PART II. THE HONOUR OF THE NAME. (continued 3)

What would further resistance avail? Nothing. The abbe, with a face whiter than the plastered walls, and eyes filled with tears, returned to his place beside Maurice.

In the meanwhile, the advocates were protesting with increasing energy. But the duke, hammering on the table with both fists, at last succeeded in reducing them to silence. “Ah! you want evidence!” he exclaimed. “Very well then, you shall have it. Soldiers, bring in the first witness.”

There was some little movement among the guards, and then Father Chupin made his appearance. He advanced with a deliberate step, but his restless, shrinking eyes showed plainly enough that he was ill at ease. And there was a very perceptible tremor in his voice when, with hand uplifted, he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

“What do you know concerning the prisoner d’Escorval?” asked the duke.

“I know that he took part in the rising the other night.”

“Are you sure of this?”

“I can furnish proofs.”

“Submit them to the consideration of the commission.”

The old scoundrel began to grow more confident. “First of all,” he replied, “directly Lacheneur had given up your grace’s family estates, much against his will, he hastened to M. d’Escorval’s house, where he met Chanlouineau. It was then that they plotted this insurrection between them.”

“I was Lacheneur’s friend,” observed the baron, “and it was perfectly natural that he should come to me for consolation after a great misfortune.”

M. de Sairmeuse turned to his colleagues. “Do you hear that!” said he. “This D’Escorval calls the restitution of a deposit a great misfortune! Proceed, witness.”

“In the second place,” resumed Chupin, “M. d’Escorval was always prowling round about Lacheneur’s house.”

“That’s false,” interrupted the baron. “I never visited the house but once, and on that occasion I implored him to renounce—” He paused, understanding only when it was too late the terrible significance of these few words. However, having begun, he would not retract, but calmly added: “I implored him to renounce all idea of provoking an insurrection.”

“Ah! then you knew of his infamous intentions?”

“I suspected them.”

“At all events you must be perfectly well aware that the fact of not revealing this conspiracy made you an accomplice, which implies the guillotine.”

The Baron d’Escorval had just signed his death-warrant. How strange is destiny! He was innocent, and yet he was the only one among all the prisoners, whom a regular tribunal could have legally condemned. Maurice and the abbe were overcome with grief; but Chanlouineau, who turned towards them, had still the same smile of confidence on his lips. How could he hope when all hope seemed absolutely lost?

The commissioners made no attempt to conceal their satisfaction, and M. de Sairmeuse, especially, evinced an indecent joy. “Ah, well! gentlemen, what do you say to that?” he remarked to the lawyers, in a sneering tone.

The counsel for the defence were unable to conceal their discouragement; though they still endeavoured to question the validity of their client’s declaration. He had said that he suspected the conspiracy, not that he knew of it, which was a very different thing.

“Say at once that you wish for still more overwhelming testimony,” interrupted the duke. “Very well! You shall have it. Continue your evidence, witness.”

“The prisoner,” continued Chupin, “was present at all the conferences held at Lacheneur’s house; and having to cross the Oiselle each time, and fearing lest the ferryman might speak about his frequent nocturnal journeys, he had an old boat repaired, which he had not used for years.”

“Ah! that’s a remarkable circumstance, prisoner; do you recollect having your boat repaired?”

“Yes; but not for the purpose this man mentions.”

“For what purpose, then?”

The baron made no reply. Was it not in compliance with Maurice’s request, that this boat had been put in order?

“And finally,” continued Chupin, “when Lacheneur set fire to his house as a signal for the insurrection, the prisoner was with him.”

“That,” exclaimed the duke, “is conclusive evidence.”

“Yes, I was at La Reche,” interrupted the baron; “but as I have already told you, it was with the firm determination of preventing this outbreak.”

M. de Sairmeuse laughed disdainfully. “Ah, gentlemen!” he said, addressing his fellow commissioners, “you see that the prisoner’s courage does not equal his depravity. But I will confound him. What did you do, prisoner, when the insurgents left La Reche?”

“I returned home with all possible speed, took a horse and hastened to the Croix-d’Arcy.”

“Then you knew that this was to be the general meeting place?”

“Lacheneur had just informed me of it.”

“Even if I believed your story,” retorted the duke, “I should have to remind you, that your duty was to have hastened to Montaignac and informed the authorities. But what you say is untrue. You did not leave Lacheneur, you accompanied him.”

“No, sir, no!”

“And what if I could prove that you did so, beyond all question?”

“Impossible, since such was not the case.”

By the malicious satisfaction that sparkled in M. de Sairmeuse’s eyes, the Abbe Midon divined that he had some terrible weapon in reserve, and that he was about to overwhelm the Baron d’Escorval with false evidence, or fatal coincidence, which would place Maurice’s father beyond all possibility of being saved. At a sign from the commissary for the prosecution the Marquis de Courtornieu now left his seat and advanced to the front of the platform. “I must request you, Monsieur le Marquis,” said the duke, “to be kind enough to read us the statement your daughter has prepared and signed.”

This scene had evidently been prepared beforehand. M. de Courtornieu cleared his glasses, produced a paper which he slowly unfolded, and then amid a death-like silence, emphatically read as follows: “I, Blanche de Courtornieu, do declare upon oath that, on the evening of the fourth of March, between ten and eleven o’clock on the public road leading from Sairmeuse to Montaignac, I was assailed by a band of armed brigands. While they were deliberating as to whether they should take possession of my person and pillage my carriage, I overheard one of them say to another, speaking of me: ‘She must get out, must she not, M. d’Escorval?’ I believe that the brigand who uttered these words was a peasant named Chanlouineau, but I can not assert this, on oath.”

