let’s settle this quarrel,” while looking so lovingly at a pair of dueling pistols that Monsieur de Courtomieu had felt a shiver run the length of his spine.

They then left together to visit the prisoners, preceded by soldiers who pushed aside the petitioners, and other people who had vainly waited for the Duc de Sairmeuse to return.

For the entire day, Maurice could not take his eyes off the aerial telegraph set up on the Citadel, and whose black arms moved constantly.

“What orders are being sent across space?” he asked Father Midon. “Is it life? Is it death?”

 

 

XXVI

 

 

“Above all, hurry!” Maurice had told the messenger he had charged with carrying a letter to his mother. However, that man did not reach Escorval until nightfall. Filled with fear, he had wandered about trying to find roads to take and had gone ten leagues to avoid everybody he saw, peasants or soldiers. Madame d’Escorval snatched, rather than took, the letter from his hand. She opened it, read it aloud and said only one word:

“Let’s go!”

That was easier to say than to do. There had never been but three horses at Escorval. One was three-fourths dead from his furious race of the preceding night; the two others were at Montaignac. What was there to do? The only resource was to rely on the kindness of neighbors. But her neighbors, formerly good people, absolutely refused to lend their horses. They believed it would seriously compromise them if they helped, as small as the service might seem, the wife of a man currently under the most serious of accusations.

Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne were already talking about starting out on foot, when Corporal Bavois, indignant at so much cowardice, swore in the sacred name of thunder that he would not let that happen.

“Just a minute!” he said. “I’ll take care of this!”

He went away and, 15 minutes later, he reappeared leading by the halter an old plow mare, very slow, very heavy, that they harnessed as well as they could and attached her to a small carriage. They would go at a snail’s pace, but they would go.

And that was not the end of the old soldier’s help. Since Monsieur d’Escorval had been arrested, his mission was ended, and there was nothing more for him to do but rejoin his regiment. But he declared that he would not let the “ladies” travel alone, at night, on a road where they would be open to dangerous encounters, and he would escort them with his two Grenadiers.

“And too bad for anybody who gives us any trouble,” he said, striking the butt of his gun with a fidgety hand. “Civilian or military man, we don’t care! Isn’t that right, you two?”

As usual, his two men agreed by swearing. And, in fact, Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne saw them going ahead of, or following, the carriage, or, most often, walking beside it, all the way to Montaignac. Only at the gates of the city did the old soldier leave his “protégées,” but not without taking leave of them, both in his name and those of his two men, not without putting himself at their service if they ever needed him: Bavois, Corporal of the Grenadiers, 1st Company, stationed in the Citadel.

10 a. m. struck when Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne stepped down in the courtyard of the Hotel de France. They found Maurice desperate and Father Midon losing courage, because, since Maurice had written, events had gone forward with frightening speed. They now understood the orders which came by telegraph. They had been printed and posted. The telegraph said:

Montaignac should be considered as under a state of siege. The military authority has discretionary power. A military court will act in lieu of the Prevost Court. Let peaceful citizens rest easy and the wicked tremble! As for the rebels, the sword of the law will fall on them!

Six lines in all, but each line was a threat. What made Father Midon tremble most was the substitution of a military court for the Prevost Court. That upset all his plans, nullified all his precautions, took away the last chances of salvation. The Prevost Court was certainly fast and impassioned, but at least, it forced itself to observe formalities; it still kept something of the solemnity of regular justice, which wanted to hear evidence before pronouncing sentence. A military court would inevitably neglect all procedure and summarily condemn the accused, as in time of war it condemned a spy.

“What!” Maurice cried out. “They would dare condemn without an investigation, without interviewing witnesses, without letting the accused confront the accusers, without giving the accused time to get together facts for their defense!”

Father Midon was silent. His worst fears had already been realized. From now on, he thought anything was possible. Maurice was talking about an investigation. It had begun that morning, and it continued by the light of the jailers’ lanterns. That meant that the Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtomieu, by the declaration of a state of siege, were now preparing to try the prisoners. They had 300 of them and they had decided that they would choose the 30 guiltiest to turn over to the military court. How would they choose them? How could they determine the degree of guilt of each of these unfortunate men? They would have been hard put to say. They went from one to the other, asking questions at random, and according to what the terrified man said, according to whether or not they liked his looks, they said to the secretary accompanying them, “For tomorrow,” or “This other one for later.”

At daylight, there were 30 names on a piece of paper, and the first two were those of Baron d’Escorval and Chanlouineau.

None of the anxious people gathered at the Hotel de France could suspect what was going on. They sweated their fear during that night, which seemed never-ending to them. Dawn was already making the candles seem faint when they head the reveille sound at the Citadel. A day of new trials was starting.

Father Midon announced that he was going alone to see the Duc de Sairmeuse and that he would be able to gain admittance. He had bathed his red and swollen eyes with cold water and he was about to leave when there was a discrete knock at the door.

Maurice shouted: “Come in!” and Monsieur Langeron appeared. Just the look on his face told of a great misfortune, and the worthy man was truly upset. He came to say that the military court had been appointed. Despising all human laws and the most common rules of justice, the Presidency of that tribunal of vengeance and hate had been given to the Duc de Sairmeuse. And he had accepted it, he, who during all the events was going to be a participant, a witness, and a judge. All the other members were military men.

“When does the court begin its proceedings?” asked Father Midon.

“Right today,” replied the hotel keeper in a hesitant voice, “this morning, in an hour, maybe sooner.”

Father Midon understsood that the hotel keeper wanted to say, and didn’t dare: “The court has already convened. Hurry up!”

“Come!” he said to Maurice. “I want to be present when they interrogate your father.”

What wouldn’t the Baroness have given to be able to follow the priest and her son! She could not do that; she knew it and resigned herself. They left and, once in the street, they saw a soldier, who, from a distance, gave them a friendly sign. They recognized Corporal Bavois and stopped. But he, passing near them with an air of indifference as if he didn’t know them, threw this sentence to them:

“I’ve seen Chanlouineau; there’s hope. He promises to save Monsieur d’Escorval.”

 

 

XXVII

 

 

There was an old construction called the “Chapel” built in the middle of the second row of the fortifications of the Montaignac Citadel. Formerly a consecrated church, the Chapel was no longer used. It was so damp it could not even be used to store the ammunition for the artillery regiment. The gun carriages stored there rusted quicker than in the open air. Blackish moss covered the walls as high as a man’s head.

This was the place the Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtomieu had chosen for the military court’s sessions. Immediately upon their arrival, Maurice and Father Midon felt as if a cold shroud had fallen on their shoulders. For an instant, an indefinable anxiety paralyzed all their senses. But the court had not yet convened; they could get their bearings and watch.

The lack of care taken to transform that gloomy room into a tribunal testified to the haste and the intention of the judges to close the cases as quickly and harshly as possible. One could guess their absolute disdain for all formalities and the frightful certainty of the result. A large camp bed found in a guard room and carried during the night by the soldiers on duty, made up the stage. They had had to put something under one side to keep it from slanting. Three heavy tables borrowed from the barracks, draped with horse blankets in lieu of a proper table covering, were placed on the stage. White wooden chairs had been set up for the judges; in the middle, the President’s chair shone, a superb sculpted and gilded armchair, sent by the Duc de Sairmeuse. Several oak benches placed in two rows, end to end, were set up for the accused at the foot of the stage. Finally, several ropes used to tie fodder strung from one wall to the other, fixed by iron clamps, divided the chapel into two sections. This was a precaution against the public. Alas! This was a useless precaution. Father Midon and Maurice expected to find a crowd too large for the room, vast as it was, but they found it almost empty. They had not taken into consideration human cowardice. Fear, an infamous advisor, kept the people of Montaignac hidden in their houses. There were not 20 people in the whole chapel. Against the wall at the back, 12 men were standing, their eyes burning with a gloomy light, their teeth clenched in anger. These were the officers on half-pay. Three other men, dressed in black, chatted in a low voice near the door. In a corner, some country women, their aprons thrown over their heads, were weeping and their sobs broke the silence. These were the mothers, the wives and the daughters of the accused.

Nine o’clock struck. A drum roll made the panes of the only window shake. A loud voice outside cried out: “Present Arms!” The military court entered, followed by the Marquis de Courtomieu and various civil servants. The Duc de Sairmeuse was in full uniform, a little red-faced perhaps, but even haughtier than usual. Of the other two judges, one, a young lieutenant, appeared moved.

“The session is open!” declared the Duc de Sairmeuset. And, in a loud voice he added: “Bring in the guilty.”

He didn’t even have the decency to say “the accused.”

They appeared and, one by one, until there were 30, took their places on the benches at the foot of the stage. Chanlouineau held his head high and looked in every direction with confident glances. The Baron d’Escorval was calm and grave, but not more so than when, in the past, he had been called on to give advice to the Emperor. Both of them saw Maurice, forced to lean against the Priest in order not to fall. But whereas the Baron gave his son a simple nod of his head, Chanlouineau made a sign which clearly meant: “Have confidence in me. Don’t be afraid.”

The attitude of the other rebels showed surprise rather than fear. They might not have been aware of what they had dared attempt, nor the danger which now threatened them. When the accused were seated, which took a little time, a Captain, who was acting as prosecutor, rose. His opening speech, extremely violent, lasted less than five minutes. He briefly set forth the facts, praised the merits of the Restoration Government, and concluded by demanding the death penalty for all 30 accused. When he had finished speaking, the Duc de Sairmeuse called the first conspirator from the bench.

“Rise.”

Chanlouineau rose.

“Last and first name, age and profession?”

“Chanlouineau, Eugène-Michel, age twenty-nine, farmer.”

“Farmer of land confiscated and sold by the previous regime.”

“But legitimately purchased with good money, earned by hard work.”

The Duc de Sairmeuse did not want to pick up the challenge, because it actually was a good point.

“You were part of the rebellion,” he continued.

“Yes.”

“You’re right to confess, because we’re going to bring in witnesses who will recognize you.”

Five Grenadiers came in, some of whom Chanlouineau had held off while Maurice, Father Midon and Marie-Anne had gotten into the carriage. These soldiers swore that they recognized the accused, and one of them even broke into ill-timed praise of his actions, declaring that he was a strong fellow, admirably brave. Chanlouineau’s eyes, during that deposition, showed some concern. Would the soldiers talk about the carriage? No, they did not.

“That’s enough,” interrupted the President. Then, turning toward Chanlouineau, he asked him: “What were your plans?”

“We were hoping to get rid of a government imposed by foreigners. We wanted to free ourselves of the nobles’ insolence and keep our lands.”

“That’s enough! You were one of the leaders of the revolt?”

