Alone in his cell, Chanlouineau, after Marie-Anne’s departure, abandoned himself to the most frightful despair.
He had just given more than life to the woman he loved so fervently.
For had he not, in the hope of obtaining an interview with her, perilled his honor by simulating the most ignoble fear? While doing so, he thought only of the success of his ruse. But now he knew only too well what those who had witnessed his apparent weakness would say of him.
“This Chanlouineau is only a miserable coward after all,” he fancied he could hear them saying among themselves. “We have seen him on his knees, begging for mercy, and promising to betray his accomplices.”
The thought that his memory would be tarnished with charges of cowardice and treason drove him nearly mad.
He actually longed for death, since it would give him an opportunity to retrieve his honor.
“They shall see, then,” he cried, wrathfully, “if I turn pale and tremble before the soldiers.”
He was in this state of mind when the door opened to admit the Marquis de Courtornieu, who, after seeing Mlle. Lacheneur leave the prison, came to Chanlouineau to ascertain the result of her visit.
“Well, my good fellow—” began the marquis, in his most condescending manner.
“Leave!” cried Chanlouineau, in a fury of passion. “Leave, or——”
Without waiting to hear the end of the sentence the marquis made his escape, greatly surprised and not a little dismayed by this sudden change.
“What a dangerous and blood-thirsty rascal!” he remarked to the guard. “It would, perhaps, be advisable to put him in a strait-jacket!”
Ah! there was no necessity for that. The heroic peasant had thrown himself upon his straw pallet, oppressed with feverish anxiety.
Would Marie-Anne know how to make the best use of the weapon which he had placed in her hands?
If he hoped so, it was because she would have as her counsellor and guide a man in whose judgment he had the most implicit confidence—Abbe Midon.
“Martial will be afraid of the letter,” he said to himself, again and again; “certainly he will be afraid.”
In this Chanlouineau was entirely mistaken. His discernment and intelligence were certainly above his station, but he was not sufficiently acute to read a character like that of the young Marquis de Sairmeuse.
The document which he had written in a moment ofabandonand blindness, was almost without influence in determining his course.
He pretended to be greatly alarmed, in order to frighten his father; but in reality he considered the threat puerile.
Marie-Anne would have obtained the same assistance from him if she had not possessed this letter.
Other influences had decided him: the difficulties and dangers of the undertaking, the risks to be incurred, the prejudices to be braved.
To save the life of Baron d’Escorval—an enemy—to wrest him from the execution on the very steps of the scaffold, as it were, seemed to him a delightful enterprise. And to assure the happiness of the woman he adored by saving the life of an enemy, even after his suit had been refused, seemed a chivalrous act worthy of him.
Besides, what an opportunity it afforded for the exercise of hissang-froid, his diplomatic talent, and thefinesseupon which he prided himself!
It was necessary to make his father his dupe. That was an easy task.
It was necessary to impose upon the credulity of the Marquis de Courtornieu. This was a difficult task, yet he succeeded.
But poor Chanlouineau could not conceive of such contradictions, and he was consumed with anxiety.
Willingly would he have consented to be put to the torture before receiving his death-blow, if he might have been allowed to follow Marie-Anne in her undertakings.
What was she doing? How could he ascertain?
A dozen times during the evening he called his guards, under every possible pretext, and tried to compel them to talk with him. He knew very well that these men could be no better informed on the subject than he was himself, that he could place no confidence in their reports—but that made no difference.
The drums beat for the evening roll-call, then for the extinguishment of lights—after that, silence.
Standing at the window of his cell, Chanlouineau concentrated all his faculties in a superhuman effort of attention.
It seemed to him if the baron regained his liberty, he would be warned of it by some sign. Those whom he had saved owed him, he thought, this slight token of gratitude.
A little after two o’clock he heard sounds that made him tremble. There was a great bustle in the corridors; guards running to and fro, and calling each other, a rattling of keys, and the opening and shutting of doors.
The passage was suddenly illuminated; he looked out, and by the uncertain light of the lanterns, he thought he saw Lacheneur, as pale as a ghost, pass the cell, led by some soldiers.
