So it was really Maurice d’Escorval whom the Marquis de Sairmeuse had seen leaving Lacheneur’s house.
Martial was not certain of it, but the very possibility made his heart swell with anger.
“What part am I playing here, then?” he exclaimed, indignantly.
He had been so completely blinded by passion that he would not have been likely to discover the real condition of affairs even if no pains had been taken to deceive him.
Lacheneur’s formal courtesy and politeness he regarded as sincere. He believed in the studied respect shown him by Jean; and the almost servile obsequiousness of Chanlouineau did not surprise him in the least.
And since Marie-Anne welcomed him politely, he concluded that his suit was progressing favorably.
Having himself forgotten, he supposed that everyone else had ceased to remember.
Moreover, he was of the opinion that he had acted with great generosity, and that he was entitled to the deep gratitude of the Lacheneur family; for M. Lacheneur had received the legacy bequeathed him by Mlle. Armande, and an indemnity, besides all the furniture he had chosen to take from the chateau, a total of at least sixty thousand francs.
“He must be hard to please, if he is not satisfied!” growled the duke, enraged at such prodigality, though it did not cost him a penny.
Martial had supposed himself the only visitor at the cottage on the Reche; and when he discovered that such was not the case, he became furious.
“Am I, then, the dupe of a shameless girl?” he thought.
He was so incensed, that for more than a week he did not go to Lacheneur’s house.
His father concluded that his ill-humor and gloom was caused by some misunderstanding with Marie-Anne; and he took advantage of this opportunity to gain his son’s consent to an alliance with Blanche de Courtornieu.
A victim to the most cruel doubts and fears, Martial, goaded to the last extremity, exclaimed:
“Very well! I will marry Mademoiselle Blanche.”
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 honor of the betrothal—a banquet all the more brilliant since there were other victories to be celebrated.
The Duc de Sairmeuse had just received, with his brevet of lieutenant-general, a commission placing him in command of the military department of Montaignac.
The Marquis de Courtornieu had also received an appointment, making him provost-marshal of the same district.
Blanche had triumphed. After this public betrothal Martial was bound to her.
For a fortnight, indeed, he scarcely left her side. In her society there was a charm whose sweetness 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 Marie-Anne, and to the lowliness of the marquis’s former tastes. She found an opportunity to say that she furnished Marie-Anne with work to aid her in earning a living.
Martial forced himself to smile; but the indignity which Marie-Anne had received aroused his sympathy and indignation.
And the next day he went to Lacheneur’s house.
In the warmth of the greeting that awaited him there, all his anger vanished, all his suspicions evaporated. Marie-Anne’s eyes beamed with joy on seeing him again; he noticed it.
“Oh! I shall win her yet!” he thought.
All the household were really delighted at his return; the son of the commander of the military forces at Montaignac, and the prospective son-in-law of the provost-marshal, Martial was 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.”
He was, for he soon resumed his daily visits to the cottage. It was now December, and the roads were terrible; but neither rain, snow, nor mud could keep Martial from the cottage.
He made his appearance generally as early as ten o’clock, seated himself upon a stool in the shadow of a tall fireplace, and he and Marie-Anne talked by the hour.
She seemed greatly interested in matters at Montaignac, and he told her all that he knew in regard to affairs there.
Sometimes they were alone.
Lacheneur, Chanlouineau, and Jean were tramping about the country with their merchandise. Business was prospering so well that M. Lacheneur had purchased a horse in order to extend his journeys.
But Martial’s conversation was generally interrupted by visitors. It was really surprising to see how many peasants came to the house to speak to M. Lacheneur. There was an interminable procession of them. And to each of these peasants Marie-Anne had something to say in private. Then she offered each man refreshments—the house seemed almost like a common drinking-saloon.
But what can daunt the courage of a lover? Martial endured all this without a murmur. He laughed and jested with the comers and goers; he shook hands with them; sometimes he even drank with them.
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 offered to act as his amanuensis.
“The d——d letter is not for me, but for an uncle of mine who is about to marry off his daughter,” said Chanlouineau.
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 has been decided upon. We are now busy with preparations 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 was in love.
“Ah! Marquis,” remarked his father one day, “Chupin tells me you are always at Lacheneur’s. When will you recover from yourpenchantfor that little girl?”
Martial did not reply. He felt that he was at that “little girl’s” mercy. Each glance of hers made his heart throb wildly. By her side he was a willing captive. If she had asked him to make her his wife he would not have said no.