“One of the four leaders, yes.”

“Who were the others?”

An almost imperceptible smile slid over the Chanlouineau’s lips. He seemed to collect his thoughts and said;

“The others were Monsieur Lacheneur, his son, Jean, and the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”

The Duc de Sairmeuse jumped out of his gilded chair.

“Miserable!” he cried out, “Scoundrel! Vile Villain!”

He picked up a heavy inkwell placed in front of him and seemed about to throw it at the accused’s head. Only Chanlouineau remained impassive in the middle of the assembly, extraordinarily excited by his declaration.

“You’re asking me a question; I’m answering it,” he replied. “Have me gagged if my answers bother you. If there are witnesses for me here, as there are against me, they’ll tell you if I’m lying. But all the accused here can swear to you that I’m telling the truth. Isn’t that right, everybody?”

With the exception of the Baron d’Escorval, there wasn’t one of the accused capable of understanding the consequences of the reckless bravery of Chanlouineau’s allegations. Nevertheless, they all nodded their heads in agreement.

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse was such a good leader,” continued the brave peasant, “that he was wounded with a saber blow while fighting by my side.”

The Duc de Sairmeuse was now more crimson than a man having a stroke, and fury almost deprived him of speech.

“You’re lying, you rascal,” he stammered. “You’re lying!”

“Have the Marquis brought in,” Chanlouineau said calmly, “and we’ll see if he is or isn’t wounded.”

It was certain that the Duke’s attitude would have made any observer wonder what was going on. He doubted now, more than he did the night before, when he had seen Martial’s wound. Fortunately for Monsieur de Sairmeuse, one of the judges got him out of his difficulty.

“I hope, Monsieur le President, that you aren’t going to satisfy this arrogant rebel; the court would oppose it.”

Chanlouineau burst out laughing.

“Naturally,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll be without a head. A wound heals quickly; there will be nothing left to prove what I say. Fortunately, I have something else, solid, indestructible evidence, away from your power, and it will speak loudly even when my body is six feet underground.”

“What evidence?” asked another judge.

The accused shook his head.

“I wouldn’t give it to you now, even if you offered me my life for it. It’s in safe hands, hands who will use it. It will go to the King if necessary. We want to know the role of the Marquis de Sairmeuse in this business—if he was really one of us, or if he was only a spy.”

A tribunal careful of the rules of justice, or simply of its reputation, would have required the immediate appearance of the Marquis de Sairmeuse. And then everything would have been cleared up; truth would appear from the shadows and Chanlouineau’s astonishing slander would be dismissed. But the military court could not do this. These men, seated in full uniform, were not judges charged with applying a cruel law, but, still a law! They were the tools of the conquerors used to punish the vanquished in the name of a savage code summed up in two words: vae victis!

The President, the noble Duc de Sairmeuse, would not have consented at any price to have Martial brought in. Nor would his officers have wanted it either. Had Chanlouineau foreseen that? It must be supposed so. Would he, without some intuition of the results, have tried so risky a strike? However that may be, the tribunal, after a short deliberation, decided they would not take into consideration that declaration, which had excited the audience and stunned Maurice and Father Midon.

The interrogation went forward with renewed fury.

“Instead of pointing out imaginary leaders,” the Duc de Sairmeuse began again, “you would be better advised to name the real instigator of the movement, who is not Lacheneur, but an individual seated at the other end of your bench, Monsieur d’Escorval.”

“The Baron knew absolutely nothing about the plot; I swear it by all that is most sacred…”

“Be quiet!” interrupted the prosecution Captain. “Rather than by mocking the court with these ridiculous tales, think about deserving its indulgence!”

Chanlouineau’s gesture and look were filled with such contempt that the Captain lost his composure.

“I don’t want any indulgence,” he declared. “I gambled; I lost. Here’s my head; pay yourselves. But if you’re not more ferocious than wild beasts, have pity on these unfortunate men around me. I see at least ten among them who never were our accomplices, and who certainly did not bear arms. The others didn’t know what they were doing. No, they didn’t understand!”

After speaking, he sat down, indifferent and proud, without appearing to notice the tremor which, as his resounding voice had filled the room, had reached the listeners, even on the stage. The poor women’s sorrow began again and their moans filled the huge room. The officers on half-pay had become more somber and paler, and big tears rolled down the wrinkled jaws of some of them. “That one there,” they thought, “is a real man!”

Father Midon leaned toward Maurice.

“Obviously,” he said, “Chanlouineau is playing a role. He’s trying to save your father. Why? I don’t understand.”

The judges, however, had half-turned around and were leaning toward the President. They were excitedly deliberating in a low voice. A difficulty had come up. Most of the accused, not knowing immediately what they were accused of, had not thought to hire someone to defend them. Bitter, ridiculous mockery! This stopped and frightened that sinful tribunal, which did not otherwise fear trampling underfoot the holiest laws of fairness, and set aside all procedural obstacles. The judges had already taken a position; their verdict was rendered in advance, but nevertheless, they wanted some voice to be lifted to defend those who could no longer be defended. But by a kind of luck, three lawyers chosen by the families of several of the accused were in the room. These were the three men Maurice had noticed chatting by the chapel door. Monsieur de Sairmeuse, being informed of the fact, turned toward them and motioned them to approach. Then, pointing to Chanlouineau, he asked:

“Will you take care of this guilty man’s defense?”

The lawyers did not answer for a minute. This monstrous meeting had greatly impressed them; they consulted each other with a look.

“All of us are ready to defend the accused,” the oldest finally answered. “But seeing him for the first time, we don’t know how to defend him; a delay is indispensable so that we can confer with him.”

“The court can allow you no delay,” interrupted Monsieur de Sairmeuse. “Will you, yes or no, accept the defense?”

The lawyer hesitated, not that he was afraid, because he was a courageous man, but because he was looking for an argument strong enough to trouble the conscience of the judges.

“And if we refuse?” he asked him.

The Duc de Sairmeuse made a movement of impatience.

“If you refuse,” he said, “I’ll appoint as defense for this scoundrel the first drummer I can lay my hands on.”

“I’ll speak, then,” said the lawyer, “but not without protesting with all my strength against this unusual way of proceeding.”

“Spare me your sermons. And be brief.”

After Chanlouineau’s interrogation, to improvise a defense on the spot was difficult. However, the courageous defender poured into his indignation considerations which would have made another tribunal reflect. While he was speaking, the Duc de Sairmeuse was squirming in his chair, with all the signs of the most irrelevant impatience.

“That was very long,” he said when the lawyer had finished. “It was terribly long! We will never finish if each one of the accused has to keep us as long!”

He then turned toward his colleagues to hear their opinion, when, changing his mind suddenly, he proposed to the court that they judged all the cases together, with the exception of that of Monsieur d’Escorval.

“In this way,” he said, “we will shorten our chores considerably, since we will have only two judgments to pronounce. That won’t keep the defense from being individual,” he added.

The lawyers objected strongly again. A judgment en masse, as the Duke suggested, would nullify any hope they had of snatching a single one of the unhappy defendants from the executioner.

“What defense can we make,” they asked, “when we don’t know anything about the particular situation of each one of the accused? We don’t even know their names! We’d have to identify them by their clothes and the color of their hair.”

They begged the court to give them eight days delay, four days, 24 hours! Useless effort! The President’s proposition was adopted and passed. As a consequence, each of the defendants was called according to his seat on the bench. He approached the judge’s stand, gave his last and first names, his age, indicating his address and his profession, and he was then ordered to return to his seat. They hardly gave six or seven of the accused time enough to say that they were absolute strangers to the conspiracy, that someone had grabbed them by the collar, the fifth man in plain daylight, while they were peacefully walking along the main road. They offered to furnish solid proof of what they alleged. They invoked the testimony of the soldiers who had arrested them. Monsieur d’Escorval, whose case was separate, wasn’t called. He was to be questioned last.

“Now it’s the defenders’ turn,” the Duc de Sairmeuse said. “But be brief. It’s already noon.”

Then an unprecedented, shameful scene began. The Duke began to continually interrupt the lawyers, telling them to be silent, talking to or ridiculing them.

“It’s unbelievable,” he said, “to see such scoundrels defended.” Or: “Look here, now, you should be ashamed to defend such miserable men!”

The lawyers held firm, even though they felt the futility of their efforts. But what else could they do?

The defense of these 29 defendants lasted an hour and a half. Finally, the last word was said. The Duc de Sairmeuse breathed noisily, and in a tone which betrayed the cruelest joy:

“Defendant Escorval, rise.”

Called on, the Baron rose, dignified, impassive. Nothing of the emotions he felt, which must have been terrible, appeared on his face. He had repressed even the disdainful smile which had risen to his lips at the Duke’s mean affectation in not giving him the title which was his. But at the same time, Chanlouineau had gotten up, trembling with indignation, red as if anger had carried all the generous blood in his veins to his face.

“Stay seated!” ordered the Duke, “or I’ll have you removed!”

But Chanlouineau declared that he wanted to speak, that he had observations to add to the lawyer’s pleadings. Then, on a signal, two Grenadiers approached, who pushed their hands down on the stalwart shoulders of the robust peasant. He let himself fall back onto his bench, as if he had given in to superior force, he who could easily have choked these two soldiers just by squeezing them in his arms of steel. One would have sworn he was furious; inside himself, he was delighted. The end he hoped to achieve, he had attained. His eyes encountered those of Father Midon, and in a rapid glance, unseen by everyone else, he had been able to tell him:

“Whatever happens, watch Maurice, restrain him. Don’t let him compromise the plan I’m following with some outburst.”

The recommendation was not useless. Maurice’s face, like his soul, was overwhelmed; he was choking; he could no longer see; he felt he was going mad.

“Where’s the calm you promised me?” murmured the Priest.

No one noticed that. Attention, in that gloomy room, was intense. The silence was so profound that you could hear the monotonous footsteps of the sentinels on guard duty around the chapel. Each one felt instinctively that the decisive moment had come for which the tribunal had been set up and all its efforts reserved. To condemn poor peasants nobody cared about, that was no remarkable event! But to strike down an illustrious man, who had been the councilor and the faithful friend of the Emperor…What glory and what hope for raging ambitions, bloodthirsty for recompense! The instinct of those hearing the case was right. If they had judged without bothering to question the more obscure defendants, the commissioners had put together a case against Monsieur d’Escorval that contained much information. Thanks to the Marquis de Courtomieu’s efforts, they had gathered seven counts of accusation, the least of which carried the death penalty.

“Which of you,” Monsieur de Sairmeuse asked the lawyers, “will consent to defend this very guilty man?”