Lacheneur! Could this be possible? He doubted his own eyesight. He thought it must be a vision born of the fever burning in his brain.
Later, he heard a despairing cry. But was it surprising that one should hear such a sound in a prison, where twenty men condemned to death were suffering the agony of that terrible night which precedes the day of execution.
At last, the gray light of early dawn came creeping in through the prison-bars. Chanlouineau was in despair.
“The letter was useless!” he murmured.
Poor generous peasant! His heart would have leaped for joy could he have cast a glance on the courtyard of the citadel.
More than an hour had passed after the sounding of thereveille, when two countrywomen, who were carrying their butter and eggs to market, presented themselves at the gate of the fortress.
They declared that while passing through the fields at the base of the precipitous cliff upon which the citadel was built, they had discovered a rope dangling from the side of the rock. A rope! Then one of the condemned prisoners must have escaped. The guards hastened to Baron d’Escorval’s room—it was empty.
The baron had fled, taking with him the man who had been left to guard him—Corporal Bavois, of the grenadiers.
The amazement was as intense as the indignation, but the fright was still greater.
There was not a single officer who did not tremble on thinking of his responsibility; not one who did not see his hopes of advancement blighted forever.
What should they say to the formidable Duc de Sairmeuse and to the Marquis de Courtornieu, who, in spite of his calm and polished manners, was almost as much to be feared. It was necessary to warn them, however, and a sergeant was despatched with the news.
Soon they made their appearance, accompanied by Martial; all frightfully angry.
M. de Sairmeuse especially seemed beside himself.
He swore at everybody, accused everybody, threatened everybody.
He began by consigning all the keepers and guards to prison; he even talked of demanding the dismissal of all the officers.
“As for that miserable Bavois,” he exclaimed, “as for that cowardly deserter, he shall be shot as soon as we capture him, and we will capture him, you may depend upon it!”
They had hoped to appease the duke’s wrath a little, by informing him of Lacheneur’s arrest; but he knew this already, for Chupin had ventured to awake him in the middle of the night to tell him the great news.
The baron’s escape afforded the duke an opportunity to exalt Chupin’s merits.
“The man who has discovered Lacheneur will know how to find this traitor d’Escorval,” he remarked.
M. de Courtornieu, who was more calm, “took measures for the restoration of a great culprit to the hand of justice,” as he said.
He sent couriers in every direction, ordering them to make close inquiries throughout the neighborhood.
His commands were brief, but to the point; they were to watch the frontier, to submit all travellers to a rigorous examination, to search the house, and to sow the description of d’Escorval broadcast through the land.
But first of all he ordered the arrest both of Abbe Midon—the Cure of Sairmeuse, and of the son of Baron d’Escorval.
Among the officers present there was one, an old lieutenant, medalled and decorated, who had been deeply wounded by imputations uttered by the Duc de Sairmeuse.
He stepped forward with a gloomy air, and said that these measures were doubtless all very well, but the most pressing and urgent duty was to institute an investigation at once, which, while acquainting them with the method of escape, would probably reveal the accomplices.
On hearing the word “investigation,” neither the Duc de Sairmeuse nor the Marquis de Courtornieu could repress a slight shudder.
They could not ignore the fact that their reputations were at stake, and that the merest trifle might disclose the truth. A precaution neglected, the most insignificant detail, a word, a gesture might ruin their ambitious hopes forever.
They trembled to think that this officer might be a man of unusual shrewdness, who had suspected their complicity, and was impatient to verify his presumptions.
No, the old lieutenant had not the slightest suspicion. He had spoken on the impulse of the moment, merely to give vent to his displeasure. He was not even keen enough to remark the rapid glance interchanged between the marquis and the duke.
Martial noticed this look, however, and with a politeness too studied not to be ridicule, he addressed the lieutenant:
“Yes, we must institute an investigation; that suggestion is as shrewd as it is opportune,” he remarked.
The old officer turned away with a muttered oath.
“That coxcomb is poking fun at me,” he thought; “and he and his father and that prig deserve—but what is one to do?”