At this moment a loud cry of anguish abruptly interrupted the marquis’s perusal. The trial was too great for Maurice’s reason, and if the Abbe Midon had not restrained him, he would have sprung forward, and exclaimed: “It was to me, not to my father that Chanlouineau addressed those words. I alone am guilty; my father is innocent!” But fortunately the abbe had sufficient presence of mind to hold the young fellow back, and place his hand before his mouth. One or two of the retired officers standing near, also tendered their help, and probably divining the truth, seized hold of Maurice, and despite all his attempts at resistance carried him from the room by main force. The whole incident scarcely occupied ten seconds.

“What is the cause of this disturbance!” asked the duke, looking angrily at the spectators, none of whom uttered a word. “At the least noise the hall shall be cleared,” added his grace. “And you, prisoner, what have you to say in self-justification, after Mademoiselle de Courtornieu’s crushing evidence?”

“Nothing,” murmured the baron.

But to return to Maurice. Once outside the court-room, the Abbe Midon confided him to the care of three officers, who promised to go with him, to carry him by main force, if need be, to the Hotel de France, and keep him there. Relieved on this score, the priest re-entered the hall just in time to see the baron re-seat himself without replying to M. de Sairmeuse’s final sneer, that by bearing Mademoiselle Blanche’s testimony unchallenged M. d’Escorval had virtually confessed his guilt. But then in truth, how could he have challenged it? How could he defend himself without betraying his son? Until this moment every one present had believed in the baron’s innocence. Could it be that he was guilty? His silence seemed to imply that such was the case; and this alone was a sufficient triumph for the Duke de Sairmeuse and his friends. His grace now turned to the lawyers, and with an air of weariness and disdain, remarked. “At present you may speak, since it is absolutely necessary; but no long phrases, mind! we ought to have finished here an hour ago.”

The eldest of the three advocates rose, trembling with indignation, and prepared to dare anything for the sake of giving free utterance to his thoughts, but before a word was spoken the baron hastily checked him. “Do not try to defend me,” he said calmly; “it would be labour wasted. I have only one word to say to my judges. Let them remember what noble Marshal Moncey wrote to the king: ‘The scaffold does not make friends.’ ”

But this reminder was not of a nature to soften the judges’ hearts. For that very phrase the marshal had been deprived of his office, and condemned to three months’ imprisonment. As the advocates made no further attempt to argue the case, the commission retired to deliberate. This gave M. d’Escorval an opportunity to speak with his defenders. He shook them warmly by the hand, and thanked them for their courage and devotion. Then drawing the eldest among them on one side, he quickly added, in a low voice: “I have a last favour to ask of you. When sentence of death has been pronounced upon me, go at once to my son. Say to him that his dying father commands him to live—he will understand you. Tell him that it is my last wish; that he live—live for his mother!”

He said no more; the judges were returning. Of the thirty prisoners, nine were declared not guilty, and released. The remaining twenty-one including both M. d’Escorval and Chanlouineau were then formally condemned to death. But Chanlouineau’s lips still retained their enigmatical smile.

XVIII.

THE three military men to whose care the Abbe Midon had entrusted Maurice had considerable difficulty in getting him to the Hotel de France, for he made continual attempts to return to the court-room, having the fallacious idea that by telling the truth he might yet save his father. In point of fact, however, the only effect of his confession would have been to provide the Duke de Sairmeuse with another welcome victim. When he and his custodians at length entered the room where Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne were waiting in cruel suspense, the baroness eagerly asked whether the trial was over.

“Nothing is decided yet,” replied one of the retired officers. “The cure will come here as soon as the verdict is given.”

Then as the three military men had promised not to lose sight of Maurice, they sat themselves down in gloomy silence. Not the slightest stir could be heard in the hotel, which seemed indeed as if it were deserted. At last, a little before four o’clock, the abbe came in, followed by the lawyer, to whom the baron had confided his last wishes.

“My husband!” exclaimed Madame d’Escorval, springing wildly from her chair. The priest bowed his head. “Death!” she faltered, fully understanding the significance of this impressive gesture. “What? they have condemned him!” And overcome with the terrible blow, she sank back, with hanging arms. But this weakness did not last long. “We must save him!” she exclaimed, abruptly springing to her feet again, her eyes bright with some sudden resolution, “we must wrest him from the scaffold. Up, Maurice! up, Marie-Anne! No more lamentations. To work! You also, gentlemen, will assist me; and I can count on your help, Monsieur le Cure. I do not quite know how to begin, but something must be done. The murder of so good, so noble a man as he would be too great a crime. God will not permit it.” She paused, with clasped hands, as if seeking for inspiration. “And the king,” she resumed—”can the king consent to such a crime? No. A king can refuse mercy, but he cannot refuse justice. I will go to him. I will tell him everything. Ah! why didn’t this thought occur to me sooner? We must start for Paris without losing an instant. Maurice you must accompany me; and one of you gentlemen go at once and order post-horses.” Then, thinking they would obey her, she hastened into the next room to make preparations for her journey.

“Poor woman!” whispered the lawyer to the abbe, “she does not know that the sentence of a military commission is executed in twenty-four hours, and that it requires four days to make the journey to Paris.” He reflected a moment, and then added: “But, after all, to let her go would be an act of mercy. Did not Ney, on the morning of his execution, implore the king to order the removal of his wife who was sobbing and moaning in his cell?”

The abbe shook his head. “No,” said he; “Madame d’Escorval would never forgive us if we prevented her from receiving her husband’s last farewell.”

At that very moment, the baroness re-entered the room, and the priest was trying to gather sufficient courage to tell her the cruel truth, when a loud knock was heard at the door. One of the retired officers went to open it, and our old friend Bavois, the corporal of grenadiers, entered, raising his right hand to his cap, as if he were in his captain’s presence. “Is Mademoiselle Lacheneur here?” he asked.

