Though among the first to be arrested at the time of the panic before Montaignac, the Baron d’Escorval had not for an instant deluded himself with false hopes.
“I am a lost man,” he thought. And confronting death calmly, he now thought only of the danger that threatened his son.
His mistake before the judges was the result of his preoccupation.
He did not breathe freely until he saw Maurice led from the hall by Abbe Midon and the friendly officers, for he knew that his son would try to confess connection with the affair.
Then, calm and composed, with head erect, and steadfast eye, he listened to the death-sentence.
In the confusion that ensued in removing the prisoners from the hall, the baron found himself beside Chanlouineau, who had begun his noisy lamentations.
“Courage, my boy,” he said, indignant at such apparent cowardice.
“Ah! it is easy to talk,” whined the young farmer.
Then seeing that no one was observing them, he leaned toward the baron, and whispered:
“It is for you I am working. Save all your strength for to-night.”
Chanlouineau’s words and burning glance surprised M. d’Escorval, but he attributed both to fear. When the guards took him back to his cell, he threw himself upon his pallet, and before him rose that vision of the last hour, which is at once the hope and despair of those who are about to die.
He knew the terrible laws that govern a court-martial. The next day—in a few hours—at dawn, perhaps, they would take him from his cell, place him in front of a squad of soldiers, an officer would lift his sword, and all would be over.
Then what was to become of his wife and his son?
His agony on thinking of these dear ones was terrible. He was alone; he wept.
But suddenly he started up, ashamed of his weakness. He must not allow these thoughts to unnerve him. He was determined to meet death unflinchingly. Resolved to shake off the profound melancholy that was creeping over him, he walked about his cell, forcing his mind to occupy itself with material objects.
The room which had been allotted to him was very large. It had once communicated with the apartment adjoining; but the door had been walled up for a long time. The cement which held the large blocks of stone together had crumbled away, leaving crevices through which one might look from one room into the other.
M. d’Escorval mechanically applied his eye to one of these interstices. Perhaps he had a friend for a neighbor, some wretched man who was to share his fate. He saw no one. He called, first in a whisper, then louder. No voice responded to his.
“IfIcould only tear down this thin partition,” he thought.
He trembled, then shrugged his shoulders. And if he did, what then? He would only find himself in another apartment similar to his own, and opening like his upon a corridor full of guards, whose monotonous tramp he could plainly hear as they passed to and fro.
What folly to think of escape! He knew that every possible precaution must have been taken to guard against it.
Yes, he knew this, and yet he could not refrain from examining his window. Two rows of iron bars protected it. These were placed in such a way that it was impossible for him to put out his head and see how far he was above the ground. The height, however, must be considerable, judging from the extent of the view.
The sun was setting; and through the violet haze the baron could discern an undulating line of hills, whose culminating point must be the land of the Reche.
The dark masses of foliage that he saw on the right were probably the forests of Sairmeuse. On the left, he divined rather than saw, nestling between the hills, the valley of the Oiselle and Escorval.
Escorval, that lovely retreat where he had known such happiness, where he had hoped to die the calm and serene death of the just.
And remembering his past felicity, and thinking of his vanished dreams, his eyes once more filled with tears. But he quickly dried them on hearing the door of his cell open.
Two soldiers appeared.
One of the men bore a torch, the other, one of those long baskets divided into compartments which are used in carrying meals to the officers on guard.
These men were evidently deeply moved, and yet, obeying a sentiment of instinctive delicacy, they affected a sort of gayety.
“Here is your dinner, Monsieur,” said one soldier; “it ought to be very good, for it comes from the cuisine of the commander of the citadel.”
M. d’Escorval smiled sadly. Some attentions on the part of one’s jailer have a sinister significance. Still, when he seated himself before the little table which they prepared for him, he found that he was really hungry.
He ate with a relish, and chatted quite cheerfully with the soldiers.
“Always hope for the best, sir,” said one of these worthy fellows. “Who knows? Stranger things have happened!”
When the baron finished his repast, he asked for pen, ink, and paper. They brought what he desired.
He found himself again alone; but his conversation with the soldiers had been of service to him. His weakness had passed; hissang-froidhad returned; he would now reflect.
He was surprised that he had heard nothing from Mme. d’Escorval and from Maurice.
Could it be that they had been refused access to the prison? No, they could not be; he could not imagine that there existed men sufficiently cruel to prevent a doomed man from pressing to his heart, in a last embrace, his wife and his son.
Yet, how was it that neither the baroness nor Maurice had made an attempt to see him! Something must have prevented them from doing so. What could it be?
He imagined the worst misfortunes. He saw his wife writhing in agony, perhaps dead. He pictured Maurice, wild with grief, upon his knees at the bedside of his mother.
But they might come yet. He consulted his watch. It marked the hour of seven.
But he waited in vain. No one came.
He took up his pen, and was about to write, when he heard a bustle in the corridor outside. The clink of spurs resounded on the flags; he heard the sharp clink of the rifle as the guard presented arms.
Trembling, the baron sprang up, saying:
“They have come at last!”
He was mistaken; the footsteps died away in the distance.
“A round of inspection!” he murmured.
But at the same moment, two objects thrown through the tiny opening in the door of his cell fell on the floor in the middle of the room.
M. d’Escorval caught them up. Someone had thrown him two files.
His first feeling was one of distrust. He knew that there were jailers who left no means untried to dishonor their prisoners before delivering them to the executioner.
Was it a friend, or an enemy, that had given him these instruments of deliverance and of liberty.
Chanlouineau’s words and the look that accompanied them recurred to his mind, perplexing him still more.
He was standing with knitted brows, turning and returning the fine and well-tempered files in his hands, when he suddenly perceived upon the floor a tiny scrap of paper which had, at first, escaped his notice.