In spite of his bold remark, Martial felt that he must not incur the slightest risk.
To whom must the charge of this investigation be intrusted? To the duke and to the marquis, of course, since they were the only persons who would know just how much to conceal, and just how much to disclose.
They began their task immediately, with anempressementwhich could not fail to silence all doubts, in case any existed in the minds of their subordinates.
But who could be suspicious? The success of the plot had been all the more certain from the fact that the baron’s escape seemed likely to injure the interests of the very parties who had favored it.
Martial thought he knew the details of the escape as exactly as the fugitives themselves. He had been the author, even if they had been the actors, of the drama of the preceding night.
He was soon obliged to admit that he was mistaken in this opinion.
The investigation revealed facts which seemed incomprehensible to him.
It was evident that the Baron d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois had been compelled to accomplish two successive descents.
To do this the prisoners had realized (since they had succeeded) the necessity of having two ropes. Martial had provided them; the prisoners must have used them. And yet only one rope could be found—the one which the peasant woman had perceived hanging from the rocky platform, where it was made fast to an iron crowbar.
From the window to the platform, there was no rope.
“This is most extraordinary!” murmured Martial, thoughtfully.
“Very strange!” approved M. de Courtornieu.
“How the devil could they have reached the base of the tower?”
“That is what I cannot understand.”
But Martial found another cause for surprise.
On examining the rope that remained—the one which had been used in making the second descent—he discovered that it was not a single piece. Two pieces had been knotted together. The longest piece had evidently been too short.
How did this happen? Could the duke have made a mistake in the height of the cliff? or had the abbe measured the rope incorrectly?
But Martial had also measured it with his eye, and it had seemed to him that the rope was much longer, fully a third longer, than it now appeared.
“There must have been some accident,” he remarked to his father and to the marquis; “but what?”
“Well, what does it matter?” replied the marquis, “you have the compromising letter, have you not?”
But Martial’s was one of those minds that never rest when confronted by an unsolved problem.
He insisted on going to inspect the rocks at the foot of the precipice.
There they discovered large spots of blood.
“One of the fugitives must have fallen,” said Martial, quickly, “and was dangerously wounded!”
“Upon my word!” exclaimed the Duc de Sairmeuse, “if Baron d’Escorval has broken his neck, I shall be delighted!”
Martial’s face turned crimson, and he looked searchingly at his father.
“I suppose, Monsieur, that you do not mean one word of what you are saying,” Martial said, coldly. “We pledged ourselves, upon the honor of our name, to save Baron d’Escorval. If he has been killed it will be a great misfortune to us, Monsieur, a great misfortune.”
When his son addressed him in his haughty and freezing tone the duke never knew how to reply. He was indignant, but his son’s was the stronger nature.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed M. de Courtornieu; “if the rascal had merely been wounded we should have known it.”
Such was the opinion of Chupin, who had been sent for by the duke, and who had just made his appearance.
But the old scoundrel, who was usually so loquacious and so officious, replied briefly; and, strange to say, did not offer his services.
Of his imperturbable assurance, of his wonted impudence, of his obsequious and cunning smile, absolutely nothing remained.
His restless eyes, the contraction of his features, his gloomy manner, and the occasional shudder which he could not repress, all betrayed his secret perturbation.
So marked was the change that even the Duc de Sairmeuse observed it.
“What calamity has happened to you, Master Chupin?” he inquired.
“This has happened,” he responded, sullenly: “when I was coming here the children of the town threw mud and stones at me, and ran after me, shouting: ‘Traitor! traitor!’”
He clinched his fists; he seemed to be meditating vengeance, and he added:
“The people of Montaignac are pleased. They know that the baron has escaped, and they are rejoicing.”
Alas! this joy was destined to be of short duration, for this was the day appointed for the execution of the conspirators.
It was Wednesday.
At noon the gates of the citadel were closed, and the gloom was profound and universal, when the heavy rolling of drums announced the preparations for the frightful holocaust.
Consternation and fear spread through the town; the silence of death made itself felt on every side; the streets were deserted, and the doors and shutters of every house were closed.