Marie-Anne stepped forward. “I am she, sir,” she replied; “what do you want with me?”

“I am ordered to conduct you to the citadel, mademoiselle.”

“What?” exclaimed Maurice, in a tone of anger; “so they imprison women as well?”

The worthy corporal struck his forehead with his open hand. “I am an old fool!” he exclaimed, “and don’t know how to express myself. I meant to say that I came to fetch mademoiselle at the request of one of the prisoners, a man named Chanlouineau, who wishes to speak with her.”

“Impossible, my good fellow,” said one of the officers; “they would not allow this lady to visit one of the prisoners without special permission——”

“Well, she has this permission,” said the old soldier. And then persuaded he had nothing to fear from any one present, he added, in lower tones: “This Chanlouineau told me that the cure would understand his reasons.”

Had the brave peasant really found some means of salvation. The abbe almost began to believe that such was the case. “You must go with this worthy fellow, Marie-Anne,” said he.

The poor girl shuddered at the thought of seeing Chanlouineau again, but the idea of refusing never once occurred to her. “Let me go,” she said quietly.

But the corporal did not budge. Winking in a desperate fashion, as was his wont whenever he wished to attract attention, he exclaimed: “Wait a bit. I’ve something else to tell you. This Chanlouineau, who seems to be a shrewd fellow, told me to say that all was going well. May I be hung if I can see how! Still such is his opinion. He also told me to tell you not to stir from this place, and not to attempt anything until mademoiselle comes back again, which will be in less than an hour. He swears that he will keep his promise, and only asks you to pledge your word that you will obey him——”

“We will wait for an hour,” replied the abbe. “I can promise that——”

“Then that’ll do,” rejoined Bavois. “Salute company. And now, mademoiselle, on the double, quick march! The poor devil over there must be on coals of fire.”

That a condemned conspirator should be allowed to receive a visit from his leader’s daughter—from the daughter of that Lacheneur who had succeeded in making his escape—was indeed surprising. But Chanlouineau had been ingenious enough to discover a means of procuring this special permission; and with this aim in view, he had feigned the most abject terror on hearing the sentence of death passed upon him. He even contrived to weep in a bellowing fashion, and the guards could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw this robust young fellow, so insolent and defiant a few hours before, now utterly overcome, and even unable to walk back to his cell. They had to carry him there, and then his lamentations became still more boisterous, concluding with an urgent prayer that one of the guard should go to the Duke de Sairmeuse, or the Marquis de Courtornieu, and tell them he had revelations of the greatest importance to make.

That potent word “revelations” made M. de Courtornieu hasten to the prisoner’s cell. He found Chanlouineau on his knees, his features distorted by what appeared to be an agony of fear. The crafty fellow dragged himself towards the marquis, took hold of his hands and kissed them, imploring mercy and forgiveness, and swearing that to save his own life, he was ready to do anything, yes, anything, even to deliver Lacheneur up to the authorities. Such a prospect had powerful attractions for the Marquis de Courtornieu. “Do you know, then, where this brigand is concealed?” he asked.

Chanlouineau admitted that he did not know, but declared that Marie-Anne, Lacheneur’s daughter, was well acquainted with her father’s hiding-place. She had, he said, perfect confidence in him, Chanlouineau; and if they would only send for her, and allow him ten minutes private conversation with her, he was positive he could ascertain where the leader of the insurrection was concealed. So the bargain was quickly concluded; and Chanlouineau’s life was promised him in exchange for Lacheneur’s. A soldier, who fortunately chanced to be Corporal Bavois, was then sent to summon Marie-Anne; and the young farmer awaited her coming with feelings of poignant anxiety. He loved her, remember, and the thought of seeing her once more—for the last time on earth—made his heart throb wildly with mingled passion and despair. At last, at the end of the corridor, he could hear footsteps approaching. The heavy bolts securing the entrance to his cell were drawn back, the door opened, and Marie-Anne appeared, accompanied by Corporal Bavois. “M. de Courtornieu promised me that we should be left alone!” exclaimed Chanlouineau.

“Yes, I know he did, and I am going,” replied the old soldier. “But I have orders to return for mademoiselle in half-an-hour.”

When the door closed behind the worthy corporal, Chanlouineau took hold of Marie-Anne’s hand and drew her to the tiny grated window. “Thank you for coming,” said he, “thank you. I can see you and speak to you once more. Now that my hours are numbered, I may reveal the secret of my soul and of my life. Now, I can venture to tell you how ardently I have loved you—how much I still love you.”

Involuntarily Marie-Anne drew away her hand and stepped back; for this outburst of passion, at such a moment and in such a place, seemed at once unspeakably sad and shocking.

“Have I, then, offended you?” asked Chanlouineau, sadly. “Forgive me—for I am about to die! You cannot refuse to listen to the voice of one, who, to-morrow, will vanish from earth forever. I have loved you for a long time, Marie-Anne, for more than six years. Before I saw you, I only cared for my belongings, and to raise fine crops and gather money together seemed to me the greatest possible happiness here below. And when at first I did meet you—you were so high, and I so low, that in my wildest dreams I did not dare to aspire to you. I went to the church each Sunday only that I might worship you as peasant women worship the Virgin; I went home with my eyes and heart full of you—and that was all. But then came your father’s misfortunes, which brought us nearer to each other; and your father made me as insane, yes, as insane as himself. After the insults he received from the Duke de Sairmeuse, M. Lacheneur resolved to revenge himself upon all these arrogant nobles, and selected me for his accomplice. He had read my heart as easily as if it had been an open book; and when we left the baron’s house that Sunday evening we both have such good reason to remember, he said to me: ‘You love my daughter, my boy. Very well, assist me, and I promise you, that if we succeed, she shall be your wife. Only,’ he added, ‘I must warn you that you risk your life.’ But what was life in comparison with the hopes that dazzled me? From that night, I gave body, soul, and fortune to his cause. Others were influenced by hatred, or ambition; but I was actuated by neither of these motives. What did the quarrels of these great folks matter to me—a simple labourer? I knew that the greatest were powerless to give my crops a drop of rain in seasons of drought, or a ray of sunshine during long spells of rain. I took part in the conspiracy, it was because I loved you——”

It seemed to Marie-Anne that he was reproaching her for the deception she had been forced to practise, and for the cruel fate to which Lacheneur’s wild designs had brought him. “Ah, you are cruel,” she cried, “you are pitiless!”