He snatched it up, unfolded it, and read:
“Your friends are at work. Everything is prepared for your escape. Make haste and saw the bars of your window. Maurice and his mother embrace you. Hope, courage!”
Beneath these few lines was the letter M.
But the baron did not need this initial to be reassured. He had recognized Abbe Midon’s handwriting.
“Ah! he is a true friend,” he murmured.
Then the recollection of his doubts and despair arose in his mind.
“This explains why neither my wife nor son came to visit me,” he thought. “And I doubted their energy—and I was complaining of their neglect!”
Intense joy filled his breast; he raised the letter that promised him life and liberty to his lips, and enthusiastically exclaimed:
“To work! to work!”
He had chosen the finest of the two files, and was about to attack the ponderous bars, when he fancied he heard someone open the door of the next room.
Someone had opened it, certainly. The person closed it again, but did not lock it.
Then the baron heard someone moving cautiously about. What did all this mean? Were they incarcerating some new prisoner, or were they stationing a spy there?
Listening breathlessly, the baron heard a singular sound, whose cause it was absolutely impossible to explain.
Noiselessly he advanced to the former communicating door, knelt, and peered through one of the interstices.
The sight that met his eyes amazed him.
A man was standing in a corner of the room. The baron could see the lower part of the man’s body by the light of a large lantern which he had deposited on the floor at his feet. He was turning around and around very quickly, by this movement unwinding a long rope which had been twined around his body as thread is wound about a bobbin.
M. d’Escorval rubbed his eyes as if to assure himself that he was not dreaming. Evidently this rope was intended for him. It was to be attached to the broken bars.
But how had this man succeeded in gaining admission to this room? Who could it be that enjoyed such liberty in the prison? He was not a soldier—or, at least, he did not wear a uniform.
Unfortunately, the highest crevice was in such a place that the visual ray did not strike the upper part of the man’s body; and, despite the baron’s efforts, he was unable to see the face of this friend—he judged him to be such—whose boldness verged on folly.
Unable to resist his intense curiosity, M. d’Escorval was on the point of rapping on the wall to question him, when the door of the room occupied by this man, whom the baron already called his saviour, was impetuously thrown open.
Another man entered, whose face was also outside the baron’s range of vision; and the new-comer, in a tone of astonishment, exclaimed:
“Good heavens! what are you doing?”
The baron drew back in despair.
“All is discovered!” he thought.
The man whom M. d’Escorval believed to be his friend did not pause in his labor of unwinding the rope, and it was in the most tranquil voice that he responded:
“As you see, I am freeing myself from this burden of rope, which I find extremely uncomfortable. There are at least sixty yards of it, I should think—and what a bundle it makes! I feared they would discover it under my cloak.”
“And what are you going to do with all this rope?” inquired the new-comer.
“I am going to hand it to Baron d’Escorval, to whom I have already given a file. He must make his escape to-night.”
So improbable was this scene that the baron could not believe his own ears.
“I cannot be awake; I must be dreaming,” he thought.
The new-comer uttered a terrible oath, and, in an almost threatening tone, he said:
“We will see about that! If you have gone mad, I, thank God! still possess my reason! I will not permit——”
“Pardon!” interrupted the other, coldly, “you will permit it. This is merely the result of your own—credulity. When Chanlouineau asked you to allow him to receive a visit from Mademoiselle Lacheneur, that was the time you should have said: ‘I will not permit it.’ Do you know what the fellow desired? Simply to give Mademoiselle Lacheneur a letter of mine, so compromising in its natures that if it ever reaches the hands of a certain person of my acquaintance, my father and I will be obliged to reside in London in future. Then farewell to the projects for an alliance between our two families!”
The new-comer heaved a mighty sigh, accompanied by a half-angry, half-sorrowful exclamation; but the other, without giving him any opportunity to reply, resumed:
“You, yourself, Marquis, would doubtless be compromised. Were you not a chamberlain during the reign of Bonaparte? Ah, Marquis! how could a man of your experience, a man so subtle, and penetrating, and acute, allow himself to be duped by a low, ignorant peasant?”
Now M. d’Escorval understood. He was not dreaming; it was the Marquis de Courtornieu and Martial de Sairmeuse who were talking on the other side of the wall.
This poor M. de Courtornieu had been so entirely crushed by Martial’s revelation that he no longer made any effort to oppose him.
“And this terrible letter?” he groaned.
“Marie-Anne Lacheneur gave it to Abbe Midon, who came to me and said: ‘Either the baron will escape, or this letter will be taken to the Duc de Richelieu.’ I voted for the baron’s escape, I assure you. The abbe procured all that was necessary; he met me at a rendezvous which I appointed in a quiet spot; he coiled all his rope about my body, and here I am.”
“Then you think if the baron escapes they will give you back your letter?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Deluded man! As soon as the baron is safe, they will demand the life of another prisoner, with the same menaces.”
“By no means.”
“You will see.”
“I shall see nothing of the kind, for a very simple reason. I have the letter now in my pocket. The abbe gave it to me in exchange for my word of honor.”
M. de Courtornieu’s exclamation proved that he considered the abbe an egregious fool.
“What!” he exclaimed. “You hold the proof, and—But this is madness! Burn this accursed letter by the flames of this lantern, and let the baron go where his slumbers will be undisturbed.”
Martial’s silence betrayed something like stupor.
“What! you would do this—you?” he demanded, at last.
“Certainly—and without the slightest hesitation.”
“Ah, well! I cannot say that I congratulate you.”
The sneer was so apparent that M. de Courtornieu was sorely tempted to make an angry response. But he was not a man to yield to his first impulse—this former chamberlain under the Emperor, now become agrand prevotunder the Restoration.