At last, as three o’clock sounded, the gates of the fortress were opened to give passage to fourteen doomed men, each accompanied by a priest.
Fourteen! for seized by remorse or fright at the last moment, M de Courtornieu and the Duc de Sairmeuse had granted a reprieve to six of the prisoners and at that very hour a courier was hastening toward Paris with six petitions for pardons, signed by the Military Commission.
Chanlouineau was not among those for whom royal clemency had been solicited.
When he left his cell, without knowing whether or not his letter had availed, he counted the condemned with poignant anxiety.
His eyes betrayed such an agony of anguish that the priest who accompanied him leaned toward him and whispered:
“For whom are you looking, my son?”
“For Baron d’Escorval.”
“He escaped last night.”
“Ah! now I shall die content!” exclaimed the heroic peasant.
He died as he had sworn he would die, without even changing color—calm and proud, the name of Marie-Anne upon his lips.
Ah, well, there was one woman, a fair young girl, whose heart had not been touched by the sorrowful scenes of which Montaignac had been the theatre.
Mlle. Blanche de Courtornieu smiled as brightly as ever in the midst of a stricken people; and surrounded by mourners, her lovely eyes remained dry.
The daughter of a man who, for a week, exercised the power of a dictator, she did not lift her finger to save a single one of the condemned prisoners from the executioner.
They had stopped her carriage on the public road. This was a crime which Mlle. de Courtornieu could never forget.
She also knew that she owed it to Marie-Anne’s intercession that she had not been held prisoner. This she could never forgive.
So it was with the bitterest resentment that, on the morning following her arrival in Montaignac, she recounted what she styled her “humiliations” to her father, i.e., the inconceivable arrogance of that Lacheneur girl, and the frightful brutality of which the peasants had been guilty.
And when the Marquis de Courtornieu asked if she would consent to testify against Baron d’Escorval, she coldly replied:
“I think that such is my duty, and I shall fulfil it, however painful it may be.”
She knew perfectly well that her deposition would be the baron’s death-warrant; but she persisted in her resolve, veiling her hatred and her insensibility under the name of virtue.
But we must do her the justice to admit that her testimony was sincere.
She really believed that it was Baron d’Escorval who was with the rebels, and whose opinion Chanlouineau had asked.
This error on the part of Mlle. Blanche rose from the custom of designating Maurice by his Christian name, which prevailed in the neighborhood.
In speaking of him everyone said “Monsieur Maurice.” When they said “Monsieur d’Escorval,” they referred to the baron.
After the crushing evidence against the accused had been written and signed in her fine and aristocratic hand-writing, Mlle. de Courtornieu bore herself with partly real and partly affected indifference. She would not, on any account, have had people suppose that anything relating to these plebeians—these low peasants—could possibly disturb her proud serenity. She would not so much as ask a single question on the subject.
But this superb indifference was, in great measure, assumed. In her inmost soul she was blessing this conspiracy which had caused so many tears and so much blood to flow. Had it not removed her rival from her path?
“Now,” she thought, “the marquis will return to me, and I will make him forget the bold creature who has bewitched him!”
Chimeras! The charm had vanished which had once caused the love of Martial de Sairmeuse to oscillate between Mlle. de Courtornieu and the daughter of Lacheneur.
Captivated at first by the charms of Mlle. Blanche, he soon discovered the calculating ambition and the utter worldliness concealed beneath such seeming simplicity and candor. Nor was he long in discerning her intense vanity, her lack of principle, and her unbounded selfishness; and, comparing her with the noble and generous Marie-Anne, his admiration was changed into indifference, or rather repugnance.
He did return to her, however, or at least he seemed to return to her, actuated, perhaps, by that inexplicable sentiment that impels us sometimes to do that which is most distasteful to us, and by a feeling of discouragement and despair, knowing that Marie-Anne was now lost to him forever.
He also said to himself that a pledge had been interchanged between the duke and the Marquis de Courtornieu; that he, too, had given his word, and that Mlle. Blanche was his betrothed.