But Chanlouineau scarcely heard her words. All the bitterness of the past was rising to his brain like fumes of alcohol; and he was scarcely conscious of what he said himself. “However, the day soon came,” he continued, “when my foolish illusions were destroyed. You could not be mine since you belonged to another. I might have broken my compact! I thought of doing so, but I did not have the courage. To see you, to hear your voice, to spend my time under the same roof as you, was happiness enough. I longed to see you happy and honoured; I fought for the triumph of another, for him you had chosen——” A sob rose in his throat and choked his utterance; he buried his face in his hands to hide his tears, and, for a moment, seemed completely overcome. But he mastered his weakness after a brief interval, and in a firm voice, exclaimed: “We must not linger any longer over the past. Time flies, and the future is ominous.”

As he spoke, he went to the door and applied first his eyes and then his ear to the grating, to see that there were no spies outside. But he could perceive no one, nor could he hear a sound. He came back to Marie-Anne’s side, and tearing the sleeve of his jacket open with his teeth, he drew from the lining two letters, wrapped carefully in a piece of cloth. “Here,” he said, in a low voice, “is a man’s life!”

Marie-Anne knew nothing of Chanlouineau’s promises and hopes, and she was moreover so distressed by what the young farmer had previously said that at first she did not understand his meaning. All she could do was to repeat mechanically, “This is a man’s life!”

“Hush speak lower!” interrupted Chanlouineau. “Yes, one of these letters might, perhaps, save the life of a prisoner now under sentence of death.”

“Unfortunate man! Why do you not make use of it and save yourself?”

The young farmer shook his head. “Would it ever be possible for you to love me?” he said. “No it wouldn’t be possible; and so what wish can I have to live? At least I shall be able to forget everything when I am underground. Moreover, I have been justly condemned. I knew what I was doing when I left La Reche with my gun over my shoulder, and my sword by my side; I have no right to complain. But these judges of ours have condemned an innocent man——”

“The Baron d’Escorval?”

“Yes—Maurice’s father!” His voice changed as he pronounced the name of his envied rival—envied, no doubt, and yet to assure this rival’s happiness and Marie-Anne’s he would have given ten lives had they been his to give. “I wish to save the baron,” he added, “and I can do so.”

“Oh! if what you said were true? But you undoubtedly deceive yourself.”

“I know what I am saying,” rejoined Chanlouineau; and still fearful lest some spy might be concealed outside; he now came close to Marie-Anne and in a low voice spoke rapidly as follows: “I never believed in the success of this conspiracy, and when I sought for a weapon of defence in case of failure, the Marquis de Sairmeuse furnished it. When it became necessary to send out a circular, warning our accomplices of the date decided upon for the rising, I persuaded M. Martial to write a model. He suspected nothing. I told him it was for a wedding, and he did what I asked. This letter, which is now in my possession, is the rough draft of the circular we sent; and it is in the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s handwriting. It is impossible for him to deny it. There is an erasure in every line, and every one would look at the letter as the handiwork of a man seeking to convey his real meaning in ambiguous phrases.”

With these words Chanlouineau opened the envelope and showed her the famous letter he had dictated, in which the space for the date of the insurrection was left blank. “My dear friend, we are at last agreed, and the marriage is decided on, etc.”

The light that had sparkled in Marie-Anne’s eyes was suddenly bedimmed. “And you think that this letter can be of any use?” she inquired, with evident discouragement.

“I don’t think so!”

“But——”

With a gesture, he interrupted her. “We must not lose time in discussion—listen to me. Of itself, this letter might be unimportant, but I have arranged matters in such a way that it will produce a powerful effect. I declared before the commission that the Marquis de Sairmeuse was one of the leaders of the movement. They laughed; and I read incredulity on all the judges’ faces. But calumny is never without its effect. When the Duke de Sairmeuse is about to receive a reward for his services, there will be enemies in plenty to remember and repeat my words. He knew this so well that he was greatly agitated, even while his colleagues sneered at my accusation.”

“It’s a great crime to charge a man falsely,” murmured Marie-Anne, with simple honesty. “No doubt,” rejoined Chanlouineau, “but I wish to save the baron, and I cannot choose my means. As I knew that the marquis had been wounded, I declared that he was fighting against the troops by my side and asked that he should be summoned before the tribunal; swearing that I had in my possession unquestionable proofs of his complicity.”

“Did you say that the Marquis de Sairmeuse had been wounded?” inquired Marie-Anne.

Chanlouineau’s face wore a look of intense astonishment. “What!” he exclaimed, “don’t you know——?” Then after an instant’s reflection: “Fool that I am!” he resumed. “After all who could have told you what happened? However, you remember that while we were on our way to the Croix-d’Arcy, after your father had rode on in advance, Maurice placed himself at the head of one division, and you walked beside him, while your brother Jean and myself stayed behind to urge the laggards forward. We were performing our duty conscientiously enough, when suddenly we heard the gallop of a horse behind us. ‘We must know who is coming,’ said Jean to me. So we paused. The horse soon reached us; we caught the bridle and held him. Can you guess who the rider was? Why, Martial de Sairmeuse. It would be impossible to describe your brother’s fury when he recognized the marquis. ‘At last I find you, you wretched noble!’ he exclaimed, ‘and now we will settle our account! After reducing my father, who had just given you a fortune, to despair and penury, you tried to degrade my sister. I will have my revenge! Down, we must fight!’ ”

Marie-Anne could scarcely tell whether she was awake or dreaming. “What, my brother challenged the marquis!” she murmured, “Is it possible?”