He reflected. Should he, on account of a sharp word, quarrel with Martial—with the only suitor who had pleased his daughter? A rupture—then he would be left without any prospect of a son-in-law! When would Heaven send him such another? And how furious Mlle. Blanche would be!
He concluded to swallow the bitter pill; and it was with a paternal indulgence of manner that he said:
“You are young, my dear Martial.”
The baron was still kneeling by the partition, his ear glued to the crevices, holding his breath in an agony of suspense.
“You are only twenty, my dear Martial,” pursued the Marquis de Courtornieu; “you possess the ardent enthusiasm and generosity of youth. Complete your undertaking; I shall interpose no obstacle; but remember that all may be discovered—and then——”
“Have no fears, sir,” interrupted the young marquis; “I have taken every precaution. Did you see a single soldier in the corridor, just now? No. That is because my father has, at my solicitation, assembled all the officers and guards under pretext of ordering exceptional precautions. He is talking to them now. This gave me an opportunity to come here unobserved. No one will see me when I go out. Who, then, will dare suspect me of having any hand in the baron’s escape?”
“If the baron escapes, justice will demand to know who aided him.”
Martial laughed.
“If justice seeks to know, she will find a culprit of my providing. Go now; I have told you all. I had but one person to fear: that was yourself. A trusty messenger requested you to join me here. You came; you know all, you have agreed to remain neutral. I am tranquil. The baron will be safe in Piedmont when the sun rises.”
He picked up his lantern, and added, gayly:
“But let us go—my father cannot harangue those soldiers forever.”
“But,” insisted M. de Courtornieu, “you have not told me——”
“I will tell you all, but not here. Come, come!”
They went out, locking the door behind them; and then the baron rose from his knees.
All sorts of contradictory ideas, doubts, and conjectures filled his mind.
What could this letter have contained? Why had not Chanlouineau used it to procure his own salvation? Who would have believed that Martial would be so faithful to a promise wrested from him by threats?
But this was a time for action, not for reflection. The bars were heavy, and there were two rows of them.
M. d’Escorval set to work.
He had supposed that the task would be difficult. It was a thousand times more so than he had expected; he discovered this almost immediately.
It was the first time that he had ever worked with a file, and he did not know how to use it. His progress was despairingly slow.
Nor was that all. Though he worked as cautiously as possible, each movement of the instrument across the iron produced a harsh, grating sound that froze his blood with terror. What if someone should overhear this noise? And it seemed to him impossible for it to escape notice, since he could plainly distinguish the measured tread of the guards, who had resumed their watch in the corridor.
So slight was the result of his labors, that at the end of twenty minutes he experienced a feeling of profound discouragement.
At this rate, it would be impossible for him to sever the first bar before daybreak, What, then, was the use of spending his time in fruitless labor? Why mar the dignity of death by the disgrace of an unsuccessful effort to escape?
He was hesitating when footsteps approached his cell. He hastened to seat himself at the table.
The door opened and a soldier entered, to whom an officer who did not cross the threshold remarked:
“You have your instructions, Corporal, keep a close watch. If the prisoner needs anything, call.”
M. de Escorval’s heart throbbed almost to bursting. What was coming now?
Had M. de Courtornieu’s counsels carried the day, or had Martial sent someone to aid him?
“We must not be dawdling here,” said the corporal, as soon as the door was closed.
M. d’Escorval bounded from his chair. This man was a friend. Here was aid and life.
“I am Bavois,” continued the corporal. “Someone said to me just now: ‘A friend of the Emperor is in danger; are you willing to lend him a helping hand?’ I replied: ‘Present,’ and here I am!”
This certainly was a brave soul. The baron extended his hand, and in a voice trembling with emotion:
“Thanks,” said he; “thanks to you who, without knowing me, expose yourself to the greatest danger for my sake.”
Bavois shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
“Positively, my old hide is no more precious than yours. If we do not succeed, they will chop off our heads with the same axe. But we shall succeed. Now, let us cease talking and proceed to business.”
As he spoke he drew from beneath his long overcoat a strong iron crowbar and a small vial of brandy, and deposited them upon the bed.
He then took the candle and passed it back and forth before the window five or six times.
“What are you doing?” inquired the baron, in suspense.
“I am signalling to your friends that everything is progressing favorably. They are down there waiting for us; and see, now they are answering.”
The baron looked, and three times they saw a little flash of flame like that produced by the burning of a pinch of gunpowder.
“Now,” said the corporal, “we are all right. Let us see what progress you have made with the bars.”
“I have scarcely begun,” murmured M. d’Escorval.
The corporal inspected the work.
“You may indeed say that you have made no progress,” said he; “but, never mind, I have been a locksmith, and I know how to handle a file.”
Having drawn the cork from the vial of brandy which he had brought, he fastened the stopper to the end of one of the files, and swathed the handle of the instrument with a piece of damp linen.
“That is what they call putting astopon the instrument,” he remarked, by way of explanation.
Then he made an energetic attack on the bars. It at once became evident that he had not exaggerated his knowledge of the subject, nor the efficacy of his precautions for deadening the sound. The harsh grating that had so alarmed the baron was no longer heard, and Bavois, finding he had nothing more to dread from the keenest ears, now made preparations to shelter himself from observation.
To cover the opening in the door would arouse suspicion at once—so the corporal adopted another expedient.
Moving the little table to another part of the room, he placed the light upon it, in such a position that the window remained entirely in shadow.
Then he ordered the baron to sit down, and handing him a paper, said:
“Now read aloud, without stopping for an instant, until you see me cease work.”
By this method they might reasonably hope to deceive the guards outside in the corridor. Some of them, indeed, did come to the door and look in, then went away to say to their companions:
“We have just taken a look at the prisoner. He is very pale, and his eyes are glittering feverishly. He is reading aloud to divert his mind. Corporal Bavois is looking out of the window. It must be dull music for him.”