Was it worth while to break this engagement? Would he not be compelled to marry some day? Why not fulfil the pledge that had been made? He was as willing to marry Mlle. de Courtornieu as anyone else, since he was sure that the only woman whom he had ever truly loved—the only woman whom he ever could love—was never to be his.
Master of himself when near her, and sure that he would ever remain the same, it was easy to play the part of lover with that perfection and that charm which—sad as it is to say it—the real passion seldom or never attains. He was assisted by his self-love, and also by that instinct of duplicity which leads a man to contradict his thoughts by his acts.
But while he seemed to be occupied only with thoughts of his approaching marriage, his mind was full of intense anxiety concerning Baron d’Escorval.
What had become of the baron and of Bavois after their escape? What had become of those who were awaiting them on the rocks—for Martial knew all their plans—Mme. d’Escorval and Marie-Anne, the abbe and Maurice, and the four officers?
There were, then, ten persons in all who had disappeared. And Martial asked himself again and again, how it could be possible for so many individuals to mysteriously disappear, leaving no trace behind them.
“It unquestionably denotes a superior ability,” thought Martial, “I recognize the hand of the priest.”
It was, indeed, remarkable, since the search ordered by the Duc de Sairmeuse and the marquis had been pursued with feverish activity, greatly to the terror of those who had instituted it. Still what could they do? They had imprudently excited the zeal of their subordinates, and now they were unable to moderate it. But fortunately all efforts to discover the fugitives had proved unavailing.
One witness testified, however, that on the morning of the escape, he met, just before daybreak, a party of about a dozen persons, men and women, who seemed to be carrying a dead body.
This circumstance, taken in connection with the broken rope and the blood-stains, made Martial tremble.
He had also been strongly impressed by another circumstance, which was revealed as the investigation progressed.
All the soldiers who were on guard that eventful night were interrogated. One of them testified as follows:
“I was on guard in the corridor communicating with the prisoner’s apartment in the tower, when at about half-past two o’clock, after Lacheneur had been placed in his cell, I saw an officer approaching me. I challenged him; he gave me the countersign, and, naturally, I allowed him to pass. He went down the corridor, and entered the room adjoining that in which Monsieur d’Escorval was confined. He remained there about five minutes.”
“Did you recognize this officer?” Martial eagerly inquired.
And the soldier answered: “No. He wore a large cloak, the collar of which was turned up so high that it covered his face to the very eyes.”
Who could this mysterious officer have been? What was he doing in the room where the ropes had been deposited?
Martial racked his brain to discover an answer to these questions.
The Marquis de Courtornieu himself seemed much disturbed.
“How could you be ignorant that there were many sympathizers with this movement in the garrison?” he said, angrily. “You might have known that this visitor, who concealed his face so carefully, was an accomplice who had been warned by Bavois, and who came to see if he needed a helping hand.”
This was a plausible explanation, still it did not satisfy Martial.
“It is very strange,” he thought, “that Monsieur d’Escorval has not even deigned to let me know he is in safety. The service whichIhave rendered him deserves that acknowledgment, at least.”
Such was his disquietude that he resolved to apply to Chupin, even though this traitor inspired him with extreme repugnance.
But it was no longer easy to obtain the services of the old spy. Since he had received the price of Lacheneur’s blood—the twenty thousand francs which had so fascinated him—Chupin had deserted the house of the Duc de Sairmeuse.
He had taken up his quarters in a small inn on the outskirts of the town; and he spent his days alone in a large room on the second floor.
At night he barricaded the doors, and drank, drank, drank; and until daybreak they could hear him cursing and singing or struggling against imaginary enemies.
Still he dared not disobey the order brought by a soldier, summoning him to the Hotel de Sairmeuse at once.
“I wish to discover what has become of Baron d’Escorval,” said Martial.
Chupin trembled, he who had formerly been bronze, and a fleeting color dyed his cheeks.
“The Montaignac police are at your disposal,” he answered sulkily. “They, perhaps, can satisfy the curiosity of Monsieur le Marquis. I do not belong to the police.”
Was he in earnest, or was he endeavoring to augment the value of his services by refusing them? Martial inclined to the latter opinion.