“I will!” the three men answered at the same time.

“Be careful!” said the Duke, with a nasty smile. “The task is… difficult.”

Difficult! It would have been better to say dangerous. He might have even said that the defender risked his career, his peaceful life and perhaps his freedom. Or even his head, maybe. But what he said meant all that, and everybody in the room knew it.

“Our profession has its obligations,” the oldest of them said.

And all of them, courageously, went to take their place near the Baron d’Escorval, avenging in this way the honor of their profession which had been slavishly compromised in a city of a 100,000 souls, where two pure and innocent victims of such hate-filled persecution had not been able—shame!—to find a defender before.

“Accused,” continued Monsieur de Sairmeuse, “state your last and first names, and your profession.”

“Louis-Guillaume, Baron d’Escorval, Commander of the Legion of Honor, former State Counselor of the Government of His Imperial Majesty.”

“So, you are admitting that shameful record, you’re confessing…”

“Pardon, Monsieur! I’m proud to have served my country and to have been useful to the best of my abilities.”

With a furious gesture, the Duke interrupted him.

“All right!” he said, “the judges will evaluate that. It was probably to regain the post of Counselor that you conspired against a magnanimous King with this vile collection of scoundrels?”

“These peasants are not scoundrels, Monsieur, but just men gone astray. In addition, you know, yes, you know as well as I do that I did not conspire.”

“You were arrested, weapons in your hands, among the ranks of the rebels!”

“I had no weapons, Monsieur; you’re not ignorant of that fact. And if I was among the rebels, it was because I hoped to persuade them to abandon their insane undertaking.”

"You’re lying!”

The Baron d’Escorval paled at the insult but did not answer. But there was a man in the audience who was beside himself, who could no longer endure the horrible, the abominable injustice. And that man, that was Father Midon, who, mere instants before, had recommended calm to Maurice. He suddenly left his seat, stooped to pass under the ropes which cordoned off the reserved section, and went to the foot of the stage.

“Monsieur le Baron d’Escorval is telling the truth,” he declared in a ringing voice. “The 300 prisoners in the Citadel will swear to it, the defendants will take an oath to it with their head on the block. And I, who accompanied him, who walked at his side, I, a Priest of the Church, will swear before God, who will ultimately be the judge of us all, that Monsieur d’Escorval and I did all that was humanly possible to stop this insurrection!”

The Duke listened with an attitude that was both ironic and evil at the same time.

“Then, they weren’t deceiving me when they told me that the rebellion had a priest. See here, Monsieur le Curé, you should be crawling with shame. You, a priest, mixed up with these wretches, with these enemies of our good King and our holy religion. Don’t deny it! Your contracted features, your red-shot eyes, the disorder of your clothes soiled with dust and mud, everything betrays your guilty conduct. Must I, a mere soldier, remind you of the modesty and respect owed to your sacred position? Be silent, Monsieur! Or leave!”

The lawyers rose quickly.

“We demand that this witness be heard,” they said. “He must be heard. Military courts are not above the laws which govern ordinary tribunals.”

“If I’m not telling the truth,” continued Father Midon with extraordinary animation, “I am indeed a false witness, worst still, an accomplice. You must, in that case, have me arrested.”

The Duc de Sairmeuse’s face expressed hypocritical compassion.

“No, Father,” he said. “I won’t have you arrested. I’ll avoid the scandal you seek to cause. We’ll respect your position, even though you yourself don’t merit it. One last time, stand down. If not, I’ll be compelled to use force!”

What would be the point of further resistance? None. The Priest, whiter than the plaster on the walls, desperate, his eyes full of tears, went back to his seat near Maurice. The lawyers, all this time, protested with renewed energy. But the Duke, resorting to pounding his fist on the table, ended up reducing them to silence.

“Ah! You wanted witnesses!” he shouted. “Well! You’ll have them. Soldiers, bring in the first witness!”

There was some movement among the Grenadiers of the guard and, almost immediately, Père Chupin came forward with a studied air of bonhommie. But the expression on his face was deceitful. An observer would have detected in his eyes the concerned shiftiness that betrayed his terror.

There was even a noticeable trembling in his voice when, his hand raised, he swore on his soul and conscience to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.

“What do you know of the accused Escorval?” demanded the Duke.

“He was part of the plot which broke out the night between the 4th and 5th.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have proof.”

“Submit them to the court’s evaluation.”

The old petty thief’s confidence returned.

“First off,” he replied, “it was to Monsieur d’Escorval that Monsieur Lacheneur ran to after he had returned, against his will, the chateau of his ancestors to Monsieur le Duc. Monsieur Lacheneur met Chanlouineau there and the conspiracy dates from that day.”

“I was Monsieur Lacheneur’s friend,” said Monsieur d’Escorval. “It was natural that he came to me for consolation after such great misfortune.”

The Duc de Sairmeuse turned toward his colleagues.

“Do you hear?” he asked. “Escorval calls the restitution of something held in trust a ‘great misfortune!’ Continue, witness.”

“In the second place,” Chupin continued, “the accused was always hanging around Monsieur Lacheneur’s house.”

“That’s false,” interrupted the Baron. “I went there only once, and on that day, I pleaded with him to give up…” He stopped, understanding too late the terrible consequences of what he was saying. But having begun, he didn’t want to retract himself, and so he added: “I always pleaded with him to give up his project of an uprising.”

“Ah-ha! So you admit that you knew of his ungodly plans?”

“I suspected them.”

Not reporting such a plot to the authorities meant the scaffold. The Baron d’Escorval had just signed his death warrant. Strange caprice of destiny! He was innocent, but by the rules of the law, he was the only one of the accused that an ordinary tribunal could have legally condemned, following the letter of the law. Maurice and Father Midon were dumbfounded by this surrender, but Chanlouineau, who had turned around toward them, still had a smile of confidence on his lips. What, then, was he hoping for, when all hope seemed lost?

The commission itself, on the other hand, was shamelessly triumphant and Monsieur de Sairmeuse broke out in indecent joy.

“Well, well, Messieurs! You heard the confession,” he said to the lawyers in a jeering tone.

The defense hid their discouragement badly, but they nonetheless tried to challenge the meaning of their client’s statement. He had said that he suspected the plot, not that he knew it. That was not the same thing.

“Say right off that you want more damning charges,” interrupted the Duc de Sairmeuse. “So be it! Some will be produced. Continue your deposition, witness.”

The old thief shook his head with an air of competence.

“The accused,” he continued, “was present at all the meetings which took place at Monsieur Lacheneur’s, and the proof of that is as clear as day. Having to cross the Oiselle and fearing that the ferry passengers would notice his nightly trips, the Baron had an old canoe repaired, one which he hadn’t used in years.”

“Ah-ah! There’s another remarkable circumstance! Defendant Escorval, do you admit having that boat repaired?”

“Yes, but not for the purpose that this man alleges.”

“To what purpose, then?”

The Baron remained silent. It had been at Maurice’s insistence that the canoe had been repaired!

“Finally,” continued Père Chupin, “when Lacheneur set fire to his house to signal the uprising, the accused was there with him.”

“That’s enough,” the Duke cried out. “That’s conclusive.”

“I was indeed at La Rèche,” interrupted the Baron, “but it was, as I’ve already told you, with the firm intention to stop the uprising.”

Monsieur de Sairmeuse let out a disdainful, derisive laugh.

“Messieurs,” he pronounced with emphasis, addressing his fellow judges, “you can see that the accused doesn’t even have the courage of his villainy. But I’m going to show he’s lying. What did you do, defendant, when the insurgents left La Rèche?”

“I hurried back to my house. There, I got a horse and rode to the crossroad of Croix-d’Arcy.”

“So you knew that was the location set for the general rendezvous?”

“Monsieur Lacheneur had just told me so.”

“If I believed your version, I’d tell you that your duty was still to hurry to Montaignac to warn the authorities. But as a matter of fact, you didn’t leave Lacheneur’s side. You went with him.”

“No, Monsieur, I did not!”

“What if I proved it to you in an indisputable way?”

“Impossible, Monsieur, because that can’t be.”

By the sinister satisfaction which lit up Monsieur de Sairmeuse’s face, Father Midon knew that the wicked judge must have had an unexpected and terrible weapon in his hands, and that the Baron d’Escorval was going to be crushed under one of those fatal coincidences which explains all judicial errors without justifying them. At a sign from the prosecution, the Marquis de Courtomieu left his seat and came onto the stage.

“Monsieur le Marquis,” said the Duke, “may I ask you to please read to the court the deposition written and signed by your daughter?”

The effect of this revelation on the audience was powerful.

Monsieur de Courtomieu put on his glasses, took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it and, in the middle of a deadly silence, read:

I, Blanche de Courtomieu, the undersigned, after having sworn on my soul and conscience to tell the truth, declare:

On the evening of February 4 last, between 10 and 11 p.m., I was traveling on the road from Sairmeuse to Montaignac in a carriage when I was assailed by a horde of brigands. While they deliberated whether to seize my person and loot my carriage, I heard one of them shout to the other, talking about me: ‘She has to get out, doesn’t she, Monsieur d’Escorval?’ I believe that the brigand who said this is a man from around here, but I could not swear to it.

 A terrible cry, followed by an inarticulate groan, interrupted the Marquis. The torture which Maurice had so endured had proved too great for his strength and his mind.

He dashed toward the tribunal and shouted:

“Chanlouineau was talking to me; I’m the guilty one. My father is innocent!”

Father Midon, by good luck, had the presence of mind to throw himself in front of him and clamp his hand over his mouth. But the priest could not hold down the unhappy young man without the help of the half-pay officers who stood near them. Guessing the nature of the tragedy, perhaps, they surrounded Maurice and dragged him forcibly outside, even though he was struggling with extraordinary energy. All that did not take ten seconds.

“What’s going on?” asked the Duke, giving an irritated glance over the audience.

No one said a word.

“Any more noise and I’ll have the room cleared,” added Monsieur de Sairmeuse. “What do you have to say for yourself after the damning testimony of Mademoiselle de Coutomieu, defendant?”

“Nothing,” the Baron murmured.

“So, you are admitting your guilt?”

Once outside, Father Midon entrusted Maurice to three of the half-pay officers who agreed, upon their honor, to take him, to carry him if necessary, back to the hotel and to keep him there, by force if necessary. Reassured on this count, the Priest reentered the courtroom just in time to see the Baron sit down without responding to this new accusation, indicating his surrender. In fact, what was there to say? Defending himself would risk betraying his son, giving him up when, no matter what would happen, he himself was already lost.