“Brave as the marquis may be,” pursued Chanlouineau, “he did not seem inclined to accept the invitation. He stammered out something like this: ‘You are mad—you are jesting—haven’t we always been friends? What does all this mean?’ Jean ground his teeth in rage. ‘This means that we have endured your insulting familiarity long enough,’ he replied, ‘and if you don’t dismount and fight me fairly, I will blow your brains out!’ Your brother, as he spoke, manipulated his pistol in so threatening a manner that the marquis jumped off his horse and addressing me: ‘You see, Chanlouineau,’ he said, ‘I must fight a duel or submit to murder. If Jean kills me there is no more to be said—but if I kill him, what is to be done?’ I told him he would be free to go off unmolested on condition he gave me his word not to proceed to Montaignac before two o’clock. ‘Then I accept the challenge,’ said he, ‘give me a weapon.’ I gave him my sword, your brother drew his, and they took their places in the middle of the highway.”

The young farmer paused to take breath, and then more slowly he resumed: “Marie-Anne, your father and I misjudged your brother. Poor Jean’s appearance is terribly against him. His face indicates a treacherous, cowardly nature, his smile is cunning, and his eyes always shun yours. We distrusted him, but we should ask his forgiveness for having done so. A man who fights as I saw him fight, deserves all our confidence. For this combat in the road, and in the darkness, was terrible. They attacked each other furiously, and at last Jean fell.”

“Ah! my brother is dead!” exclaimed Marie Anne.

“No,” promptly replied Chanlouineau; “at least I have reason to hope not; and I know he has been well cared for. The duel had another witness, a man named Poignot, whom you must remember as he was one of your father’s tenants. He took Jean away with him, and promised me that he would conceal him and care for him. As for the marquis, he showed me that he was wounded as well, and then he remounted his horse, saying: ‘What could I do? He would have it so.’ ”

Marie-Anne now understood everything. “Give me the letter,” she said to Chanlouineau, “I will go to the duke. I will find some way of reaching him, and then God will guide me in the right course to pursue.”

The noble-hearted young farmer calmly handed her the scrap of paper which might have been the means of his own salvation. “You must on no account allow the duke to suppose that you have the proof with which you threaten him about your person. He might be capable of any infamy under such circumstances. He will probably say, at first, that he can do nothing—that he sees no way to save the baron; but you must tell him that he must find a means, if he does not wish this letter sent to Paris, to one of his enemies——”

He paused, for the bolt outside was being withdrawn. A moment later Corporal Bavois re-appeared. “The half-hour expired ten minutes ago,” said the old soldier sadly, “and I must obey my orders.”

“Coming,” replied Chanlouineau; “we have finished.” And then handing Marie-Anne the second letter he had taken from his sleeve, “This is for you,” he added. “You will read it when I am no more. Pray, pray, do not cry so! Be brave! You will soon be Maurice’s wife. And when you are happy, think sometimes of the poor peasant who loved you so.”

Marie-Anne could not utter a word, but she raised her face to his. “Ah! I dare not ask it!” he exclaimed. And for the first and only time in life he clasped her in his arms, and pressed his lips to her pallid cheek. “Now, good-bye,” he said once more. “Do not lose a moment. Good-bye, for ever!”

XIX.

THE prospect of capturing Lacheneur, the chief conspirator, had so excited the Marquis de Courtornieu that he had not been able to tear himself away from the citadel to go home to dinner. Stationed near the entrance of the dark corridor leading to Chanlouineau’s cell, he watched Marie-Anne hasten away; but as he saw her go out into the twilight with a quick, alert step, he felt a sudden doubt concerning Chanlouineau’s sincerity. “Can it be that this miserable peasant has deceived me?” thought he; and so strong was this new-born suspicion that he hastened after the young girl, determined to question her—to ascertain the truth—to arrest her even, if need be. But he no longer possessed the agility of youth, and when he reached the gateway the sentinel told him that Mademoiselle Lacheneur had already left the citadel. He rushed out after her, looked about on every side, but could see no trace of the nimble fugitive. Accordingly, he was constrained to return again, inwardly furious with himself for his own credulity. “Still, I can visit Chanlouineau,” thought he, “and to-morrow will be time enough to summon this creature and question her.”

“This creature” was, even then, hastening up the long, ill-paved street leading to the Hotel de France. Regardless of the inquisitive glances of the passers-by, she ran on, thinking only of shortening the terrible suspense which her friends at the hotel must be enduring. “All is not lost!” she exclaimed, as she re-entered the room where they were assembled.

“My God, Thou hast heard my prayers!” murmured the baroness. Then, suddenly seized by a horrible dread, she added: “But do not try to deceive me. Are you not trying to comfort me with false hopes?”

“No! I am not deceiving you, madame. Chanlouineau has placed a weapon in my hands, which, I hope and believe, will place the Duke de Sairmeuse in our power. He is only omnipotent at Montaignac, and the only man who would oppose him, M. de Courtornieu, is his friend. I believe that M. d’Escorval can be saved.”

“Speak!” cried Maurice; “what must we do?”

“Pray and wait, Maurice, I must act alone in this matter, but be assured that I will do everything that is humanly possible. It is my duty to do so, for am I not the cause of all your misfortune?”

Absorbed in the thought of the task before her, Marie-Anne had failed to remark a stranger who had arrived during her absence—an old white-haired peasant. The abbe now drew her attention to him. “Here is a courageous friend,” said he, “who ever since morning, has been searching for you everywhere, in order to give you some news of your father.”