“You shall have no reason to complain of my generosity,” said he. “I will pay you well.”
But on hearing the word “pay,” which would have made his eyes gleam with delight a week before, Chupin flew into a furious passion.
“So it was to tempt me again that you summoned me here!” he exclaimed. “You would do better to leave me quietly at my inn.”
“What do you mean, fool?”
But Chupin did not even hear this interruption, and, with increasing fury, he continued:
“They told me that, by betraying Lacheneur, I should be doing my duty and serving the King. I betrayed him, and now I am treated as if I had committed the worst of crimes. Formerly, when I lived by stealing and poaching, they despised me, perhaps; but they did not shun me as they did the pestilence. They called me rascal, robber, and the like; but they would drink with me all the same. To-day I have twenty thousand francs, and I am treated as if I were a venomous beast. If I approach a man, he draws back; if I enter a room, those who are there leave it.”
The recollection of the insults he had received made him more and more frantic with rage.
“Was the act I committed so ignoble and abominable?” he pursued. “Then why did your father propose it? The shame should fall on him. He should not have tempted a poor man with wealth like that. If, on the contrary, I have done well, let them make laws to protect me.”
Martial comprehended the necessity of reassuring his troubled mind.
“Chupin, my boy,” said he, “I do not ask you to discover Monsieur d’Escorval in order to denounce him; far from it—I only desire you to ascertain if anyone at Saint-Pavin, or at Saint-Jean-de-Coche, knows of his having crossed the frontier.”
On hearing the name Saint-Jean-de-Coche, Chupin’s face blanched.
“Do you wish me to be murdered?” he exclaimed, remembering Balstain and his vow. “I would have you know that I value my life, now that I am rich.”
And seized with a sort of panic he fled precipitately. Martial was stupefied with astonishment.
“One might really suppose that the wretch was sorry for what he had done,” he thought.
If that was really the case, Chupin was not alone.
M. de Courtornieu and the Duc de Sairmeuse were secretly blaming themselves for the exaggerations in their first reports, and the manner in which they had magnified the proportions of the rebellion. They accused each other of undue haste, of neglect of the proper forms of procedure, and the injustice of the verdict rendered.
Each endeavored to make the other responsible for the blood which had been spilled; one tried to cast the public odium upon the other.
Meanwhile they were both doing their best to obtain a pardon for the six prisoners who had been reprieved.
They did not succeed.
One night a courier arrived at Montaignac, bearing the following laconic despatch:
“The twenty-one convicted prisoners must be executed.”
That is to say, the Duc de Richelieu, and the council of ministers, headed by M. Decazes, the minister of police, had decided that the petitions for clemency must be refused.
This despatch was a terrible blow to the Duc de Sairmeuse and M. de Courtornieu. They knew, better than anyone else, how little these poor men, whose lives they had tried, too late, to save, deserved death. They knew it would soon be publicly proven that two of the six men had taken no part whatever in the conspiracy.
What was to be done?
Martial desired his father to resign his authority; but the duke had not courage to do it.
M. de Courtornieu encouraged him. He admitted that all this was very unfortunate, but declared, since the wine had been drawn, that it was necessary to drink it, and that one could not draw back now without causing a terrible scandal.
The next day the dismal rolling of drums was again heard, and the six doomed men, two of whom were known to be innocent, were led outside the walls of the citadel and shot, on the same spot where, only a week before, fourteen of their comrades had fallen.
And the prime mover in the conspiracy had not yet been tried.
Confined in the cell next to that which Chanlouineau had occupied, Lacheneur had fallen into a state of gloomy despondency, which lasted during his whole term of imprisonment. He was terribly broken, both in body and in mind.
Once only did the blood mount to his pallid cheek, and that was on the morning when the Duc de Sairmeuse entered the cell to interrogate him.
“It was you who drove me to do what I did,” he said. “God sees us, and judges us!”
Unhappy man! his faults had been great; his chastisement was terrible.
He had sacrificed his children on the altar of his wounded pride; he had not even the consolation of pressing them to his heart and of asking their forgiveness before he died.