But Marie-Anne had not this ambition. All her thoughts, all her 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.
Such feverish activity as 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 the Reche.
M. d’Escorval could not fail to remark the long and frequent absences of his son. He watched him, and soon became absolutely certain that Lacheneur had, to use the baron’s own expression, seduced him.
Greatly alarmed, he decided to go and see his former friend, and fearing another repulse, he begged Abbe Midon to accompany him.
It was on the 4th of March, at about half-past four o’clock, that M. d’Escorval and the cure started for the Reche. They were so anxious and troubled in mind that they scarcely exchanged a dozen words as they wended their way onward.
A strange sight met their eyes as they emerged from the grove on the Reche.
Night was falling, but it was still light enough for them to distinguish objects only a short distance from them.
Before Lacheneur’s house stood a group of about a dozen persons, and M. Lacheneur was speaking and gesticulating excitedly.
What was he saying? Neither the baron nor the priest could distinguish his words, but when he ceased, the most vociferous acclamations rent the air.
Suddenly a match glowed between his fingers; he set fire to a bundle of straw and tossed it upon the thatched roof of his cottage, crying out in a terrible voice:
“The die is cast! This will prove to you that I shall not draw back!”
Five minutes later the house was in flames.
In the distance the baron and his companion saw the windows of the citadel at Montaignac illuminated by a red glare, and upon every hill-side glowed the light of other incendiary fires.
The country was responding to Lacheneur’s signal.
Ah! ambition is a fine thing!
The Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu were past middle age; their lives had been marked by many storms and vicissitudes; they were the possessors of millions, and the owners of the most sumptuous residences in the province. Under these circumstances one might have supposed that they would desire to end their days in peace and quietness.
It would have been easy for them to create a life of happiness by doing good to those around them, and by preparing for their last hours a chorus of benedictions and of regrets.
But no. They longed to have a hand in managing the ship of state; they were not content to be simply passengers.
And the duke, appointed to the command of the military forces, and the marquis, made presiding judge of the court at Montaignac, were both obliged to leave their beautiful homes and take up their abode in rather dingy quarters in town.
They did not murmur at the change; their vanity was satisfied.
Louis XVIII. was on the throne; their prejudices were triumphant; they were happy.
It is true that dissatisfaction was rife on every side, but had they not hundreds and thousands of allies at hand to suppress it?
And when wise and thoughtful persons spoke of “discontent,” the duke and his associates regarded them as visionaries.
On the 4th of March, 1816, the duke was just sitting down to dinner when a loud noise was heard in the vestibule.
He rose—but at that very instant the door was flung open and a man entered, panting and breathless.
This man was Chupin, the former poacher, whom M. de Sairmeuse had elevated to the position of head gamekeeper.
It was evident that something extraordinary had happened.
“What is it?” inquired the duke.
“They are coming!” cried Chupin; “they are already on the way!”
“Who? who?”
By way of response, Chupin handed the duke a copy of the letter written by Martial under Chanlouineau’s dictation.
M. de Sairmeuse read:
“My dear friend—We are at last agreed, and the marriage is decided. We are now busy in preparing for the wedding, which will take place on the 4th of March.”
The date was no longer blank; but still the duke did not comprehend.
“Well, what of it?” he demanded.
Chupin tore his hair.
“They are on the way,” he repeated. “I speak of the peasants—they intend to take possession of Montaignac, dethrone Louis XVIII., bring back the Emperor, or at least the son of the Emperor—miserable wretches! they have deceived me. I suspected this outbreak, but I did not think it was so near at hand.”
This terrible blow, so entirely unexpected, stupefied the duke for a moment.
“How many are there?” he demanded.
“Ah! how do I know, Monsieur? Two thousand, perhaps—perhaps ten thousand.”
“All the towns-people are with us.”
“No, Monsieur, no. The rebels have accomplices here. All the retired officers stand ready to assist them.”
“Who are the leaders of the movement?”
“Lacheneur, Abbe Midon, Chanlouineau, Baron d’Escorval——”
“Enough!” cried the duke.
Now that 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; a valet appeared.
“My uniform,” commanded M. de Sairmeuse; “my pistols! Quick!”
The servant was about to obey, when the duke exclaimed:
“Wait! Let someone 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 return in two hours.”
Chupin endeavored to attract the duke’s attention by pulling the skirt of his coat. M. de Sairmeuse turned:
“What is it?”
