Chapter II: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What of that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will.”

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

“But I should be considered a coward.”

“Probably; but will you swear?”

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

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

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

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

“What, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XII.

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

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

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

“What is the matter?” inquired the duke.

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

“Who are coming? who?”

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

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

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

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

“All the town’s people are with us.”

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

“Who are the leaders of the movement?”

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

“Enough!” cried the duke.

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

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

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

“And why, you fool?”

“Because, because--excuse me--I----”

“Zounds! will you speak, or not?”

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

“Well?”

“He is engaged in it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know nothing of my projects!”

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

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

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

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

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

Sullen murmurs were heard among Lacheneur’s followers.

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

“Whom do you call dupes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The young fellow hesitated, but finally stepped forward.

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

“I must follow them, father.”

“I forbid it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alas!” murmured the priest.

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

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

XIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Blessed Jesus!” interrupted Aunt Medea in alarm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What has happened?” cried Lacheneur in alarm.

“Everything is discovered!”

“Good heavens!”

“Major Carini has been arrested.”

“By whom? How?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a word.”

“How many men are assembled there?”

“At least two thousand.”

“And what is their mood?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XIV.

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