Alone in his cell he could not distract his mind from thoughts of his son and of his daughter; but such was the terrible situation in which he had placed himself that he dared not ask what had become of them.
Through a compassionate keeper, he learned that nothing had been heard of Jean, and that it was supposed Marie-Anne had gone to some foreign country with the d’Escorval family.
When summoned before the court for trial, Lacheneur was calm and dignified in manner. He attempted no defence, but responded with perfect frankness. He took all the blame upon himself, and would not give the name of one of his accomplices.
Condemned to be beheaded, he was executed on the following day. In spite of the rain, he desired to walk to the place of execution. When he reached the scaffold, he ascended the steps with a firm tread, and, of his own accord, placed his head upon the block.
A few seconds later, the rebellion of the 4th of March counted its twenty-first victim.
And that same evening the people everywhere were talking of the magnificent rewards which were to be bestowed upon the Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu; and it was also asserted that the nuptials of the children of these great houses were to take place before the close of the week.
That Martial de Sairmeuse was to marry Mlle. Blanche de Courtornieu did not surprise the inhabitants of Montaignac in the least.
But spreading such a report, with Lacheneur’s execution fresh in the minds of everyone, could not fail to bring odium upon these men who had held absolute power, and who had exercised it so mercilessly.
Heaven knows that M. de Courtornieu and the Duc de Sairmeuse were now doing their best to make the people of Montaignac forget the atrocious cruelty of which they had been guilty during their dictatorship.
Of the hundred or more who were confined in the citadel, only eighteen or twenty were tried, and they received only some very slight punishment; the others were released.
Major Carini, the leader of the conspirators in Montaignac, who had expected to lose his head, heard himself, with astonishment, sentenced to two years’ imprisonment.
But there are crimes which nothing can efface or extenuate. Public opinion attributed this sudden clemency on the part of the duke and the marquis to fear.
People execrated them for their cruelty, and despised them for their apparent cowardice.
They were ignorant of this, however, and hastened forward the preparations for the nuptials of their children, without suspecting that the marriage was considered a shameless defiance of public sentiment on their part.
The 17th of April was the day which had been appointed for the bridal, and the wedding-feast was to be held at the Chateau de Sairmeuse, which, at a great expense, had been transformed into a fairy palace for the occasion.
It was in the church of the little village of Sairmeuse, on the loveliest of spring days, that this marriage ceremony was performed by the cure who had taken the place of poor Abbe Midon.
At the close of the address to the newly wedded pair, the priest uttered these words, which he believed prophetic:
“You will be, youmustbe happy!”
Who would not have believed as he did? Where could two young people be found more richly dowered with all the attributes likely to produce happiness, i.e., youth, rank, health, and riches.
But though an intense joy sparkled in the eyes of the new Marquise de Sairmeuse, there were those among the guests who observed the bridegroom’s preoccupation. One might have supposed that he was making an effort to drive away some gloomy thought.
At the moment when his young wife hung upon his arm, proud and radiant, a vision of Marie-Anne rose before him, more life-like, more potent than ever.
What had become of her that she had not been seen at the time of her father’s execution? Courageous as he knew her to be, if she had made no attempt to see her father, it must have been because she was ignorant of his approaching doom.
“Ah! if she had but loved him,” Martial thought, “what happiness would have been his. But, now he was bound for life to a woman whom he did not love.”
At dinner, however, he succeeded in shaking off the sadness that oppressed him, and when the guests rose to repair to the drawing-rooms, he had almost forgotten his dark forebodings. He was rising in his turn, when a servant approached him with a mysterious air.
“Someone desires to see the marquis,” whispered the valet.
“Who?”
“A young peasant who will not give his name.”
“On one’s wedding-day, one must grant an audience to everybody,” said Martial.
And gay and smiling he descended the staircase.
In the vestibule, lined with rare and fragrant plants, stood a young man. He was very pale, and his eyes glittered with feverish brilliancy.
On recognizing him Martial could not restrain an exclamation of surprise.
“Jean Lacheneur!” he exclaimed; “imprudent man!”