The baron’s voice would also be of advantage in overpowering any suspicious sound, should there be one.
And while Bavois worked, M. d’Escorval read, read, read.
He had completed the perusal of the entire paper, and was about to begin it again, when the old soldier, leaving the window, motioned him to stop.
“Half the task is completed,” he said, in a whisper. “The lower bars are cut.”
“Ah! how can I ever repay you for your devotion!” murmured the baron.
“Hush! not a word!” interrupted Bavois. “If I escape with you, I can never return here; and I shall not know where to go, for the regiment, you see, is my only family. Ah, well! if you will give me a home with you, I shall be content.”
Whereupon he swallowed a big draught of brandy, and set to work with renewed ardor.
The corporal had cut one of the second row of bars, when he was interrupted by M. d’Escorval, who, without discontinuing his reading, had approached and pulled Bavois’s long coat to attract his attention.
He turned quickly.
“What is it?”
“I heard a singular noise.”
“Where?”
“In the adjoining room where the ropes are.”
Honest Bavois muttered a terrible oath.
“Do they intend to betray us? I risked my life, and they promised me fair play.”
He placed his ear against an opening in the partition, and listened for a long time. Nothing, not the slightest sound.
“It must have been some rat that you heard,” he said, at last. “Resume your reading.”
And he began his work again. This was the only interruption, and a little before four o’clock everything was ready. The bars were cut, and the ropes, which had been drawn through an opening in the wall, were coiled under the window.
The decisive moment had come. Bavois took the counterpane from the bed, fastened it over the opening in the door, and filled up the key-hole.
“Now,” said he, in the same measured tone which he would have used in instructing his recruits, “attention, sir, and obey the word of command.” Then he calmly explained that the escape would consist of two distinct operations; the first in gaining the narrow platform at the base of the tower; the second, in descending to the foot of the precipitous rock.
The abbe, who understood this, had brought Martial two ropes; the one to be used in the descent of the precipice being considerably longer than the other.
“I will fasten the shortest rope under your arms, Monsieur, and I will let you down to the base of the tower. When you have reached it, I will pass you the longer rope and the crowbar. Do not miss them. If we find ourselves without them, on that narrow ledge of rock, we shall either be compelled to deliver ourselves up, or throw ourselves down the precipice. I shall not be long in joining you. Are you ready?”
M. d’Escorval lifted his arms, the rope was fastened securely about him, and he crawled through the window.
From there the height seemed immense. Below, in the barren fields that surrounded the citadel, eight persons were waiting, silent, anxious, breathless.
They were Mme. d’Escorval and Maurice, Marie-Anne, Abbe Midon, and the four retired army officers.
There was no moon; but the night was very clear, and they could see the tower quite plainly.
Soon after four o’clock sounded they saw a dark object glide slowly down the side of the tower—it was the baron. After a little, another form followed very rapidly—it was Bavois.
Half of the perilous journey was accomplished.
From below, they could see the two figures moving about on the narrow platform. The corporal and the baron were exerting all their strength to fix the crowbar securely in a crevice of the rock.
In a moment or two one of the figures stepped from the projecting rock and glided gently down the side of the precipice.
It could be none other than M. d’Escorval. Transported with happiness, his wife sprang forward with open arms to receive him.
Wretched woman! A terrific cry rent the still night air.
M. d’Escorval was falling from a height of fifty feet; he was hurled down to the foot of the rocky precipice. The rope had parted.
Had it broken naturally?
Maurice, who examined the end of it, exclaimed with horrible imprecations of hatred and vengeance that they had been betrayed—that their enemy had arranged to deliver only a dead body into their hands—that the rope, in short, had been foully tampered with—cut!
Chupin had not taken time to sleep, nor scarcely time to drink, since that unfortunate morning when the Duc de Sairmeuse ordered affixed to the walls of Montaignac, that decree in which he promised twenty thousand francs to the person who should deliver up Lacheneur, dead or alive.
“Twenty thousand francs,” Chupin muttered gloomily; “twenty sacks with a hundred pistoles in each! Ah! if I could discover Lacheneur; even if he were dead and buried a hundred feet under ground, I should gain the reward.”
The appellation of traitor, which he would receive; the shame and condemnation that would fall upon him and his, did not make him hesitate for a moment.
He saw but one thing—the reward—the blood-money.
Unfortunately, he had nothing whatever to guide him in his researches; no clew, however vague.
All that was known in Montaignac was that M. Lacheneur’s horse was killed at the Croix d’Arcy.
But no one knew whether Lacheneur himself had been wounded, or whether he had escaped from the fray uninjured. Had he reached the frontier? or had he found an asylum in the house of one of his friends?
Chupin was thus hungering for the price of blood, when, on the day of the trial, as he was returning from the citadel, after making his deposition, he entered a drinking saloon. While there he heard the name of Lacheneur uttered in low tones near him.
Two peasants were emptying a bottle of wine, and one of them, an old man, was telling the other that he had come to Montaignac to give Mlle. Lacheneur news of her father.
He said that his son-in-law had met the chief conspirator in the mountains which separate thearrondissementof Montaignac from Savoy. He even mentioned the exact place of meeting, which was near Saint Pavin-des-Gottes, a tiny village of only a few houses.
Certainly the worthy man did not think he was committing a dangerous indiscretion. In his opinion, Lacheneur had, ere this, crossed the frontier, and was out of danger.
In this he was mistaken.
The frontier bordering on Savoy was guarded by soldiers, who had received orders to allow none of the conspirators to pass.
The passage of the frontier, then, presented many great difficulties, and even if a man succeeded in effecting it, he might be arrested and imprisoned on the other side, until the formalities of extradition had been complied with.
