Chapter III: Part 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I shall remain,” said Maurice firmly.

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

“Wretch! how dare you--”

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

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

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

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

“But all is lost!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is there?” inquired the young marquis.

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Ah!--then you were, indeed--”

“I was where?--what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What! is it Lacheneur--”

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

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

XV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mother!” faltered Maurice; “mother!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what of that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is he?”

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

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

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

“Who are you?” rudely asked the officer.

“I am the cure of Sairmeuse.”

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

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

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

“And how many servants?”

“Seven--four men and three women.”

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

“No one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, a few hunting rifles.”

“Where are they?”

“In a small room on the ground floor.”

“Take me there.”

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

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

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

The two men responded with sullen growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bah! what does public sentiment matter?”

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