Marie-Anne could scarcely falter her gratitude. “Oh, you need not thank me,” said the old peasant. “I said to myself: ‘The poor girl must be terribly anxious, and I ought to relieve her of her misery.’ So I came to tell you that M. Lacheneur is safe and well, except for a wound in the leg, which causes him considerable suffering, but which will be healed in a few weeks. My son-in-law, who was hunting yesterday in the mountains, met him near the frontier in company of two of his friends. By this time he must be in Piedmont, beyond the reach of the gendarmes.”

“Let us hope now,” said the abbe, “that we shall soon hear what has become of Jean.”

“I know already,” replied Marie-Anne, “that my brother has been badly wounded, but some kind friends are caring for him.”

Maurice, the abbe, and the retired officers now surrounded the brave young girl. They wished to know what she was about to attempt, and to dissuade her from incurring useless danger. But she refused to reply to their pressing questions; and when they suggested accompanying her, or, at least, following her at a distance, she declared that she must go alone. “However, I shall be here again in a couple of hours,” she said, “and then I shall be able to tell you if there is anything else to be done.” With these words she hastened away.

To obtain an audience of the Duke de Sairmeuse was certainly a difficult matter, as Maurice and the abbe had ascertained on the previous day. Besieged by weeping and heart-broken families, his grace had shut himself up securely, fearing, perhaps, that he might be moved by their entreaties. Marie-Anne was aware of this, but she was not at all anxious, for by employing the same word that Chanlouineau had used—that same word “revelation”—she was certain to obtain a hearing. When she reached the Duke de Sairmeuse’s mansion she found three or four lacqueys talking in front of the principal entrance.

“I am the daughter of M. Lacheneur,” said she, speaking to one of them. “I must see the duke at once, on matters connected with the revolt.”

“The duke is absent.”

“I come to make a revelation.”

The servant’s manner suddenly changed. “In that case follow me, mademoiselle,” said he.

She did follow him up the stairs and through two or three rooms. At last he opened a door and bade her enter; but, to her surprise, it was not the Duke de Sairmeuse who was in the room, but his son, Martial, who, was stretched upon a sofa, reading a paper by the light of a large candelabra. On perceiving Marie-Anne he sprang up, pale and agitated. “You here!” he stammered; and then, swiftly mastering his emotion, he bethought himself of the possible motive of such a visit: “Lacheneur must have been arrested,” he continued, “and wishing to save him from the military commission you have thought of me. Thank you for doing so, dear Marie-Anne, thank you for your confidence in me. I will not abuse it. Be reassured. We will save your father, I promise you—I swear it. We will find a means, for he must be saved. I will have it so!” As he spoke his voice betrayed the passionate joy that was surging in his heart.

“My father has not been arrested,” said Marie-Anne, coldly.

“Then,” said Martial, with some hesitation—”Then it is Jean who is a prisoner.”

“My brother is in safety. If he survives his wounds he will evade all attempts at capture.”

The pale face of the Marquis de Sairmeuse turned a deep crimson. Marie-Anne’s manner showed him that she was acquainted with the duel. It would have been useless to try and deny it; still he endeavoured to excuse himself. “It was Jean who challenged me,” he said; “I tried to avoid fighting, and I only defended my life in fair combat, and with equal weapons——”

Marie-Anne interrupted him. “I do not reproach you, Monsieur le Marquis,” she said, quietly.

“Ah! Marie-Anne, I am more severe than you. Jean was right to challenge me. I deserved his anger. He knew my guilty thoughts, of which you were ignorant. Oh! Marie-Anne, if I wronged you in thought it was because I did not know you. Now I know that you, above all others, are pure and chaste——”

He tried to take her hands, but she instantly repulsed him, and broke into a fit of passionate sobbing. Of all the blows she had received this last was most terrible. What shame and humiliation? Now, indeed, her cup of sorrow was filled to overflowing. “Chaste and pure!” he had said. Oh, the bitter mockery of those words!

But Martial misunderstood the meaning of her grief. “Your indignation is just,” he resumed, with growing eagerness. “But if I have injured you even in thought, I now offer you reparation. I have been a fool—a miserable fool—for I love you; I love, and can love you only. I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse. I am wealthy. I entreat you, I implore you to be my wife.”

Marie-Anne listened in utter bewilderment. But an hour before Chanlouineau in his cell cried aloud that he died for love of her, and now it was Martial, who avowed his willingness to sacrifice his ambition and his future for her sake. And the poor peasant condemned to death, and the son of the all-powerful Duke de Sairmeuse, had confessed their passion in almost the same words.

Martial paused, awaiting some reply—a word, a gesture. None came; and then with increased vehemence, “You are silent,” he cried. “Do you question my sincerity? No, it is impossible! Then why this silence? Do you fear my father’s opposition? You need not. I know how to gain his consent. Besides, what does his approbation matter to us? Have we any need of him? Am I not my own master? Am I not rich—immensely rich? I should be a miserable fool, a coward, if I hesitated between his stupid prejudices and the happiness of my life.” He was evidently weighing all the possible objections, in order to answer and overrule them beforehand. “Is it on account of your family that you hesitate?” he continued. “Your father and brother are pursued, and France is closed against them. But we will leave France, and they shall come and live near you. Jean will no longer dislike me when you are my wife. We will all live in England or in Italy. Now I am grateful for the fortune that will enable me to make your life a continual enchantment. I love you—and in the happiness and tender love which shall be yours in the future, I will make you forget all the bitterness of the past!”

Marie-Anne knew the Marquis de Sairmeuse well enough to understand the intensity of the love revealed by these astounding proposals. And for that very reason she hesitated to tell him that he had triumphed over his pride in vain. She was anxiously wondering to what extremity his wounded vanity would carry him, and if a refusal might not transform him into a bitter foe.