Chupin saw his advantage, and instantly decided on his course.
He knew that he had not a moment to lose. He threw a coin down upon the counter, and without waiting for his change, rushed back to the citadel, and asked the sergeant at the gate for pen and paper.
The old rascal generally wrote slowly and painfully; to-day it took him but a moment to trace these lines:
“I know Lacheneur’s retreat, and beg monseigneur to order some mounted soldiers to accompany me, in order to capture him. Chupin.”
This note was given to one of the guards, with a request to take it to the Duc de Sairmeuse, who was presiding over the military commission.
Five minutes later, the soldier reappeared with the same note.
Upon the margin the duke had written an order, placing at Chupin’s disposal a lieutenant and eight men chosen from the Montaignac chasseurs, who could be relied upon, and who were not suspected (as were the other troops) of sympathizing with the rebels.
Chupin also requested a horse for his own use, and this was accorded him. The duke had just received this note when, with a triumphant air, he abruptly entered the room where Marie-Anne and his son were negotiating for the release of Baron d’Escorval.
It was because he believed in the truth of the rather hazardous assertion made by his spy that he exclaimed, upon the threshold:
“Upon my word! it must be confessed that this Chupin is an incomparable huntsman! Thanks to him——”
Then he saw Mlle. Lacheneur, and suddenly checked himself.
Unfortunately, neither Martial nor Marie-Anne were in a state of mind to notice this remark and its interruption.
Had he been questioned, the duke would probably have allowed the truth to escape him, and M. Lacheneur might have been saved.
But Lacheneur was one of those unfortunate beings who seem to be pursued by an evil destiny which they can never escape.
Buried beneath his horse, M. Lacheneur had lost consciousness.
When he regained his senses, restored by the fresh morning air, the place was silent and deserted. Not far from him, he saw two dead bodies which had not yet been removed.
It was a terrible moment, and in the depth of his soul he cursed death, which had refused to heed his entreaties. Had he been armed, doubtless, he would have ended by suicide, the most cruel mental torture which man was ever forced to endure—but he had no weapon.
He was obliged to accept the chastisement of life.
Perhaps, too, the voice of honor whispered that it was cowardice to strive to escape the responsibility of one’s acts by death.
At last, he endeavored to draw himself out from beneath the body of his horse.
This proved to be no easy matter, as his foot was still in the stirrup, and his limbs were so badly cramped that he could scarcely move them. He finally succeeded in freeing himself, however, and, on examination, discovered that he, who it would seem ought to have been killed ten times over, had only one hurt—a bayonet-wound in the leg, extending from the ankle almost to the knee.
Such a wound, of course, caused him not a little suffering, and he was trying to bandage it with his handkerchief, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
He had no time for reflection; he sprang into the forest that lies to the left of the Croix d’Arcy.
The troops were returning to Montaignac after pursuing the rebels for more than three miles. There were about two hundred soldiers, and they were bringing back, as prisoners, about twenty peasants.
Hidden by a great oak scarcely fifteen paces from the road, Lacheneur recognized several of the prisoners in the gray light of dawn. It was only by the merest chance that he escaped discovery; and he fully realized how difficult it would be for him to gain the frontier without falling into the hands of the detachment of soldiery, who were doubtless scouring the country in every direction.
Still he did not despair.
The mountains lay only two leagues away; and he firmly believed that he could successfully elude his pursuers as soon as he gained the shelter of the hills.
He began his journey courageously.
Alas! he had not realized how exhausted he had become from the excessive labor and excitement of the past few days, and by the loss of blood from his wound, which he could not stanch.
He tore up a pole in one of the vineyards to serve as a staff, and dragged himself along, keeping in the shelter of the woods as much as possible, and creeping along beside the hedges and in the ditches when he was obliged to traverse an open space.
To the great physical suffering, and the most cruel mental anguish, was now added an agony that momentarily increased—hunger.
He had eaten nothing for thirty hours, and he felt terribly weak from lack of nourishment. This torture soon became so intolerable that he was willing to brave anything to appease it.
At last he perceived the roofs of a tiny hamlet. He decided to enter it and ask for food. He was on the outskirts of the village, when he heard the rolling of a drum. Instinctively he hid behind a wall. But it was only a town-crier beating his drum to call the people together.
And soon a voice rose so clear and penetrating that each word it uttered fell distinctly on Lacheneur’s ears.
It said:
“This is to inform you that the authorities of Montaignac promise to give a reward of twenty thousand francs—two thousand pistoles, you understand—to him who will deliver up the man known as Lacheneur, dead or alive. Dead or alive, you understand. If he is dead, the compensation will be the same; twenty thousand francs! It will be paid in gold.”
With a bound, Lacheneur had risen, wild with despair and horror. Though he had believed himself utterly exhausted, he found superhuman strength to flee.
A price had been set upon his head. This frightful thought awakened in his breast the frenzy that renders a hunted wild beast so dangerous.
In all the villages around him he fancied he could hear the rolling of drums, and the voice of the criers proclaiming this infamous edict.
Go where he would now, he was a tempting bait offered to treason and cupidity. In what human creature could he confide? Under what roof could he ask shelter?
And even if he were dead, he would still be worth a fortune.
Though he died from lack of nourishment and exhaustion under a bush by the wayside, his emaciated body would still be worth twenty thousand francs.
And the man who found his corpse would not give it burial. He would place it on his cart and bear it to Montaignac. He would go to the authorities and say: “Here is Lacheneur’s body—give me the reward!”
How long and by what paths he pursued his flight, he could not tell.
But several hours after, as he traversed the wooded hills of Charves, he saw two men, who sprang up and fled at his approach. In a terrible voice, he called after them:
“Eh! you men! do each of you desire a thousand pistoles? I am Lacheneur.”