Up to that point, there was no one in the audience who believed in the Baron’s complete innocence. His resignation made them—some of them at least—believe in his guilt. But the members of the court, who had seen Maurice’s actions, could not ignore the truth. However, they remained silent. All affairs of this type have dark and mysterious aspects that public debates never clear up. If the defendants stood their ground, the accusers seemed to dread getting to the bottom of things, not knowing what they would find there. Advised by the Marquis de Courtomieu, uncertain of his son’s role, the Duc de Sairmeuse tried to limit the accusation. He had not had Father Midon arrested. He was certainly resolved to not bring up Maurice, so long as the young man was restrained. The Baron d’Escorval appeared to recognize himself as guilty. Wasn’t that enough of a victory for the Duc de Sairmeuse! He turned toward the lawyers and, with a disdainful and bored air, said:

“Now, speak, because you must, but no long sentences. We must be finished in an hour.”

The oldest of the lawyers stood up, trembling with indignation, ready to brave anything in order to express his thoughts, but the Baron stopped him.

“Don’t try to defend me, Monsieur,” he declared coldly. “It would be useless! I have only one thing to say to my judges: Let them remember what the noble and generous Marshal Moncey once wrote to the King: ‘The scaffold doesn’t make you any friends!’ ”

That memory was not likely to upset the court a great deal. Moncey, for saying that, had been removed from command and condemned to three months in jail. Since the lawyers had fallen silent, the Duc de Sairmeuse resumed the proceedings, and the tribunal retired to deliberate. Monsieur d’Escorval remained with his defenders. He shook their hands affectionately and, in terms which proved the greatness of his mind, he thanked them for their devotion and their courage. Those brave men wept. Then, the Baron drew the oldest man toward him, and, rapidly, very low, in an emotional voice, said:

“Monsieur, I have one more service to ask of you. In a little while, when the sentence of death is pronounced, seek my son. Tell him that his dying father commands him to live. He will understand. Impress on him that it is my last wish. He must live for his mother!”

Then he fell silent. The judges were coming back in. Of the 30 accused, nine were declared not guilty and were released. The 21 others, including Monsieur d’Escorval and Chanlouineau, were condemned to death.

But Chanlouineau was still smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

XXVIII

 

 

Father Midon had been right to trust the word of the half-pay officers. Seeing that all their urging would not make Maurice leave the Citadel, each of these brave men grabbed him under an arm and, literally, carried him away. They needed more strong men because Maurice made desperate efforts to escape. Each step forward was the result of a battle.

“Let me go!” he cried out, fighting. “Let me go where duty says I must! You dishonor me by trying to save me!”

And, at the noise of what seemed to them a dream, the people of Montaignac half closed their shutters and looked worriedly into the street.

“It’s the son of that honest man they’re going to condemn to death,” they said. “Poor boy! How he must be suffering!”

Yes, he was suffering, but not like the suffering caused by physical pain. This is where his love for Marie-Anne had taken him, that radiant love which in the past had made him so happy. Miserable fool! He had thrown himself into an insane undertaking and now, the authorities blamed his father for what he had done! He himself, guilty, would live while his father, innocent, would be cast to the executioner! The ability to suffer has limits. Once in the hotel room, between his mother and Marie-Anne, he let himself fall into a chair, overcome by that invincible torpor which follows a tragedy too heavy for human strength to bear.

“Nothing has yet been decided,” the officers answered Madame d’Escorval’s questions. “The Priest de Sairmeuse is supposed to hurry here as soon as the verdict is known.”

Then, as they had sworn not to let Maurice out of their sight, they sat down, gloomy and silent. Outside, everything was silent; the hotel seemed deserted. All the servants understood that they should not disturb that great and noble unfortunate woman. They respected her as a condemned man’s sleep is respected the night before his execution. Finally, a little before 4 p.m., Father Midon arrived, followed by the lawyer to whom the Baron had entrusted his last wishes.

“My husband!” Madame d’Ecorval cried out, getting up all at once.

The Priest lowered his head. She understood.

“Death!” she stammered. “They’ve condemned him to death!”

And more stunned than by a mallet’s blow to the head, she fainted, falling into her armchair, not moving, her arms hanging down.

But that oblivion lasted only a short time; she soon recovered consciousness.

“We must save him!” she cried out, her eyes flaming with heroic determination. “It’s up to us to save him from the scaffold. Get up! Maurice! Marie-Anne! This is enough cowardly wailing. Let’s get to work! You also, Messieurs, you’ll help me! I can count on you too, Father! What are we going to do? I don’t know. But there must be something we can do. The death of this innocent man would be too great a crime. God will not permit it!”

She stopped brusquely, her hands joined, her eyes lifted to Heaven, as if she had received Divine inspiration.

“The King!” she continued. “Will the King let such a crime be committed! No! He can refuse to pardon, but he cannot refuse to give justice. I’ll go to him; I’ll tell him everything! Why didn’t I think of this salvation sooner? We must leave immediately for Paris, without waiting a second! Maurice, you’ll come with me! Will one of you gentlemen go order post horses for me?”

She thought they were obeying her and she went into the next room to prepare for the journey.

“Poor woman!” whispered the lawyer in Father Midon’s ear. “She doesn’t know that the decisions of military tribunals are carried out within 24 hours.”

“So?”

“It takes four days to go to Paris.” He thought a moment and added: “After all, letting her leave might be an act of kindness. On the morning of his execution, didn’t Marshal Ney ask the King to remove his wife who was sobbing, half fainting, in his cell?”

Father Midon shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Madame d’Escorval wouldn’t forgive us for having prevented her from keeping her last memory of her husband.

She reappeared just then, and the Priest was gathering up all his courage to tell her the terrible truth, when there were rapid knocks on the door. One of the half-pay officers opened it. Bavois, the Corporal of the Grenadiers, came in, his right hand raised respectfully to his helmet, as if in the presence of a superior.

“Mademoiselle Lacheneur?” he asked.

Marie-Anne came forward.

“I’m Marie-Anne Lacheneur, Monsieur,” she answered. “What do you want with me?”

“I’m ordered, Mademoiselle, to take you to the Citadel.”

“Ah!” Maurice said in a ferocious tone. “Now they’re arresting women!”

The honest Corporal slapped his forehead.

“I’m just a stupid old fool!” he declared. “I’m stumbled badly. I meant to say that I’ve come to get Mademoiselle at the request of one of the condemned men, the man named Chanlouineau, who wants to talk to her.”

“Impossible, old fellow,” said one of the officers. “They won’t let Mademoiselle go near one of the prisoners without special permission.”

“But we have it!” said the old soldier. With a glance he reassured himself that he had nothing to fear from any of these men, and in a lower voice he added: “This Chanlouineau even slid me a note to say that it was a matter the Priest knew about.”

Had the brave peasant really found some way to salvation? Father Midon almost began to believe it.

“You must go with this good fellow, Marie-Anne,” he said.

The young girl shivered just at the thought that she was going to see Chanlouineau again. But she didn’t think of trying to avoid a situation which seemed to her the height of unhappiness.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur,” she said.

Bu the Corporal stayed in the same spot, winking, as was his habit when he wanted to get the attention of his listeners. 

“Just a minute,” he said. “This Chanlouineau, who seems to me to be a good fellow, told me to tell you, just like that, that everything was going well! I’ll be hanged if I see how! But, those are his very words! He also asked me to ask you not to move, not to try anything until Mademoiselle returns. She’ll be back within an hour. He swears to you that he’ll keep his promises. He asks you to give your word you’ll obey him.”

“We won’t try anything before she returns,” said Father Midon. “I promise.”

“Then, that’s all. Good-bye everybody. And you Mademoiselle, quick step, march! The poor devil over there must be on coals of fire.”

That the authorities had allowed a condemned man to see the daughter of the leader of the conspirators, this Lacheneur who had succeeded in hiding from all those looking for him, was surprising. But Chanlouineau, to whom that authorization was indispensible, had cleverly found a way to get it. That is why, as soon as the judgment condemning him to death was pronounced, he seemed seized with terror and began to cry pitifully. The soldiers had not expected to see this strong fellow, brave even to insolence a short while before, to become so weak that they almost had to carry him to his cell. There, his wailing redoubled; he begged the guards to go and find somebody he could talk to, the Duc de Sairmeuse or the Marquis de Courtomieu, swearing that he had revelations of the greatest importance to make.

This magic word, revelations, made Monsieur de Courtomieu run to Chanlouineau’s cell. There, he found a man on his knees, his face distorted, apparently sweating the agony of despair, who, drawing him close, took his hands and kissed them, asking for pity and pardon, swearing that, to save his life, he was ready to do anything, even to give up Monsieur Lacheneur. To catch Lacheneur! That possibility must have enflamed the Marquis de Courtomieu’s mind.

“Then you know where this brigand is hiding?” he asked him.

Chanlouineau said that he did not know, but swore that Marie-Anne, Lacheneur’s daughter, knew. She had, he also swore, complete confidence in him. If they would only permit him to send for her, and leave him alone with her just ten minutes, he would guarantee to get the secret of her father’s hiding place out of her.

Put this way, the bargain was quickly concluded. Life was promised to the condemned man in exchange for Lacheneur’s life. The soldier they found to send for Marie-Anne was Corporal Bavois. And Chanlouineau waited, devoured with anxiety. The strength shown by the strong fellow, right up to his sudden and unexplained moment of weakness, had warranted him being treated as a dangerous prisoner, and with the Baron d’Escorval, he shared the dubious honor of being surrounded by the most minute precautions and the “gift” of solitary confinement.

They had separated him from his companions and locked him up in a cell reputed to be the safest in the entire Citadel, which, until then, had held only soldiers condemned to death. This cell, situated on the ground floor, at the end of a dark corridor, was long and narrow, and almost half carved out of the rock itself. A shade placed on the outside, in front of its small window, let in so little light that there was hardly enough illumination to make out the desperate cries and the names written in charcoal on the walls. A bundle of straw with a worn blanket, a stool, a pitcher and a foul tub added to the sinister aspect of this cell, made to instill despair in the strongest souls. But what did the horror of his jail matter to Chanlouineau! He was in one of those crises when exterior circumstances cease to exist. The soldiers were guarding only his body; his free soul, beyond locks and bars, raced toward higher spheres, very far from misery, passions, meanness, and human grudges.