The old poacher put his finger on his lip, recommending silence, but as soon as the valet had left the room, he said:
“It is useless to send for the marquis.”
“And why, you fool?”
“Because, Monsieur, because—excuse me—I——”
“Zounds! will you speak, or will you not?”
Chupin regretted that he had gone so far.
“Because the marquis——”
“Well?”
“He is engaged in it.”
The duke overturned the table with a terrible blow of his clinched fist.
“You lie, wretch!” he thundered, with the most horrible oaths.
He was so formidable in his anger that the old poacher sprang to the door and turned the knob, ready to take 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 neighborhood 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, hastened from the house.
He was still hoping that Chupin had exaggerated the danger; but when he reached the Place d’Arms, which commanded an extended view of the surrounding country, his illusions were put to flight.
Signal-lights gleamed upon every side. Montaignac seemed surrounded by a circle of flame.
“These are the signals,” murmured Chupin. “The rebels will be here before two o’clock in the morning.”
The duke made no response, but hastened to consult M. de Courtornieu.
He was striding toward his friend’s house when, on hastily turning a corner, he saw two men talking in a doorway, and on seeing the glittering of the duke’s epaulets, both of them took flight.
The duke instinctively started in pursuit, overtook one man, and seizing him by the collar, he asked, sternly:
“Who are you? What is your name?”
The man was silent, and his captor shook him so roughly that two pistols, which had been hidden under his long 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 started for M. de Courtornieu’s house.
He expected the marquis would be terrified; not in the least; he seemed delighted.
“At last 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——”
But suddenly a cloud overspread his face; he knit his brows, and added:
“The devil! I am expecting Blanche this evening. She was to leave Courtornieu after dinner. Heaven grant that she may meet with no misfortune on the way!”
The Duc 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 said.
Two circumstances, which it was impossible to foresee, disarranged Lacheneur’s plans.
Standing beside his burning house, Lacheneur counted the signal fires that blazed out in answer to his own.
Their number corresponded to his expectations; he uttered a cry of joy.
“All our friends keep their word!” he exclaimed. “They are ready; they are even now on their way to the rendezvous. Let us start at once, for we must be there first!”
They brought him his horse, and his foot was already in the stirrup, when two men sprang from the neighboring grove and darted toward him. One of them seized the horse by the bridle.
“Abbe Midon!” exclaimed Lacheneur, in profound astonishment; “Monsieur d’Escorval!”
And foreseeing, perhaps, what was to come, he added, in a tone of concentrated fury:
“What do you two men 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 do not suspect them? You hope to capture Montaignac——-”
“What does that matter to you?” interrupted Lacheneur, violently.
But M. d’Escorval would not be silenced.
He seized the arm of his former friend, and in a voice loud enough to be heard distinctly by everyone present, he continued:
“Foolish man! You have forgotten that Montaignac is a fortified city, protected by deep moats and high walls! You have forgotten that behind these fortifications is a garrison commanded by a man whose energy and valor are beyond all question—the Duc de Sairmeuse.”
Lacheneur struggled to free himself from his friend’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 seen the light gleaming on the windows of the citadel. And look, you can see it yet. This light tells me that two or three hundred retired officers will come to open the gates of the city for us as soon as we make our appearance.”
“And after that! If you take Montaignac, what will you do then? Do you suppose that the English will give you back your Emperor? Is not Napoleon II. the prisoner of the Austrians? Have you forgotten that the allied sovereigns have left one 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 as many traitors as dupes in an undertaking of this sort.”
“Whom do you call dupes, Monsieur?”
“All those who take their illusions for realities, as you have done; all those who, because they desire anything very much, really believe that it will come to pass. Do you really suppose that neither the Duc de Sairmeuse nor the Marquis de Courtornieu has been warned of it?”
Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders.
“Who could have warned them?”
But his tranquillity was feigned; the look which he cast upon Jean proved it.
And it was in the coldest possible tone that he added:
“It is probable that at this very hour the duke and the marquis are in the power of our friends.”
The cure now attempted to join his efforts to those of the baron.
“You will not go, Lacheneur,” he said. “You will not remain deaf to the voice of reason. You are an honest man; think of the frightful responsibility you assume! What! upon these frail hopes, you dare to peril the lives of hundreds of brave men? I tell you that you will not succeed; you will be betrayed; I am sure you will be betrayed!”