They paused when they recognized him, and Lacheneur saw that they were two of his followers. They were well-to-do farmers, and it had been very difficult to induce them to take part in the revolt.
These men had part of a loaf of bread and a little brandy. They gave both to the famished man.
They sat down beside him on the grass, and while he was eating they related their misfortunes. Their connection with the conspiracy had been discovered; their houses were full of soldiers, who were hunting for them, but they hoped to reach Italy by the aid of a guide who was waiting for them at an appointed place.
Lacheneur extended his hand to them.
“Then I am saved,” said he. “Weak and wounded as I am, I should perish if I were left alone.”
But the two farmers did not accept the hand he offered.
“We should leave you,” said the younger man, gloomily, “for you are the cause of our misfortunes. You deceived us, Monsieur Lacheneur.”
He dared not protest, so just was the reproach.
“Nonsense! let him come all the same,” said the other, with a peculiar glance at his companion.
So they walked on, and that same evening, after nine hours of travelling on the mountains, they crossed the frontier.
But this long journey was not made without bitter reproaches, and even more bitter recriminations.
Closely questioned by his companions, Lacheneur, exhausted both in mind and body, finally admitted the insincerity of the promises with which he had inflamed the zeal of his followers. He acknowledged that he had spread the report that Marie-Louise and the young King of Rome were concealed in Montaignac, and that this report was a gross falsehood. He confessed that he had given the signal for the revolt without any chance of success, and without means of action, leaving everything to chance. In short, he confessed that nothing was real save his hatred, his implacable hatred of the Sairmeuse family.
A dozen times, at least, during this terrible avowal, the peasants who accompanied him were on the point of hurling him down the precipices upon whose verge they were walking.
“So it was to gratify his own spite,” they thought, quivering with rage, “that he sets everybody to fighting and killing one another—that he ruins us, and drives us into exile. We will see.”
The fugitives went to the nearest house after crossing the frontier.
It was a lonely inn, about a league from the little village of Saint-Jean-de-Coche, and was kept by a man named Balstain.
They rapped, in spite of the lateness of the hour—it was past midnight. They were admitted, and they ordered supper.
But Lacheneur, weak from loss of blood, and exhausted by his long tramp, declared that he would eat no supper.
He threw himself upon a bed in an adjoining room, and was soon asleep.
This was the first time since their meeting with Lacheneur that his companions had found an opportunity to talk together in private.
The same idea had occurred to both of them.
They believed that by delivering up Lacheneur to the authorities, they might obtain pardon for themselves.
Neither of these men would have consented to receive a single sou of the money promised to the betrayer; but to exchange their life and liberty for the life and liberty of Lacheneur did not seem to them a culpable act, under the circumstances.
“For did he not deceive us?” they said to themselves.
They decided, at last, that as soon as they had finished their supper, they would go to Saint-Jean-de-Coche and inform the Piedmontese guards.
But they reckoned without their host.
They had spoken loud enough to be overheard by Balstain, the innkeeper, who had learned, during the day, of the magnificent reward which had been promised to Lacheneur’s captor.
When he heard the name of the guest who was sleeping quietly under his roof, a thirst for gold seized him. He whispered a word to his wife, then escaped through the window to run and summon the gendarmes.
He had been gone half an hour before the peasants left the house; for to muster up courage for the act they were about to commit they had been obliged to drink heavily.
They closed the door so violently on going out that Lacheneur was awakened by the noise. He sprang up, and came out into the adjoining room.
The wife of the innkeeper was there alone.
“Where are my friends?” he asked, anxiously. “Where is your husband?”
Moved by sympathy, the woman tried to falter some excuse, but finding none, she threw herself at his feet, crying:
“Fly, Monsieur, save yourself—you are betrayed!”
Lacheneur rushed back into the other room, seeking a weapon with which he could defend himself, an issue through which he could flee!
He had thought that they might abandon him, but betray him—no, never!
“Who has sold me?” he asked, in a strained, unnatural voice.
“Your friends—the two men who supped there at that table.”
“Impossible, Madame, impossible!”
He did not suspect the designs and hopes of his former comrades; and he could not, he would not believe them capable of ignobly betraying him for gold.
“But,” pleaded the innkeeper’s wife, still on her knees before him, “they have just started for Saint-Jean-de-Coche, where they will denounce you. I heard them say that your life would purchase theirs. They have certainly gone to summon the gendarmes! Is this not enough, or am I obliged to endure the shame of confessing that my own husband, too, has gone to betray you.”
Lacheneur understood it all now! And this supreme misfortune, after all the misery he had endured, broke him down completely.
Great tears gushed from his eyes, and sinking down into a chair, he murmured:
“Let them come; I am ready for them. No, I will not stir from here. My miserable life is not worth such a struggle.”
But the wife of the traitor rose, and grasping the unfortunate man’s clothing, she shook him, she dragged him to the door—she would have carried him had she possessed sufficient strength.
“You shall not remain here,” said she, with extraordinary vehemence. “Fly, save yourself. You shall not be taken here; it will bring misfortune upon our house!”
Bewildered by these violent adjurations, and urged on by the instinct of self-preservation, so powerful in every human heart, Lacheneur stepped out upon the threshold.
The night was very dark, and a chilling fog intensified the gloom.
“See, Madame,” said the poor fugitive gently, “how can I find my way through these mountains, which I do not know, and where there are no roads—where the foot-paths are scarcely discernible.”
With a quick movement Balstain’s wife pushed Lacheneur out, and turning him as one does a blind man to set him on the right track:
“Walk straight before you,” said she, “always against the wind. God will protect you. Farewell!”
He turned to ask further directions, but she had re-entered the house and closed the door.
Upheld by a feverish excitement, he walked for long hours. He soon lost his way, and wandered on through the mountains, benumbed with cold, stumbling over rocks, sometimes falling.