Monsieur de Courtomieu, if he had come back suddenly, would not have recognized the coward who, the instant before, had groveled at his feet, trembling and pale. Or rather, he would have recognized that he had been fooled by a clever and audacious comedy. That heroic peasant, who would not see the sun set the next day, was as if transfigured by the joy he felt in his ruse. Right up to that moment, he had feared one of those small accidents which, like the grain of sand which breaks the most perfect machinery, might have thrown aside his best laid plan. The soldier they put at his disposition was one of those old men who, like many others, wore the white emblem of the Restoration on his helmet, but kept in his pocket the tricolors, and in the depth of his heart, carried the memory of Napoleon. Chanlouineau had therefore been able to confide almost everything to him, and he did not doubt that the old man would bring Marie-Anne back. No one had told him what had happened at Escorval, but he had guessed it, lit by that marvelous foresight which precedes the eternal shadows. He was certain that Madame d’Escorval was at Montaignac. He was sure that Marie-Anne was with her. He knew that she would come. And he waited, counting the seconds by the beating of his heart. He waited, studying all the outside noises, hearing with the astonishing sharpness of his senses overexcited by passion, sounds which others could not have heard. Finally, at the end of the corridor, he heard the rustle of a dress against the walls.

“She’s here!” he whispered.

Steps approached; the heavy iron bars creaked; the door opened and Marie-Anne came in, supported by the good Corporal Bavois.

“Monsieur de Courtomieu promised me that we’d be left alone!” Chanlouineau cried out.

“I’m leaving,” answered the old soldier. “But I’m ordered to come back for Mademoiselle in half an hour.”

When the door closed, Chanlouineau took Marie-Anne’s hand and, with restrained force, drew her near the window, to the spot where the shade gave the most light.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “Now I can speak. Now that I’m a dying man whose minutes are counted, I can tell you the secret of my soul and my life. Now I’ll dare tell you with what ardent love I’ve loved you. And I’ll tell you how much I still love you.”

Instinctively, Marie-Anne drew away and stepped back. The explosion of that passion, at that moment, in that place, had something pitiful and frightening at the same time.

“Have I offended you?” Chanlouineau asked sadly. “Forgive a man who’s going to die! You can’t refuse to hear my voice, which tomorrow will be silent forever, after having been silent for so long. I’ve loved you for more than six years, Marie-Anne! Before I saw you, I never loved anything but the land. To gather good harvests and amass money seemed to me the most sublime happiness in this life. Why did I ever meet you? But I was so far from you then—you were so high and I was so low that I could never hope to rise to your level. I went to church on Sunday; during the mass, I watched you in ecstasy like those country women before the Virgin Mary. I went back home, my eyes and my heart full of you… and that was all. Misfortune has brought us together; it’s your father who made me insane, yes, insane, as he is himself. After the Sairmeuses’ insults, he determined to revenge himself on those proud and hard nobles, and he saw in me a perfect accomplice. He had guessed the strength of my love for you. It was upon leaving the Baron d’Escorval’s house, you must remember, a Sunday evening, that the bargain which bound me to your father’s plans was struck.

“ ‘You love my daughter,’ he said. ‘Well, help me and I promise you that the day after our success, she’ll become your wife.’ Only, he added, ‘I warn you, however, that you’ll be risking your life.’

“But what was life compared to the hope he’d just dazzled me with? From that day onward, I gave myself body and soul to the conspiracy. Others joined through hate, to satisfy old grudges, or through ambition, to regain lost positions. Me, I had no ambitions and no hatred. What did the quarrels of the great nobles matter to me, a tiller of the soil! I understood well that it was beyond the power of the mightiest to give my crops a drop of water during a dry spell, or a ray of sun during rainy weather. I only conspired because I loved you.”

“Ah! You’re cruel!” Marie-Anne cried out. “You have no pity!”

Poor girl! Her eyes, which had wept so much, still had burning tears in her which now rolled down her cheeks. She could now judge the horrible outcome of the role that her father had made her play, and that she had not had the strength to turn down. But Chanlouineau did not hear Marie-Anne’s outburst. All the bitterness of the past rose to his head like the fumes of alcohol. He no longer knew what he was saying.

“The day came, however,” he went on, “when all my mad illusions vanished. You could no longer be mine because you belonged to someone else. I should have broken the bargain. I had the idea, but not the strength. I was in hell, but to see you, to hear your voice, to eat at the same table, that was still a source of joy to me! I wanted you to be happy and honored. I fought so that the other one could triumph, the man you had chosen!”

A sob coming to his throat interrupted him. He buried his face in his hands to hide the sight of his tears and, for a moment, seemed overcome. But he quickly regained his composure; he shook off the torpor which had overcome him and in a firm voice, declared:

“That’s enough living in the past. Time’s flying. The future is threatening!”

That said, he went to the door, and putting alternatively his eyes and his ears to the peephole, he tried to find out if someone was spying on them. There was no one in the corridor, not a suspicious movement; he was as sure of being alone as one can be in the depth of a cell. He came back toward Marie-Anne and, tearing his coat with his teeth, he took out two letters hidden between the lining and the outside cloth.

“Here is the price of a man’s life,” he said.

Marie-Anne knew nothing of what Chanlouineau hoped to do, and her distressed mind lacked her usual clarity; at first, she understood nothing.

“What do you mean?” she exclaimed. “A man’s life?”

“Speak lower!” broke in Chanlouineau. “Yes, one of these letters can save the life of a condemned man.”

“Why are you waiting to use it, then?”

The brave farmer sadly shook his head.

“Is it possible that you ever loved me?” he simply asked. “No, you didn’t, did you? That’s why I don’t want to live any longer. Resting in the ground is more desirable than my pain. Besides, I was fairly condemned. I knew what I was doing when I left La Rèche, a double-barreled gun on my shoulder, a saber through my belt. I don’t have any right to complain. But incompetent or wicked judges have struck down an innocent man…”

“The Baron d’Escorval.”

“Yes, Maurice’s father.”

His voice changed when pronouncing the name of his rival, whose happiness he would have paid for with ten lives if he had had them.

“I want to save him,” he added. “And I can.”

“If only you were telling the truth! But you’re mistaken!”

“No, I know what I’m saying.”

Chanlouineau was afraid of being spied on. He came near Marie-Anne again and said hurriedly:

“I never believed the conspiracy would succeed,” he continued. “When I wondered where I could find a weapon in the event of our failure, the Marquis de Sairmeuse furnished me with one. We had to send a letter to our accomplices setting the date of the uprising; it occurred to me to ask Martial to write it. He didn’t suspect a thing. I told him it was for a wedding. He did what I asked. The paper I’m holding is that very letter that started the insurrection, written in the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s own hand. It’s impossible to deny; there are scratched out words on every line—anyone can see it’s been composed by a man trying to find the right words to express his thoughts accurately.”

Chanlouineau opened the envelope and showed her the famous letter that he had dictated to Martial, and in which only the date was left blank.

The flame which had lit up Marie-Anne’s eyes died out.

“And you believe that that letter can be worth something?” she asked in a discouraged tone.

“I don’t believe it, I’m sure.”

“But…”

“Don’t argue,” he broke in, earnestly. “Listen to me instead. By itself, that letter may not be worth much. But I already laid out the ground work. I swore before the tribunal that the Marquis de Sairmeuse was one of the leaders of the insurrection. They laughed and I read disbelief on the judges’ faces. But a good slander is never wasted. The hour of recompense has come for the Duc de Sairmeuse. He’s going to make enemies who will remember my words. He knows this, because while the others laughed, I saw he was thunderstruck.”

“To slander your enemies is a sin,” whispered Marie-Anne.

“Yes, but I want to save my friends, and I don’t have a choice of means. My certainty is even greater because I know Martial is wounded. I swore that he fought at my side against the military troop. I asked the judges to summon him; I said there were unbreakable proofs of his complicity.”

“But who did the Marquis de Sairmeuse fight?”

Chanlouineau’s face showed the greatest astonishment.

“What!” he began. “You don’t know…” Then, he realized his mistake. “How stupid I am!” he began again. “Who could have told you what happened? Do you remember what we did on the road at the Croix-d’Arcy, after your father left us to ride on ahead? Maurice put himself at the head of the column and you walked beside him; your brother Jean and I stayed behind to gather up the stragglers and hurry them up. We were doing a good job of it, when, suddenly, we heard the gallop of a horse. ‘We need to know who’s coming,’ Jean said to me. So we stopped. A horse came toward us at full gallop. We threw ourselves on the bridle and held it. Do you know who the rider was? Martial de Sairmeuse! It would be impossible to tell you how furious your brother was when he recognized the Marquis de Sairmeuse. ‘Finally, I catch you alone!’ he yelled out, ‘and we’re going to settle our account! After you drove my father, who had just given you back a fortune, to despair, you tried to make my sister your mistress. That has to be paid for, Marquis! Let’s go to the back; we have to fight.’ ”

Marie-Anne no longer knew if she was dreaming or awake.

“My brother challenged the Marquis to a duel?” she murmured. “That’s impossible!”

Chanlouineau went on.

“As daring as Martial is, he was flabbergasted. He stammered something like: ‘Are you crazy? You must be joking! We’re friends! What does this mean?’ Jean ground his teeth in rage. ‘That means,’ he replied, ‘that I’ve suffered your outrages long enough, and if you don’t get down from that horse to fight a duel with me, I’m going to bash in your head!’ Saying that, your brother waved his gun so convincingly that the Marquis had no choice but to step down. He then spoke to me. ‘Well, now, Chanlouineau,’ he said, ‘is this going to be a duel or an assassination? If Jean kills me, it’s over. But if I kill him, what will happen to me?’ I gave him my word that he would be free to leave if he gave me his word to not go back to Montaignac before 2 a.m. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘I accept the combat. Give me a weapon.’ I gave him my saber; your brother had his. They started fighting in the middle of the main road…”

The brave peasant stopped to get his breath and then, more slowly, continued:

“Marie-Anne, your father, you and I, misjudged your brother. There’s one thing that goes against him: his face. He seems as deceptive as a fox. He has the false smile and the shifty eyes of the coward. We distrusted him. We need to beg his pardon. A man who fights as I saw him fight, courageously and standing his ground, is a man one can trust. It was terrible, this combat on that road, at night! They attacked each other furiously, without saying a word. You could hear nothing but their heavy breathing and the sound of the sabers clashing, throwing out flurries of sparks. Finally, Jean fell…”

“Ah! My brother is dead!” Marie-Anne cried out.

“No,” replied Chanlouineau. “We can hope not. In any event, he won’t lack good care. The duel had another witness, a man you must know, named Poignot, who was your father’s share-cropper. He took the wounded Jean away and promised me to keep him in his house. As for the Marquis, he showed me that he was wounded too, and got back on his horse, saying, ‘He asked for it.’ ”

Marie-Anne then understood Chanlouineau’s plan.