“Why do you not answer?” asked Martial, with evident anxiety.

She felt that she must reply, that she must speak, say something; and yet it was with intense reluctance that she at last unclosed her lips. “I am only a poor girl, Monsieur le Marquis,” she murmured. “If I accepted your offer, you would regret it for ever.”

“Never!”

“But you are no longer free. You have already plighted your troth. Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu is your promised wife.”

“Ah! say one word—only one—and this engagement which I detest shall be broken.”

She was silent. It was evident that her mind was fully made up, and that she refused his offer.

“Do you hate me, then?” asked Martial, sadly.

If she had allowed herself to tell the whole truth, Marie-Anne would have answered “Yes;” for the Marquis de Sairmeuse did inspire her with almost insurmountable aversion. “I no more belong to myself than you belong to yourself,” she faltered.

A gleam of hatred shone for a second in Martial’s eyes. “Always Maurice!” said he.

“Always.”

She expected an angry outburst, but he remained perfectly calm. “Then,” said he, with a forced smile, “I must believe this and other evidence. I must believe that you forced me to play a ridiculous part. Until now I doubted it.”

Marie-Anne bowed her head, blushing with shame to the roots of her hair; still she made no attempt at denial. “I was not my own mistress,” she stammered; “my father commanded and threatened, and I—I obeyed him.”

“That matters little,” he interrupted; “a pure minded young girl should not have acted so.” This was the only reproach he allowed himself to utter, and he even regretted it, perhaps because he did not wish her to know how deeply he was wounded, perhaps because—as he afterwards declared—he could not overcome his love for her. “Now,” he resumed, “I understand your presence here. You come to ask mercy for M. d’Escorval.”

“Not mercy, but justice. The baron is innocent.”

Martial drew close to Marie-Anne, and lowering his voice: “If the father is innocent,” he whispered, “then it is the son who is guilty.”

She recoiled in terror. What! he knew the secret which the judges could not, or would not penetrate!

But seeing her anguish, he took pity on her. “Another reason,” said he, “for attempting to save the baron! If his blood were shed upon the guillotine there would be an abyss between you and Maurice which neither of you could cross. So I will join my efforts to yours.”

Blushing and embarrassed, Marie-Anne dared not thank him; for was she not about to requite his generosity by charging him with a complicity of which, as she well knew, he was innocent. Indeed, she would have by far preferred to find him angry and revengeful.

Just then a valet opened the door, and the Duke de Sairmeuse entered. “Upon my word!” he exclaimed, as he crossed the threshold, “I must confess that Chupin is an admirable hunter. Thanks to him—” He paused abruptly: he had not perceived Marie-Anne until now. “What! Lacheneur’s daughter!” said he, with an air of intense surprise. “What does she want here?”

The decisive moment had come—the baron’s life depended upon Marie-Anne’s courage and address. Impressed by this weighty responsibility she at once recovered all her presence of mind. “I have a revelation to sell to you, sir,” she said, with a resolute air.

The duke looked at her with mingled wonder and curiosity; then, laughing heartily, he threw himself on to the sofa, exclaiming: “Sell it, my pretty one—sell it! I can’t speak of that until I am alone with you.”

At a sign from his father, Martial left the room. “Now tell me what it is,” said the duke.

She did not lose a moment. “You must have read the circular convening the conspirators,” she began.

“Certainly; I have a dozen copies of it in my pocket.”

“Who do you suppose wrote it?”

“Why, the elder d’Escorval, or your father.”

“You are mistaken, sir; that letter was prepared by the Marquis de Sairmeuse, your son.”

The duke sprang to his feet, his face purple with anger. “Zounds! girl! I advise you to bridle your tongue!” cried he.

“There is proof of what I assert; and the lady who sends me here,” interrupted Marie-Anne, quite unabashed, “has the original of this circular in safe keeping. It is in the handwriting of Monsieur le Marquis, and I am obliged to tell you—”

She did not have time to complete her sentence, for the duke sprang to the door, and, in a voice of thunder, called his son. As soon as Martial entered the room his grace turned to Marie-Anne, “Now, repeat,” said he, “repeat before my son what you have just said to me.”

Boldly, with head erect, and in a clear, firm voice, Marie-Anne repeated her charge. She expected an indignant denial, a stinging taunt, or, at least, an angry interruption from the marquis; but he listened with a nonchalant air, and she almost believed she could read in his eyes an encouragement to proceed, coupled with a promise of protection.

“Well! what do you say to that?” imperiously asked the duke, when Marie-Anne had finished.

“First of all,” replied Martial, lightly, “I should like to see this famous circular.”

The duke handed him a copy. “Here—read it,” said he.

Martial glanced over the paper, laughed heartily, and exclaimed: “A clever trick.”

“What do you say?”

“I say that this Chanlouineau is a sly rascal. Who the devil would have thought the fellow so cunning to see his honest face. Another lesson to teach one not to trust in appearances.”

In all his life the Duke de Sairmeuse had never received so severe a shock. “So Chanlouineau was not lying, then,” he ejaculated, in a choked, unnatural voice, “you were one of the instigators of this rebellion?”

Martial’s brow bent as, in a tone of marked disdain, he slowly replied: “This is the fourth time that you have addressed that question to me, and for the fourth time I answer: ‘No.’ That should suffice for you. If the fancy had seized me to take part in this movement, I should frankly confess it. What possible reason could I have for concealing anything from you?”

“The facts!” interrupted the duke, in a frenzy of passion; “the facts!”