An expression of horror contracted Lacheneur’s features. It was evident to all that he was deeply moved.
It is impossible to say what might have happened had it not been for the intervention of Chanlouineau.
This sturdy peasant came forward, brandishing his gun.
“We are wasting too much time in foolish prattling,” he exclaimed with a fierce oath.
Lacheneur started as if he had been struck by a whip. He rudely freed himself 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 upon your head, and upon the heads of your children!”
Appalled by these prophetic words, the little band paused.
Then someone issued from the ranks, clad in the costume of a peasant.
“Marie-Anne!” exclaimed the abbe and the baron in the same breath.
“Yes, I,” responded the young girl, removing 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 counsel comes too late, gentlemen. Do you see those lights on the horizon? They tell us that the people of these communes are repairing to the cross-roads at the Croix d’Arcy, the general rendezvous. 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? Impossible!”
She evidently shared the madness of her lover and father, 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 saw in the ranks, to depart thus.
“Maurice!” he cried.
The young man hesitated, but at last approached.
“You will not follow these madmen, Maurice?” said the baron.
“I must follow them, father.”
“I forbid it.”
“Alas! father, I cannot obey you. I have promised—I have sworn. I am second in command.”
His voice was sad, but it was determined.
“My son!” exclaimed M. d’Escorval; “unfortunate child!—it is to certain death that you are marching—to certain death.”
“All the more reason that I should not break my word, father.”
“And your mother, Maurice, the mother whom you forget!”
A tear glistened in the young man’s eye.
“My mother,” he replied, “would rather weep for her dead son than keep him near her dishonored, and branded with the names of coward and traitor. Farewell! my father.”
M. d’Escorval appreciated the nobility of soul that Maurice displayed in his conduct. He extended his arms, and pressed his beloved son convulsively to his heart, feeling that it might be for the last time.
“Farewell!” he faltered, “farewell!”
Maurice soon rejoined his comrades, whose acclamations were growing fainter and fainter in the distance; but the baron stood motionless, overwhelmed with sorrow.
Suddenly he started from his revery.
“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 arrive there. Your voice, which touched Lacheneur, will touch the heart of his accomplices. We will persuade these poor, misguided men to return to their homes. Come, Abbe; come quickly!”
And they departed on the run.
The clock in the tower of Sairmeuse was striking the hour of eight when Lacheneur and his little band of followers left the Reche.
An hour later, at the Chateau de Courtornieu, Mlle. Blanche, after finishing her dinner, ordered the carriage to convey her to Montaignac. Since her father had taken up his abode in town they met only on Sunday; on that day either Blanche went to Montaignac, or the marquis paid a visit to the chateau.
Hence this proposed journey was a deviation from the regular order of things. It was explained, however, by grave circumstances.
It was six days since Martial had presented himself at Courtornieu; and Blanche was half crazed with grief and rage.
What Aunt Medea was forced to endure during this interval, only poor dependents in rich families can understand.
For the first three days Mlle. Blanche succeeded in preserving a semblance of self-control; on the fourth she could endure it no longer, and in spite of the breach of “les convenances” which it involved, she sent a messenger to Sairmeuse to inquire for Martial. Was he ill—had he gone away?
The messenger was informed that the marquis was perfectly well, but, as he spent the entire day, from early morn to dewy eve, in hunting, he went to bed every evening as soon as supper was over.
What a horrible insult! Still, she was certain that Martial, on hearing what she had done, would hasten to her to make his excuses. Vain hope! He did not come; he did not even condescend to give one sign of life.
“Ah! doubtless he is with her,” she said 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.
In this extremity she decided to make her father her confidant; and she wrote him a note announcing her coming.
She wished her father to compel Lacheneur to leave the country. This would be an easy matter for him, since he was armed with discretionary authority at an epoch when lukewarm devotion afforded an abundant excuse for sending a man into exile.
Fully decided upon this plan, Blanche became calmer on leaving the chateau; and her hopes overflowed in incoherent phrases, to which poor Aunt Medea listened with her accustomed resignation.
“At last I shall be rid of this shameless creature!” she exclaimed. “We will see if he has the audacity to follow her! Will he follow her? Oh, no; he dare not!”
When the carriage passed through the village of Sairmeuse, Mlle. Blanche noticed an unwonted animation.
There were lights in every house, the saloons seemed full of drinkers, and groups of people were standing upon the public square and upon the doorsteps.