“Give me the letter,” she said. “I’ll go find the Duc de Sairmeuse. I’ll get to him at any cost, and God will tell me what to do…”

The heroic peasant held out that fragile leaf of paper which could have been his own salvation.

“And above all,” he advised, “don’t let the Duke suspect that you’re carrying that letter on you. Who knows what he would be capable of? He’ll tell you first of all that he can’t do anything, that he can see no way to save the Baron d’Escorval. You’ll answer that it’s up to him to find a way, because if he does not, you’ll send that letter to Paris to one of his enemies…”

He stopped. The lock creaked. Corporal Bavois reappeared.

“The half-hour passed ten minutes ago,” he said sadly. “I have my orders.”

“Be off!” Chanlouineau whispered. “That’s all!” And he gave Marie-Anne the second letter, adding: “This is for you. Read it when I am dead. Please! Don’t cry! You must have courage! You will soon be Maurice’s wife. And when you’re happy, think sometimes of the poor peasant who loved you so much!”

Since it was a question of her life and that of others, Marie-Anne could not say a word, but she drew her face toward Chanlouineau’s.

“I don’t dare ask it of you!” he cried out.

And for the first time, he clasped Marie-Anne in his arms, and his lips brushed her pale cheeks.

“Good-bye,” he said again. “Don’t lose a minute!”

 

 

XXIX

 

 

The prospect of getting hold of Lacheneur, the head of the insurrection, had exhilarated the Marquis de Courtomieu so much that he had not left the Citadel, even though it was dinner time. Posted at the entry of the dark corridor which led to Chanlouineau’s cell, he was waiting for Marie-Anne to leave. Seeing her go out just as daylight ended, rapidly and vibrating with energy, he doubted the sincerity of his alleged informer.

“Could that filthy peasant have tricked me?” he wondered.

His suspicion was so acute that he started out on the trail of the young girl, determined to question her, drag the truth out of her, and have her arrested if need be. But he was no longer as agile as he was at 20. When he got to the military post of the Citadel, the man on duty told him that Mademoiselle Lacheneur had just crossed the draw bridge. He went across it himself, looking in all directions, did not see anyone, and returned, furious.

“I can still go visit Chanlouineau,” he said to himself. “Tomorrow, there’ll be time enough to pick up that pert hussy and question her.”

That “pert hussy,” as the Marquis de Courtomieu called her, was then walking down the long street leading to the Hotel de France, careless of herself and of the few passing peasants, preoccupied only of shortening her friends’ mortal anguish. With what fear must Madame d’Escorval and Maurice, Father Midon and the half-pay officers, be waiting for her return.

“Everything may not be lost!” she exclaimed on entering.

“Mon Dieu!” whispered Madame d’Escorval. “You have heard my prayers.” But immediately seized with terrible apprehension, she added: “You’re not deceiving me? Trying to delude me with unrealistic hopes? That would be cruel pity!”

“I’m not trying to deceive you, Madame!” replied Marie-Anne. “Chanlouineau has just given me a weapon which, I hope, will put Monsieur de Sairmeuse at our absolute discretion. He is all-powerful in Montaigcnac. The only man who could stand in the way of his plans, Monsieur de Courtomieu, is his friend. I believe Monsieur d’Escorval can be saved.”

“Speak!” Maurice cried out. “What’s to be done?”

“Pray and wait, Maurice, for I must act alone. But be assured that everything that’s humanly possible, I, myself, the only cause of your misfortunes, I, whom you should curse, will do!”

Completely absorbed with the task she had taken on, Marie-Anne had not noticed a stranger who had arrived during her absence, an old white-haired peasant. Father Midon introduced him.

“Here is a courageous friend,” he said, “who’s been asking for you and looking everywhere to give you news of your father.”

Marie-Anne’s excitement was such that she could hardly get out the thanks she was stammering.

“There’s no reason to thank me,” said the good peasant. “I told myself: ‘She must be terribly worried, the poor girl. I must set her mind at ease.’ So I came to tell you that Monsieur Lacheneur is all right, except for a wound on his knee which causes him to suffer a great deal, but it should be healed in less than three weeks. My son-in-law, who was hunting yesterday in the mountains, found him near the border, in the company of two of the rebels. Now they must be in Piedmont, out of the reach of the gendarmes.”

“Let’s hope we’ll soon learn what’s become of Jean,” said the Priest.

“I know what happened to him, Father,” Marie-Anne explained. “My brother was seriously wounded and some brave people took him in.”

She hung her head, almost fainting under the burden of her sorrow, but soon straightened up.

“What am I doing?” she exclaimed. “Do I have the right to think of my family when the life of an innocent man, foolishly comprised by them, depends on my promptness and my courage?

Maurice, Father Midon and the half-pay officers surrounded her. They still wanted to know what she was going to attempt, and if she was not uselessly running into danger. She refused to answer even the most pressing questions. They wanted at least to go with her or follow her at a distance, but she maintained that she would go alone.

“I will be back in a few hours and we’ll be secure,” she said, hurrying outside.

To get an interview with the Duc de Sairmeuse was certainly difficult; Maurice and Father Midon had proved that the evening before. Besieged by weeping families, he had sealed himself off, perhaps for fear of weakening. Marie-Anne knew that fact, but she was not worried. Chanlouineau had given her a word, one which in disastrous times opens the most strictly and stubbornly closed doors. In the vestibule of the Duc de Sairmeuse’s house, three or four valets strolled around and chatted. 

“I am Monsieur Lacheneur’s daughter,” Marie-Anne told them. “I must speak with the Duke at this instant about the conspiracy.”

“The Duke is not home.”

“I’ve come to make some very important revelations.”

The attitude of the servants changed immediately.

“In that case, follow me, Mademoiselle,” said a footman.

She followed him along the stairway and through two or three rooms. Finally, he opened the door of the drawing room, saying: “Go in.”

She entered. It was not the Duc de Sairmeuse who was waiting for her, but his son, Martial. Stretched out on a couch, he was reading a newspaper by the light of a candelabra. At the sight of Marie-Anne, he sat upright, paler and more upset than if the door had let in a ghost.

“You!” he stammered.

But he quickly mastered his emotion and, in a second, his mind had run through all the possibilities.

“Lacheneur has been arrested!” he cried out. “And you, knowing what fate the military tribunal has in store for him, remembered me. Thank you for your trust and confidence, dear Marie-Anne. I won’t betray it. Let your heart be reassured. We’ll save your father, I promise you—I swear it to you. How? I don’t know yet. What does that matter! I have to save him; I want to!”

He spoke with an accent of the greatest passion, letting the joy he felt overflow, without thinking how much it was insulting and cruel.

“My father has not been arrested,” Marie-Anne said coldly.

“Then,” said Martial, in a hesitating voice, “it’s Jean who’s a prisoner?”

“My brother is safe, and he won’t be captured if he survives his wounds.”

As pale as he was, the Marquis de Sairmeuse now became red as fire. By Marie-Anne’s tone, he understood that she knew about the duel. He did not try to deny it. He wanted to clear himself of blame.

“It was Jean who challenged me. I didn’t want to… I only defended my life in a fair fight, with equal weapons.”

Marie-Anne interrupted him.

“I’m not blaming you for anything, Monsieur le Marquis,” she said.

“I’m more severe than you. Jean was right to challenge me; he had guessed what I hoped for. Yes, I told myself that you would become my mistress. But I didn’t know you, Marie-Anne. I thought you were like all the others, you, who are so chaste and pure!”

He tried to take her hands; she pushed him away and burst into sobs.

After so many blows striking her, this one, the last, was the most terrible and the saddest. What horrible humiliation that passionate praise was—what shame it carried! “Chaste and pure!” he had said. What a bitter joke! Just that morning, she thought she had felt her child move in her womb.

But Martial misunderstood her gesture.

“I understand your indignation,” he continued with growing exaltation. “But if I’ve confessed the injury, that’s because I want to make it up to you. I’ve been a fool, a miserable, vain fool. Because I love you. I don’t love, and I can’t love, anyone but you. I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse. I have millions. Marie-Anne, will you be my wife?”

Marie-Anne listened, lost in amazement. Finally, she gave in to her vertigo and it seemed to her that her mind was shaken by the fury of being blown apart by these passions. A little while ago, it had been Chanlouineau who had cried out from the depth of his jail cell that he was dying for her. Now, it was Martial de Sairmeuse who was willing to sacrifice his ambitions and his future. Both the poor peasant condemned to death and the son of the mighty Duc de Sairmeuse were enflamed with the same madness, and expressed it with similar words.

Martial had stopped. Full of hope, he was waiting for an answer, a word, a sign. But Marie-Anne remained mute, immobile, and cold.

“You aren’t saying anything!” he began again, with renewed vehemence. “Do you doubt my sincerity? No, that’s impossible! Why, then, this silence? Are you afraid of my father’s opposition? I’ll be able to get his consent. Besides, what does it matter what he wants? Do I need him? Am I not my own master? Am I not rich, immensely rich? I’d be nothing but a miserable fool if I hesitated between his stupid prejudices and my life’s happiness.”

He was trying to predict all her objections in order to combat and destroy them.

“Is it your family that you’re worried about?” he continued. “Your father and your brother are hunted men and France is closed to them. All right! We’ll leave France and they’ll come and live near us. Jean won’t be angry with me when you’re my wife. We’ll establish ourselves in England or Italy. Now, yes, I bless my fortune which will allow me to create an enchanted existence for you. I love you. I’ll be able, by tenderness, to make you forget all the bitterness of the past.”

Marie-Anne knew the Marquis de Sairmeuse well enough to understand what his fantastic propositions revealed of his passion. Precisely because of that, she hesitated to tell him that he had uselessly conquered his pride. She wondered with fright to what extremes the rage of his offended vanity could take him, and if she was not going to find in him an enemy who would cause all her efforts to fail.

“You aren’t answering?” questioned Martial, whose anxiety was visible.

She was well aware that she had to answer, to speak, to say something, but she could not move her lips.

“I am only a poor girl, Monsieur le Marquis,” she finally whispered. “If I accepted, I would prepare you for eternal regrets.”

“Never!”

“Besides, you have lost the right to give yourself. You have already given your word. Mademoiselle Blanche is your fiancée.”

“Say a word, just one word, and this engagement, which I hate, will be broken!”

She was silent. It was clear that her position was taken irrevocably and that she was refusing.

“Then, you hate me?” Martial asked sadly.

If she had been allowed to tell the truth, Marie-Anne would have responded: “Yes.” The Marquis de Sairmeuse inspired in her an almost insurmountable aversion.

“I no longer belong to myself, anymore than you belong to yourself, Monsieur,” she declared politely.