Why he was not precipitated to the depths of some chasm it is difficult to explain.
He lost all idea of his whereabouts, and the sun was high in the heavens when he at last met a human being of whom he could inquire his way.
It was a little shepherd-boy, in pursuit of some stray goats, whom he encountered; but the lad, frightened by the wild and haggard appearance of the stranger, at first refused to approach.
The offer of a piece of money induced him to come a little nearer.
“You are on the summit of the mountain, Monsieur,” said he; “and exactly on the boundary line. Here is France; there is Savoy.”
“And what is the nearest village?”
“On the Savoyard side, Saint-Jean-de-Coche; on the French side, Saint-Pavin.”
So after all his terrible exertions, Lacheneur was not a league from the inn.
Appalled by this discovery, he remained for a moment undecided which course to pursue.
What did it matter? Why should the doomed hesitate? Do not all roads lead to the abyss into which they must sink?
He remembered the gendarmes that the innkeeper’s wife had warned him against, and slowly and with great difficulty descended the steep mountainside leading down to France.
He was near Saint-Pavin, when, before an isolated cottage, he saw a pretty peasant woman spinning in the sunshine.
He dragged himself toward her, and in weak tones begged her hospitality.
On seeing this man, whose face was ghastly pale, and whose clothing was torn and soiled with dust and blood, the woman rose, evidently more surprised than alarmed.
She looked at him closely, and saw that his age, his stature, and his features corresponded with the descriptions of Lacheneur, which had been scattered thickly about the frontier.
“You are the conspirator they are hunting for, and for whom they promise a reward of twenty thousand francs,” she said.
Lacheneur trembled.
“Yes, I am Lacheneur,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation; “I am Lacheneur. Betray me, if you will, but in charity’s name give me a morsel of bread, and allow me to rest a little.”
At the words “betray me,” the young woman made a gesture of horror and disgust.
“We betray you, sir!” said she. “Ah! you do not know the Antoines! Enter our house, and lie down upon the bed while I prepare some refreshments for you. When my husband comes home, we will see what can be done.”
It was nearly sunset when the master of the house, a robust mountaineer, with a frank face, returned.
On beholding the stranger seated at his fireside he turned frightfully pale.
“Unfortunate woman!” he whispered to his wife, “do you not know that any man who shelters this fugitive will be shot, and his house levelled to the ground?”
Lacheneur rose with a shudder.
He had not known this. He knew the infamous reward which had been promised to his betrayer; but he had not known the danger his presence brought upon these worthy people. “I will go at once, sir,” said he, gently.
But the peasant placed his large hand kindly upon his guest’s shoulder, and forced him to resume his seat.
“It was not to drive you away that I said what I did,” he remarked. “You are at home, and you shall remain here until I can find some means of insuring your safety.”
The pretty peasant woman flung her arms about her husband’s neck, and in tones of the most ardent affection exclaimed: “Ah! you are a noble man, Antoine.”
He smiled, embraced her tenderly, then, pointing to the open door:
“Watch!” he said. “I feel it my duty to tell you, sir, that it will not be easy to save you,” resumed the honest peasant. “The promises of reward have set all evil-minded people on the alert. They know that you are in the neighborhood. A rascally innkeeper has crossed the frontier for the express purpose of betraying your whereabouts to the French gendarmes.”
“Balstain?”
“Yes, Balstain; and he is hunting for you now. That is not all. As I passed through Saint-Pavin, on my return, I saw eight mounted soldiers, guided by a peasant, also on horseback. They declared that they knew you were concealed in the village, and they were going to search every house.”
These soldiers were none other than the Montaignac chasseurs, placed at Chupin’s disposal by the Duc de Sairmeuse.
It was indeed as Antoine had said.
The task was certainly not at all to their taste, but they were closely watched by the lieutenant in command, who hoped to receive some substantial reward if the expedition was crowned with success. Antoine, meanwhile, continued his exposition of his hopes and fears.
“Wounded and exhausted as you are,” he was saying to Lacheneur, “you will be in no condition to make a long march in less than a fortnight. Until then you must conceal yourself. Fortunately, I know a safe retreat in the mountain, not far from here. I will take you there to-night, with provisions enough to last you for a week.”
A stifled cry from his wife interrupted him.
He turned, and saw her fall almost fainting against the door, her face whiter than her coif, her finger pointing to the path that led from Saint-Pavin to their cottage.
“The soldiers—they are coming!” she gasped.
Quicker than thought, Lacheneur and the peasant sprang to the door to see for themselves.
The young woman had spoken the truth.
The Montaignac chasseurs were climbing the steep foot-path slowly, but surely.
Chupin walked in advance, urging them on with voice, gesture and example.
An imprudent word from the little shepherd-boy, whom M. Lacheneur had questioned, had decided the fugitive’s fate.
On returning to Saint-Pavin, and hearing that the soldiers were searching for the chief conspirator, the lad chanced to say:
“I met a man just now on the mountain who asked me where he was; and I saw him go down the footpath leading to Antoine’s cottage.”
And in proof of his words, he proudly displayed the piece of silver which Lacheneur had given him.
“One more bold stroke and we have our man!” exclaimed Chupin. “Come, comrades!”
And now the party were not more than two hundred feet from the house in which the proscribed man had found an asylum.
Antoine and his wife looked at each other with anguish in their eyes.
They saw that their visitor was lost.
“We must save him! we must save him!” cried the woman.
“Yes, we must save him!” repeated the husband, gloomily. “They shall kill me before I betray a man in my own house.”
“If he would hide in the stable behind the bundles of straw——”
“They would find him! These soldiers are worse than tigers, and the wretch who leads them on must have the keen scent of a blood-hound.”
He turned quickly to Lacheneur.