The young man stepped forward.
“You believed that you were rid of me,” he said, bitterly. “Instead, I return from afar. You can have your people arrest me if you choose.”
Martial’s face crimsoned at the insult; but he retained his composure.
“What do you desire?” he asked, coldly.
Jean drew from his pocket a folded letter.
“I am to give you this on behalf of Maurice d’Escorval.”
With an eager hand, Martial broke the seal. He glanced over the letter, turned as pale as death, staggered and said only one word.
“Infamous!”
“What must I say to Maurice?” insisted Jean. “What do you intend to do?”
With a terrible effort Martial had conquered his weakness. He seemed to deliberate for ten seconds, then seizing Jean’s arm, he dragged him up the staircase, saying:
“Come—you shall see.”
Martial’s countenance had changed so much during the three minutes he had been absent that there was an exclamation of terror when he reappeared, holding an open letter in one hand and leading with the other a young peasant whom no one recognized.
“Where is my father?” he demanded, in a husky voice; “where is the Marquis de Courtornieu?”
The duke and the marquis were with Mme. Blanche in the little salon at the end of the main hall.
Martial hastened there, followed by a crowd of wondering guests, who, foreseeing a stormy scene, were determined not to lose a syllable.
He walked directly to M. de Courtornieu, who was standing by the fireplace, and handing him the letter:
“Read!” said he, in a terrible voice.
M. de Courtornieu obeyed. He became livid; the paper trembled in his hands; his eyes fell, and he was obliged to lean against the marble mantel for support.
“I do not understand,” he stammered: “no, I do not understand.”
The duke and Mme. Blanche both sprang forward.
“What is it?” they asked in a breath; “what has happened?”
With a rapid movement, Martial tore the paper from the hands of the Marquis de Courtornieu, and addressing his father:
“Listen to this letter,” he said, imperiously.
Three hundred people were assembled there, but the silence was so profound that the voice of the young marquis penetrated to the farthest extremity of the hall as he read:
“Monsieur le marquis—In exchange for a dozen lines that threatened you with ruin, you promised us, upon the honor of your name, the life of Baron d’Escorval.
“You did, indeed, bring the ropes by which he was to make his escape, but they had been previously cut, and my father was precipitated to the rocks below.
“You have forfeited your honor, Monsieur. You have soiled your name with ineffaceable opprobrium. While so much as a drop of blood remains in my veins, I will leave no means untried to punish you for your cowardice and vile treason.
“By killing me you would, it is true, escape the chastisement I am reserving for you. Consent to fight with me. Shall I await you to-morrow on the Reche? At what hour? With what weapons?
“If you are the vilest of men, you can appoint a rendezvous, and then send your gendarmes to arrest me. That would be an act worthy of you.
“Maurice d’Escorval.”
The duke was in despair. He saw the secret of the baron’s flight made public—his political prospects ruined.
“Hush!” he said, hurriedly, and in a low voice; “hush, wretched man, you will ruin us!”
But Martial seemed not even to hear him. When he had finished his reading:
“Now, what do you think?” he demanded, looking the Marquis de Courtornieu full in the face.
“I am still unable to comprehend,” said the old nobleman, coldly.
Martial lifted his hand; everyone believed that he was about to strike the man who had been his father-in-law only a few hours.
“Very well! I comprehend!” he exclaimed. “I know now who that officer was who entered the room in which I had deposited the ropes—and I know what took him there.”
He crumbled the letter between his hands and threw it in M. de Courtornieu’s face, saying:
“Here is your reward—coward!”
Overwhelmed by thisdenouementthe marquis sank into an arm-chair, and Martial, still holding Jean Lacheneur by the arm, was leaving the room, when his young wife, wild with despair, tried to detain him.
“You shall not go!” she exclaimed, intensely exasperated; “you shall not! Where are you going? To rejoin the sister of the man, whom I now recognize?”
Beside himself, Martial pushed his wife roughly aside.
“Wretch!” said he, “how dare you insult the noblest and purest of women? Ah, well—yes—I am going to find Marie-Anne. Farewell!”
And he passed on.