A quick flash of hate, quickly extinguished, shone in Martial’s eyes.

“Always Maurice!” he said.

“Always.”

She expected an angry explosion, but Martial remained calm.

“So, I have to give in to the evidence,” he continued with a tight smile. “I must recognize and admit that you made me play a terribly ridiculous role at La Rèche. Up until now, I didn’t think so.”

The poor girl bowed her head, red with shame to the roots of her hair, but she did not try to deny it.

“I wasn’t mistress of my will,” she stammered. “My father commanded and threatened. I obeyed.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “Your role wasn’t that of a young girl.”

This was his only reproach, and still he regretted uttering it, either because he thought he owed it to his dignity not to let the bleeding wound to his pride be seen, or because truly—as he said later—he could not bring himself to hold it against her.

“Now, I understand your presence here,” he added. “You’ve come to ask for Monsieur d’Escorval’s pardon.”

“Pardon, no, but justice! The Baron is innocent.”

Martial came close to Marie-Anne, and lowering his voice:

“If the father is innocent,” he whispered, “then it is the son who is guilty!”

She drew back, terrified. He held the secret that the judges had not known, or which they had not wanted to learn. But, seeing her terror, he took pity on her.

“One more reason to try to save the Baron! His blood poured out on the scaffold would open an abyss between you and Maurice that nothing could fill. I’ll add my efforts to yours.”

Blushing, embarrassed, Marie-Anne didn’t dare thank Martial. How was she going to acknowledge his generosity? By slandering him despicably. Ah! She would have preferred a million times to have been confronted by his anger. Without doubt, he was going to give her useful advice, when a valet opened the door of the drawing room, and the Duc de Sairmeuse, still in full uniform, entered.

“Par ma foi!” he shouted on the threshold, “you have to admit that this Chupin is a bloodhound without equal. Thanks to him…”

He stopped short. He had just recognized Marie-Anne.

“That scoundrel Lacheneur’s daughter,” he said in great surprise. “What do you want?”

The decisive moment had come. The Baron’s life was going to depend on Marie-Anne’s cleverness and courage. Awareness of her terrible responsibility restored, as if by magic, her calm, and even gave her something more.

“I’ve been charged with selling you information, Monsieur,” she said resolutely.

The Duke examined her curiously and, laughing with all his might, he let himself fall back and stretch out on a couch.

“Sell, my dear, sell!” he answered.

“I can only conduct business if I am alone with you, Monsieur.”

On a sign from his father, Martial withdrew.

“You can speak now,” said the Duke.

She did not hesitate a moment.

“You must have read the letter which told all the rebels where and when the gather…”

“Certainly, I have a dozen copies in my pocket.”

“Who do you think wrote it?”

”The Baron d’Escorval, obviously, or your father perhaps.”

“You are mistaken, Monsieur. That letter is the work of the Marquis de Sairmeuse, your own son.”

The Duc de Sairmeuse straightened up, his eyes flaming, redder than the bright scarlet of his uniform trousers.

“Jarnibleu!” he shouted. “I warn you, my girl, to hold your tongue!”

“The proof of what I’m saying exists.”

“Silence, hussy! If not, I’ll…”

“The person who sent me, Monsieur, has the draft of that letter, written entirely in Martial’s hand. I have seen it with my own eyes and...”

She did not have time to finish. The Duke dashed to the door and, in a thundering voice, called his son. As soon as Martial came in, the Duke asked Marie-Anne to restate her claim.

Boldly, her head held high, in a firm voice, Marie-Anne repeated what she had said.

She was expecting indignant denials, cruel reproaches, violent explanations from the Marquis. But none were forthcoming. He listened with a casual air, and she even thought that she saw in his eyes something like an encouragement to go on and promises of protection.

When Marie-Anne had finished, Monsieur de Sairmeuse violently asked his son:

“So?”

“First of all,” Martial answered in a light tone, “I would like to look at that famous letter.”

The Duke held out a copy to him.

“There you are! Read!”

Martial just gave it one look. He burst out laughing and cried out:

“Well played!”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that Chanlouineau is a trickster without an equal. What a Devil! Who would have expected so much cleverness looking at the honest face of that big fellow! Beware judging people by their looks!”

The Duc de Sairmeuse had never in his life had to submit to such a harsh test.

“Then Chanlouineau wasn’t lying,” he said to his son in a choking voice. “You were one of the instigators of the rebellion.”

Martial’s face grew dark and, in the most disdainful haughtiness, he replied:

“This makes four times, Monsieur, that you’ve asked me this question, and four times that I’ve answered it: No. That ought to be enough. If I’d taken a notion to get mixed up in this movement, I’d admit it with the greatest frankness in the world. What reasons could I have to keep it from you?”

“Get to the facts!” the Duke interrupted furiously.

“The facts are that a draft of that letter exists,” Martial continued, resuming his light tone, “penned in my most beautiful handwriting on a big piece of poor quality paper. I recall trying to find the exact wording; I scratched out and wrote over a lot of words… Did I date it? I think I did, but I couldn’t swear to it…”

“How can you reconcile that confession with your earlier denials?”

“Perfectly! Haven’t I just told you that Chanlouineau tricked me?”

The Duke didn’t know what to believe, but what exasperated him most of all was his son’s imperturbable calmness.

“Then admit instead,” he said, pointing at Marie-Anne, “that you let yourself be taken in by your mistress.”

But Martial would not tolerate that insult.

“Mademoisellelle Lacheneur is not my mistress,” he declared in a commanding tone, bordering on threat. “If it was up to me, she’d be Marquise de Sairmeuse tomorrow. Let’s stop casting blame. It won’t help us figuring a way out of this business.”

The light of reason, which still lit Monsieur de Sairmeuse’s mind, stopped the most outrageous answer from crossing his lips. Shaking with contained rage, he paced around the room three or four times; then, returning to Marie-Anne, who had remained in the same spot, as unmoving as a statue, he commanded:

“All right, darling. Give me that draft.”

“I don’t have it, Monsieur.”

“Where is it?”

“In the hands of a person who will give it to you, but only under certain conditions.”

“Who is that person?”

“That’s what he has forbidden me to tell you.”

Martial gazed at Marie-Anne with admiration and jealousy. He was astounded by her calm and her presence of mind.

Where has she gotten that bearing and audacity, she who, in the past, was so fearful and who blushed at nothing. Ah! That passion which gives her voice its steel, that flame in her eyes, such precision in her answers—it must be very powerful.

“And if I don’t accept the… conditions that you claim to impose on me?” asked Monsieur de Sairmeuse.

“The rough draft of the letter will be used.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, Monsieur, that tomorrow, in the early morning, a trustworthy man will leave for Paris, charged with showing this document to various persons, known to be not exactly your friends. He will show it to Monsieur Lainé at the Chamber of Deputies, for example, and to Monsieur le Duc de Richelieu, and, what’s more, he will explain to them its significance and its value. Does that writing prove the complicity of the Marquis de Sairmeuse? Did you, or did you not, judge and condemn to death many unfortunate men who were only your son’s footsoldiers?”

“Ah! Miserable rascal,” interrupted the Duke, “hussy, viper…”

He used every insult he remembered, letting them out like a string of beads. He had lost control. He frothed at the mouth, his eyes were popping out of his head; he no longer knew what he was saying.

“So that’s what I have to be afraid of?” he cried out with gestures of rage. “Yes, I have bitter enemies! Yes, I have envious enemies, who would give their little finger for that damned letter… Ah! If they had it! They would open an investigation… And then, say good-bye to the payments due for my loyal services… Let them send to Paris some rascal who seeks our downfall and who will tell everyone about your relations with Lacheneur. He will shout from the rooftops that Chanlouineau, in front of the tribunal, swore that you were his accomplice—nay, his leader. They’ll have you examined by doctors and, seeing the fresh scar, they’ll ask where you got that wound, and why you hid it. After that, what won’t they accuse me of? They’ll say that I brushed aside procedure to stifle the voices raised against my own son. They might go so far as saying that I secretly supported the uprising. I would be vilified by the newspapers! And who would have, if you please, reversed the fortunes of our house when I was going to carry it so high? You, Marquis! You pride yourself on diplomacy, depth, and intelligence. You act like Talleyrand, but you let yourself be taken in by the first peasant you meet. You don’t believe anything, you doubt everything, you are cold, skeptical, disdainful, a fault-finder, a mocker, world-weary, tired of everything. but when a skirt passes by, you get carried away like a seminarian, and are open to any stupidity. I’m talking to you, Marquis, do you hear me? What have you to say?”

Martial had listened with a coldly mocking look, without even trying to interrupt. He responded slowly:

“I think, Monsieur, that if Mademoiselle Lacheneur had any doubts about the value of the document she possesses, she doesn’t have them anymore.”

That answer fell like a stream of cold water on the Duc de Sairmeuse’s anger. He saw and understood his folly, and completely stunned by what he had just said, he remained stupid with astonishment, his mouth wide open, his eyes staring.

Without deigning to say a word, the Marquis turned to Marie-Anne.

“Would you tell us, Mademoiselle,” he inquired, “what is required of my father in exchange for that letter?”

“Simply the life and liberty of the Baron d’Escorval, Monsieur.”

That shook the Duke like an electric charge.

“Ah! I knew I’d be asked for the impossible!”

A profound depression followed his exaltation. He let himself sink into an armchair and hid his head in his hands. Finally, he got hold of himself, searching for a way out.

“Why didn’t you come to me before the verdict,” he murmured. “Then I could do something. Now my hands are tied. The tribunal has rendered its judgment and it must be carried out.” He got up and with the tone of a man resigned to everything, added: “I’d take a great risk if I spared only the Baron. (Now, he used his title again.) It would cause so much trouble… more trouble than I have to fear from all my enemies combined. So, Mademoiselle, (he no longer addressed her in a familiar tone), you may use your document.”

The Duke prepared to leave the room, but Martial held him back with a sign.

“Let’s think some more,” he said, “before throwing in the glove after the first blow. Our situation isn’t without precedent. Four months ago, the Comte de Lavalette had just been condemned to death. The King wanted to spare him, but those around him, his ministers, the Courtiers, opposed it with all their might. What did the King, who was the master after all, do? He appeared to remain deaf to all the petitions. They raised the scaffold… and Lavalette was nowhere to be found! Nobody was compromised. However, a jailer lost his job. Now he’s living comfortably on a royal pension.”

Marie-Anne quickly seized the idea that Martial so cleverly presented.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, “the Comte de Lavalette, protected by royal complicity, managed to escape.”