“Come, sir,” said he, “let us leap from the back window and flee to the mountains. They will see us, but no matter! These horsemen are always clumsy runners. If you cannot run, I will carry you. They will probably fire at us, but they will miss us.”
“And your wife?” asked Lacheneur.
The honest mountaineer shuddered; but he said:
“She will join us.”
Lacheneur took his friend’s hand and pressed it tenderly.
“Ah! you are noble people,” he exclaimed, “and God will reward you for your kindness to a poor fugitive. But you have done too much already. I should be the basest of men if I consented to uselessly expose you to danger. I can bear this life no longer; I have no wish to escape.”
He drew the sobbing woman to him and kissed her upon the forehead.
“I have a daughter, young and beautiful like yourself, as generous and proud. Poor Marie-Anne! And I have pitilessly sacrificed her to my hatred! I should not complain; come what may, I have deserved it.”
The sound of approaching footsteps became more and more distinct. Lacheneur straightened himself up, and seemed to be gathering all his energy for the decisive moment.
“Remain inside,” he said, imperiously, to Antoine and his wife. “I am going out; they must not arrest me in your house.”
As he spoke, he stepped outside the door, with a firm tread, a dauntless brow, a calm and assured mien.
The soldiers were but a few feet from him.
“Halt!” he exclaimed, in a strong, ringing voice. “It is Lacheneur you are seeking, is it not? I am he! I surrender myself.”
An unbroken stillness reigned. Not a sound, not a word replied.
The spectre of death that hovered above his head imparted such an imposing majesty to his person that the soldiers paused, silent and awed.
But there was one man who was terrified by this resonant voice, and that was Chupin.
Remorse filled his cowardly heart, and pale and trembling, he tried to hide behind the soldiers.
Lacheneur walked straight to him.
“So it is you who have sold my life, Chupin?” he said, scornfully. “You have not forgotten, I see plainly, how often Marie-Anne has filled your empty larder—and now you take your revenge.”
The miserable wretch seemed crushed. Now that he had done this foul deed, he knew what treason really was.
“So be it,” said M. Lacheneur. “You will receive the price of my blood; but it will not bring you good fortune—traitor!”
But Chupin, indignant with himself for his weakness, was already trying to shake off the fear that mastered him.
“You have conspired against the King,” he stammered. “I have done only my duty in denouncing you.”
And turning to the soldiers, he said:
“As for you, comrades, you may rest assured that the Duc de Sairmeuse will testify his gratitude for your services.”
They had bound Lacheneur’s hands, and the party were about to descend the mountain, when a man appeared, bareheaded, covered with perspiration, and panting for breath.
Twilight was falling, but M. Lacheneur recognized Balstain.
“Ah! you have him!” he exclaimed, as soon as he was within hearing distance, and pointing to the prisoner. “The reward belongs to me—I denounced him first on the other side of the frontier. The gendarmes at Saint-Jean-de-Coche will testify to that. He would have been captured last night in my house, but he ran away in my absence; and I have been following the bandit for sixteen hours.”
He spoke with extraordinary vehemence and volubility, beside himself with fear lest he was about to lose his reward, and lest his treason would bring him nothing save disgrace and obloquy.
“If you have any right to the reward, you must prove it before the proper authorities,” said the officer in command.
“If I have any right!” interrupted Balstain; “who contests my right, then?”
He looked threateningly around, and his eyes fell on Chupin.
“Is it you?” he demanded. “Do you dare to assert that you discovered the brigand?”
“Yes, it was I who discovered his hiding-place.”
“You lie, impostor!” vociferated the innkeeper; “you lie!”
The soldiers did not move. This scene repaid them for the disgust they had experienced during the afternoon.
“But,” continued Balstain, “what else could one expect from a vile knave like Chupin? Everyone knows that he has been obliged to flee from France a dozen times on account of his crimes. Where did you take refuge when you crossed the frontier, Chupin? In my house, in the inn kept by honest Balstain. You were fed and protected there. How many times have I saved you from the gendarmes and from the galleys? More times than I can count. And to reward me, you steal my property; you steal this man who was mine——”
“He is insane!” said the terrified Chupin, “he is mad!”
Then the innkeeper changed his tactics.
“At least you will be reasonable,” he exclaimed. “Let us see, Chupin, what you will do for an old friend? Divide, will you not? No, you say no? What will you give me, comrade? A third? Is that too much? A quarter, then——”
Chupin felt that all the soldiers were enjoying his terrible humiliation. They were sneering at him, and only an instant before they had avoided coming in contact with him with evident horror.
Transported with anger, he pushed Balstain violently aside, crying to the soldiers:
“Come—are we going to spend the night here?”
An implacable hatred gleamed in the eye of the Piedmontese.
He drew his knife from his pocket, and making the sign of the cross in the air:
“Saint-Jean-de-Coche,” he exclaimed, in a ringing voice, “and you, Holy Virgin, hear my vow. May my soul burn in hell if I ever use a knife at my repasts until I have plunged this, which I now hold, into the heart of the scoundrel who has defrauded me!”
Having said this, he disappeared in the woods, and the soldiers took up their line of march.
But Chupin was no longer the same. All his accustomed impudence had fled. He walked on with bowed head, a prey to the most sinister presentiments.
He felt assured that an oath like that of Balstain’s, and uttered by such a man, was equivalent to a death-warrant, or at least to a speedy prospect of assassination.
This thought tormented him so much that he would not allow the detachment to spend the night at Saint-Pavin, as had been agreed upon. He was impatient to leave the neighborhood.
After supper Chupin sent for a cart; the prisoner, securely bound, was placed in it, and the party started for Montaignac.
The great bell was striking two when Lacheneur was brought into the citadel.
At that very moment M. d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois were making their preparations for escape.