But what did this matter to Mlle. de Courtornieu! It was not until they were a mile or so from Sairmeuse that she was startled from her revery.
“Listen, Aunt Medea,” she said, suddenly. “Do you hear anything?”
The poor dependent listened. Both occupants of the carriage heard shouts that became more and more distinct with each revolution of the wheels.
“Let us find out the meaning of this,” said Mlle. Blanche.
And lowering one of the carriage-windows, she asked the coachman the cause of the disturbance.
“I see a great crowd of peasants on the hill; 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, but Lacheneur’s little band, which had been augmented to the number of about five hundred. Lacheneur should have been at the Croix d’Arcy two hours before. But he had shared the fate of most popular chiefs. When an impetus had been given to the movement he was no longer master of it.
Baron d’Escorval had made him lose twenty minutes; 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.
To tear them from their merry-making was a long and difficult task.
And to crown all, when they were finally induced to resume their line of march, it was impossible to persuade them to extinguish the pine knots which they had lighted to serve as torches.
Prayers and threats were alike unavailing. “They wished to see their way,” they said.
Poor deluded creatures! They had not the slightest conception of the difficulties and the perils of the enterprise they had undertaken.
They were going to capture a fortified city, defended by a numerous garrison, as if they were bound on a pleasure jaunt.
Gay, thoughtless, and animated by the imperturbable confidence of a child, they were marching along, arm in arm, singing patriotic songs.
On horseback, in the centre of the band, M. Lacheneur felt his hair turning white with anguish.
Would not this delay ruin everything? What would the others, who were waiting at the Croix d’Arcy, think! What were they doing at this very moment?
“Onward! onward!” he repeated.
Maurice, Chanlouineau, Jean, Marie-Anne, and about twenty of the old soldiers of the Empire, understood and shared Lacheneur’s despair. They knew the terrible danger they were incurring, and they, too, repeated:
“Faster! Let us march faster!”
Vain exhortation! It pleased these people to go slowly.
Suddenly the entire band stopped. Some of the peasants, chancing to look back, had seen the lamps of Mlle. de Courtornieu’s carriage gleaming in the darkness.
It came rapidly onward, and soon overtook them. The peasants recognized the coachman’s livery, and greeted the vehicle with shouts of derision.
M. de Courtornieu, by his avariciousness, had made even more enemies than the Duc de Sairmeuse; and all the peasants who thought they had more or less reason to complain of his extortions were delighted at this opportunity to frighten him.
For, that they were not thinking of vengeance, is conclusively proved by the sequel.
Hence great was their disappointment when, on opening the carriage-door, they saw within the vehicle only Mlle. Blanche and Aunt Medea, who uttered the most piercing shrieks.
But Mlle. de Courtornieu was a brave woman.
“Who are you?” she demanded, haughtily, “and what do you desire?”
“You will know to-morrow,” replied Chanlouineau. “Until then, you are our prisoner.”
“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 request you to descend from your carriage. She must leave the carriage, must she not, Monsieur d’Escorval?”
“Very well! I declare that I will not leave my carriage; tear me from it if you dare!”
They would certainly have dared had it not been for Marie-Anne, who checked some peasants as they were springing toward the carriage.
“Let Mademoiselle de Courtornieu pass without hinderance,” 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 life of our friends.”
Mlle. Blanche had not recognized her former friend, any more than she had suspected the intentions of this crowd of men.
But Marie-Anne’s name, uttered with that of d’Escorval enlightened her at once.
She understood it all, and trembled with rage at the thought that she was at the mercy of her rival. She resolved to place herself under no obligation to Marie-Anne Lacheneur.
“Very well,” said she, “we will descend.”
Her former friend checked her.
“No,” said she, “no! This is not the place for a young girl.”
“For an honest young girl, you should say,” replied Blanche, with a sneer.
Chanlouineau was standing only a few feet from the speaker with his gun in his hand. If a man had uttered those words he would have been instantly killed. Marie-Anne did not deign to notice them.
“Mademoiselle will turn back,” she said, calmly; “and as she can reach Montaignac by the other road, two men will accompany her as far as Courtornieu.”
She was obeyed. The carriage turned and rolled away, but not so quickly that Marie-Anne failed to hear Blanche cry:
“Beware, Marie! 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 disappeared.
M. Lacheneur could have wept with rage. He called Maurice and Chanlouineau.
“I place you in command,” said he; “do all that you can to hurry these idiots onward. I will ride as fast as I can to the Croix d’Arcy.”