The simplicity of the arrangement, and, above all, the authority for the example, seemed to interest the Duc de Sairmeuse. He was silent a moment, and Marie-Anne, who was watching him, thought she saw the wrinkles on his forehead disappear little by little.

“An escape,” he murmured. “That’s still risky. However, with a little care, if we could be sure of secrecy…”

“The secret would be religiously guarded, Monsieur,” Marie-Anne interrupted.

With a glance, Martial cautioned her to be silent.

“You can always study the possibility and calculate its consequences,” he said. “That doesn’t commit you to anything. When is the judgment to be carried out?”

Monsieur de Sairmeuse answered: “Tomorrow.”

That terrible answer did not draw a shiver from Marie-Anne. The Duke’s fear had shown her the extent to which she could hope, and she saw that Martial had frankly embraced her cause.

“We have only tonight before us,” continued the young Marquis. “Fortunately, it’s only 7 p.m. and until 10 p.m., my father can go up to the Citadel without raising the slightest suspicion.”

He stopped. His eyes, which had shown the most absolute confidence, were veiled. He had just realized an unforeseen difficulty, and in his mind, almost insurmountable.

“Have we some people gathering intelligence inside the Citadel?” he murmured. “The assistance of a subaltern, a jailer, or a soldier is indispensable.”

He turned toward his father and, brusquely:

“Have you,” he asked him, “a trustworthy man you can count on absolutely?”

“I have three or four spies. We could feel them out…”

“Never! The corrupt person who’d betray his comrades for a few sous would betray us for some louis. We need an honest man, sharing the Baron d’Escorval’s ideas, a former soldier of Napoleon, if possible,” He fell into deep thought, evidently in prey to the worst indecision. “Whoever wants to act must confide in someone,” he murmured, “and here, an indiscretion would lose everything.”

Marie-Anne, too, was searching her mind, when an inspiration she thought a god-send came to her.

“I know a man you can ask!” she cried out.

“You!”

“Yes, me—at the Citadel.”

“Be careful! Remember, we need a brave man capable of devoting himself and risking a great deal. It’s clear that when the escape is discovered, those responsible will be sacrificed.”

“The one you described is what you want him to be. I’ll answer for him.”

“Is he a soldier?”

“He’s just a Corporal. But for his nobility of heart, he’s worthy of higher ranks. Believe me, Monsieur le Marquis, we can confide in him without fear.”

If she spoke in this way, she who would have given her life to save the Baron, it was because her certainty was complete and absolute. Martial thought so.

“I’ll go see that man,” he said. “What’s his name?”

“Bavois. He’s a Corporal in the 1st Company of the Grenadiers.”

“Bavois!” Martial repeated as if to fix the name in his memory. “Bavois! My father will find some pretext to have him called.”

“The pretext is already found, Monsieur le Marquis. That’s the brave soldier who was left as a sentry at Escorval, after the house visit.”

“Then everything’s all right from that side,” said Martial. “Let’s go on.”

He had gotten up and gone to lean against the chimney, this way being near his father.

“I suppose, Monsieur,” he began, “that the Baron d’Escorval has been separated from the other condemned men…”

“As you say, he’s alone in a spacious and very comfortable room,” said the Duke.

“Where is it located, please?”

“On the third floor of the flat tower.”

But Martial was not as familiar as his father with the locations of people in the Citadel. He took a moment to dredge up his memories.

“The flat tower, isn’t that the tower that’s so big you can see it from a distance and built in a place where the rock is almost a sheer precipice?”

“Exactly.”

The readiness with which Monsieur de Sairmeuse responded, a readiness so far from his proud character, proved that he was ready to attempt anything for the deliverance of the man condemned to death.

“What’s the window to the Baron’s room like?” continued Martial.

“Rather big—high, mainly. It doesn’t have a window covering as the cell windows do, but it’s furnished with two rows of steel bars set deeply into the wall.

“One can easily get through a steel bar with a good file. Which way does the window open?”

“It opens onto the countryside.”

“That is to say, on the sheer drop off. The Devil! That’s a difficulty. It’s true, the other side would be an advantage. Do they place soldiers on guard duty at the foot of that tower?”

“Never… What’s the use? Between the masonry and the sheer drop off, there’s not room for three men in a row. Soldiers, even in full daylight, wouldn’t take a chance on that ledge which has neither a protective wall nor a guard-rail.”

Martial stopped, trying to think if he had forgotten anything.

“One more important question,” he continued, “how high is the window in Monsieur d’Escorval’s room?”

“It’s about 40 feet above the overhanging ledge.”

“And from that ledge to the bottom of the rock, how far is it?”

“Ma foi! I don’t actually know. About 60 feet, at least.”

“Ah! That’s high! That’s terribly high! The Baron, fortunately, is still nimble and vigorous—since there’s no other way.

Monsieur de Sairmeuse was beginning to get impatient. It was time to finish the interrogation.

“Now,” he said, “would you do me the honor to explain your plan?”

After having, at the beginning, put certain curtness into his questions, Martial had callously returned to that mocking light tone which so strongly exasperated Monsieur de Sairmeuse.

“He must be sure of success,” thought Marie-Anne.

“My plan is simplicity itself,” said Martial. “60 and 40 make 100. It’s a question of getting 100 feet of strong rope. I know that’ll make an enormous volume, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll roll all this hemp around me; I’ll put on a large cloak; I’ll go with you to the Citadel. You’ll ask for Corporal Bavois; you’ll leave me alone with him in a dark place; I’ll let him know what I have in mind.”

Monsieur de Sairmeuse shrugged.

“And how’re you going to get 100 feet of rope,” he asked, “at this hour in Montaignac? Are you going to run from shop to shop? That would be the same as announcing your plan by blowing a trumpet.”

“What I can’t do, Monsieur, the friends of Monsieur d’Escorval’s family will do.”

The Duke was going to raise new objections. He stopped him.

“Please, Monsieur,” he said with vivacity. “Don’t forget the danger that threatens us and how little time we have. I committed a fault; let me correct it.” And then, turning toward Marie-Anne, he added: “You can consider the Baron saved, but I must come to an understanding with one of your friends. Go back to the Hotel de France quickly and send me the Priest de Sairmeuse to join me at the Place d’Armes where I’ll be waiting for him.”

 

 

 

XXX

 

 

Being among the first men arrested after the insurgents panicked before Montaignac, the Baron d’Escorval had had no illusions about his fate.

“I’m a lost man!” he thought.

Being prepared to meet Death with a peaceful soul, he no longer thought of anything but the perils which threatened his son. His attitude in front of his judges was a result of that preoccupation. He only actually breathed easier after seeing Maurice being carried out of the room by Father Midon and the half-pay officers. He had understood that his son had wished to surrender himself. It was therefore with his head held high, a confident bearing, a straight and clear look, that the Baron heard the fatal sentence. His sacrifice was made in advance. But he had done well to have confided his last wishes to his courageous defender.

After the verdict, the soldiers charged with conducting the condemned men to their prison came into the courtroom. Emptying the room took some time. All the poor peasants who had just been struck down were still trying to understand the chain of events who had taken them to the scaffold. Stupefied more with astonishment than fright, they pressed against the narrow door of the chapel like bewildered cattle squeezing against each other at the door of the slaughterhouse. The confusion was so great that Monsieur d’Escorval found himself pushed up against Chanlouineau, who was beginning the comedy of his weakness.

“Have courage!” he said to him, indignant at the sight of such cowardice.

“Ah! That’s easy for you to say,” trembled the strong boy.

But since nobody was looking at him, the farmer leaned toward the Baron, and in a very low voice, said:

“I’m working for you. Get your strength together for tonight.”

Chanlouineau’s statement surprised Monsieur d’Escorval, but he attributed the farmer’s words to the delirium of fear. Back in his room, he threw himself down on his narrow little bunk and he had a terrible and sublime vision of his last hour, which is the hope or the despair of those who are about to die. He knew what terrible laws govern irregular tribunals. The next day, in a few hours, at daybreak perhaps, they would come, take him out of his prison, put him in front of a platoon of soldiers, then an officer would raise his sword, give the signal to fire, and it would all be over. He would fall under the bullets. Then what would become of his wife and his son? Ah! His heart was breaking, thinking about these dear and adored beings! As he was alone, he wept.

But suddenly he straightened up, frightened by his weakness. Would these distressing thoughts make his soul lose its strength? Was his strength going to desert him? Would he suddenly lack courage? Would they see him turn pale and faint before the firing squad?

He wanted to shake off that torpor which had gotten hold of him, and he began to walk around his prison, forcing himself to occupy his mind with other things. The room they had given him was large, with a high ceiling. In the past, it had opened onto a neighboring room, but the adjoining door had been walled up for a long time. Even the cement which bound the large and slim stones together had fallen away. As a result, with a little effort, one could see from one room into the other. Instinctively, Monsieur d’Escorval placed his eye on one of these openings. Could he have another condemned man as a neighbor? He did not see anyone. He called out, very low at first, then louder; no voice answered his.

“What if I struck that little partition?” he thought. He shivered, then shrugged. What more could they do to him? The partition fell over. He found himself in a room just like his own, opening, like his, onto a corridor full of soldiers patrolling, whose monotonous footsteps he could hear. However, he now had thoughts of escaping. What madness! He should have known that all precautions had been taken. He did know it, in fact; but he could not keep himself from going to look at the window. Two rows of iron bars enclosed it. They were placed in such a way that it was impossible to put one’s head through and find out how high it was from the ground. The height, however, must have been considerable judging by the view.

The sun was setting, and in the distance, despite the fog, the Baron could see a waving line of hills at the top of which must be La Rèche. The dark masses on the right were probably the Sairmeuse high chimneys. Finally, on the left, in a break between the hills, he made out the Oiselle valley and Escorval. His soul flew toward that lovely retreat, where he had been so happy, where he had been loved, where he had hoped to die the calm and serene death of the just. At the memory of past happiness, thinking of vanished dreams, his eyes again filled with tears, but he dried them off quickly.

Someone opened the door of his cell. Two soldiers appeared. One of them carried a torch; the other one of those long baskets which are used to take meals to the officers of the guard. These men were clearly moved by his predicament, but obeying a feeling of natural delicacy, they affected a sort of gaiety.

“This is your dinner we’re bringing, Monsieur,” one of them said. “It should be very good because it comes straight from the kitchens of the Commandant of the Citadel.”

Monsieur d’Escorval smiled sadly. Certain attentions from jailers have sinister significance. However, when he had sat down at a little table they had set up for him, he found that he was really hungry. He ate with a good appetite and chatted almost gaily with the soldiers.

“There’s always hope, Monsieur,” one of those fine fellows said. “Who knows? No battle is ever completely lost.”