He started, but he was only a short distance in advance of his followers when he saw two men running toward him at full speed. One was clad in the attire of a well-to-do bourgeois; the other wore the old uniform of captain in the Emperor’s guard.
“What has happened?” Lacheneur cried, in alarm.
“All is discovered!”
“Great God!”
“Major Carini has been arrested.”
“By whom? How?”
“Ah! there was a fatality about it! Just as we were perfecting our arrangements to capture the Duc de Sairmeuse, the duke surprised us. We fled, but the cursed noble pursued us, overtook Carini, seized 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.
“Let Mademoiselle de Counornieu pass without hinderance.”
He affected a calmness which he did not in the least feel.
“You are easily discouraged, gentlemen,” he said, bitterly. “There is, at least, one more chance.”
“The devil! 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 there at the rendezvous?”
“At least two thousand.”
“And what is their mood?”
“They are burning to begin the struggle. They are cursing our slowness, and told me to entreat you to make haste.”
“In that case our cause is not lost,” said Lacheneur, with a threatening gesture. “Wait here until the peasants come up, and say to 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.”
He said this, then putting spurs to his horse, galloped away. He had deceived the men. He had no other resources. He did not have the slightest hope of success. It was an abominable falsehood. But, if this edifice, which he had erected with such care and labor, was to totter and fall, he desired to be buried beneath its ruins. They would be defeated; he was 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; and after the passing of the officers, who had hastened to warn Lacheneur of the disaster at Montaignac, the murmurs of dissatisfaction were changed to curses.
These peasants, nearly two thousand in number, were indignant at not finding their leader awaiting them at the rendezvous.
“Where is he?” they asked. “Who knows but he is afraid at the last moment? Perhaps he is concealing himself while we are risking our lives and the bread of our children here.”
And already the epithets of mischief-maker and traitor were flying from lip to lip, and increasing the anger in every breast.
Some were of the opinion that the crowd should disperse; others wished to march against Montaignac without Lacheneur, and that, immediately.
But these deliberations were interrupted by the furious gallop of a horse.
A carriage appeared, and stopped in the centre of the open space.
Two men alighted; Baron d’Escorval and Abbe Midon.
They were in advance of Lacheneur. They thought they had arrived in time.
Alas! here, as on the Reche, all their efforts, all their entreaties, and all their threats were futile.
They had come in the hope of arresting the movement; they only precipitated it.
“We have gone too far to draw back,” exclaimed one of the neighboring 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! Forward!”
A shout of approval from two thousand throats replied:
“Forward!”
They unfurled the tri-color, that much regretted flag that reminded them of so much glory, and so many great misfortunes; the drums began to beat, and with shouts of: “Vive Napoleon II.!” the whole column took up its line of march.
Pale, with clothing in disorder, and voices husky with fatigue and emotion, M. d’Escorval and the abbe followed the rebels, imploring them to listen to reason.
They saw the precipice toward which these misguided creatures were rushing, and they prayed God for an inspiration to check them.
In fifty minutes the distance separating the Croix d’Arcy from Montaignac is traversed.
Soon they see the gate of the citadel, which was to have been opened for them by their friends within the walls.
It is eleven o’clock, and yet this gate stands open.
Does not this circumstance prove that their friends are masters of the town, and that they are awaiting them in force?
They advance, so certain of success that those who have guns do not even take the trouble to load them.
M. d’Escorval and the abbe alone foresee the catastrophe.
The leader of the expedition is near them, they entreat him 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 fortifications in safety. The head of the advancing column reaches the drawbridge.
The enthusiasm amounts to delirium; who will be the first to enter is the only thought.
Alas! at that very moment a pistol is fired.
It is a signal, for instantly, and on every side, resounds a terrible fusillade.
Three or four peasants fall, mortally wounded. The rest pause, frozen with terror, thinking only of escape.
The indecision is terrible; but the leader encourages his men, there are a few of Napoleon’s old soldiers in the ranks. A struggle begins, all the more frightful by reason of the darkness!
But it is not the cry of “Forward!” that suddenly rends the air.
The voice of a coward sends up the cry of panic:
“We are betrayed! Let him save himself who can!”
This is the end of all order. A wild fear seizes the throng; and these men flee madly, despairingly, scattered as withered leaves are scattered by the power of the tempest.