“Very well,” rejoined Martial, in his usual indifferent tone; “the fact is that the original of this circular does exist, that it was written in my best hand on a very large sheet of very poor paper. I recollect that in trying to find appropriate expressions I erased and re-wrote several words. Did I date this writing? I think I did, but I could not swear to it.”

“How do you reconcile this with your denials?” exclaimed M. de Sairmeuse.

“I can do this easily. Did I not tell you just now that Chanlouineau had made a tool of me?”

The duke no longer knew what to believe; but what exasperated him more than everything else was his son’s imperturbable coolness. “You had much better confess that you were led into this by your mistress,” he retorted, pointing at Marie-Anne.

“Mademoiselle Lacheneur is not my mistress,” replied Martial, in an almost threatening tone. “Though it only rests with her to become the Marchioness de Sairmeuse if she chooses to-morrow. But let us leave recriminations on one side, they cannot further the progress of our business.”

It was with difficulty that the duke checked another insulting rejoinder. However, he had not quite lost all reason. Trembling with suppressed rage, he walked round the room several times, and at last paused in front of Marie-Anne, who had remained standing in the same place, as motionless as a statue. “Come, my good girl,” said he, “give me the writing.”

“It is not in my possession, sir.”

“Where is it?”

“In the hands of a person who will only give it to you under certain conditions.”

“Who is this person?”

“I am not at liberty to tell you.”

There was both admiration and jealousy in the look that Martial fixed upon Marie-Anne. He was amazed by her coolness and presence of mind. Ah! indeed powerful must be the passion that imparted such a ringing clearness to her voice, such brilliancy to her eyes, and such precision to her words!

“And if I should not accept the—the conditions, what then?” asked M. de Sairmeuse.

“In that case the writing will be utilized.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, sir, that early to-morrow morning a trusty messenger will start for Paris, with the view of submitting this document to certain persons who are not exactly friends of yours. He will show it to M. Laine, for example—or to the Duke de Richelieu; and he will, of course, explain to them its significance and value. Will this writing prove the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s complicity? Yes, or no? Have you, or have you not, dared to condemn to death the unfortunate men who were only your son’s tools?”

“Ah, you little wretch, you hussy, you little viper!” interrupted the duke in a passionate rage. “You want to drive me mad! Yes, you know that I have enemies and rivals who would gladly give anything for this execrable letter. And if they obtain it they will demand an investigation, and then farewell to the rewards due to my services. It will be shouted from the housetops that Chanlouineau, in the presence of the tribunal, declared that you, marquis, were his leader and his accomplice. You will be obliged to submit to the scrutiny of physicians, who, finding a freshly-healed wound, will require you to state how and where you received it, and why you concealed it. And then, of course, I shall be accused! It will be said I expedited matters in order to silence the voices raised against my son. Perhaps my enemies will even say that I secretly favoured the insurrection. I shall be vilified in the newspapers. And remember that it is you, you alone, marquis, who have ruined the fortunes of our house, our brilliant prospects, in this foolish fashion. You pretend to believe in nothing, to doubt everything—you are cold, sceptical, disdainful. But only let a pretty woman make her appearance on the scene, and you grow as wild as a school-boy, and you are ready to commit any act of folly. It is you that I am speaking to, marquis. Don’t you hear me? Speak! what have you to say?”

Martial had listened to this tirade with unconcealed scorn, and without even attempting to interrupt it. But now he slowly replied, “I think, sir, that if Mademoiselle Lacheneur had any doubts of the value of the document she possesses, she certainly can have them no longer.”

This answer fell upon the duke’s wrath like a bucket of iced water. He instantly realised his folly; and frightened by his own words, stood literally stupefied with astonishment.

Without deigning to speak any further to his father, the marquis turned to Marie-Anne. “Will you be kind enough to explain what is required in exchange for this letter?” he said.

“The life and liberty of M. d’Escorval.”

The duke started as if he had received an electric shock. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “I knew they would ask for something that was impossible!” He sank back into an arm chair; and his despair now seemed as deep as his frenzy had been violent. He hid his face in his hands, evidently seeking for some expedient. “Why didn’t you come to me before judgment was pronounced?” he murmured. “Then, I could of done anything—now, my hands are bound. The commission has spoken, and the sentence must be executed—” He rose, and added in the tone of a man who is utterly resigned: “Decidedly, I should risk more in attempting to save the baron”—in his anxiety he gave M. d’Escorval his title—”a thousand times more than I have to fear from my enemies. So, mademoiselle”—he no longer said, “my good girl”—”you can utilize your document.”

Having spoken, he was about to leave the room, when Martial detained him, “Think again before you decide,” said the marquis. “Our situation is not without a precedent. Don’t you remember that a few months ago the Count de Lavalette was condemned to death. Now the king wished to pardon him, but the ministers had contrary views. No doubt his majesty was the master; still what did he do? He effected to remain deaf to all the supplications made on the prisoner’s behalf. The scaffold was even erected, and yet Lavalette was saved! And no one was compromised—yes, a jailer lost his position; but he is living on his pension now.”

Marie-Anne caught eagerly at the idea which Martial had so cleverly presented. “Yes,” she exclaimed, “the Count de Lavalette was favoured by royal connivance, and succeeded in making his escape.”

The simplicity of the expedient, and the authority of the example, seemed to make a vivid impression on the duke. He remained silent for a moment, but Marie-Anne fancied she could detect an expression of relief steal over his face. “Such an attempt would be very hazardous,” he murmured; “yet, with care, and if one were sure that it would remain a secret—”

“Oh! the secret will be religiously kept, sir,” interrupted Marie-Anne.

With a glance Martial recommended her to remain silent then turning to his father, he said: “We can always consider this expedient, and calculate the consequences—that won’t bind us. When is this sentence to be carried into effect?”

“To-morrow,” replied the duke. Terrible as this curt answer seemed, it did not alarm Marie-Anne. She had perceived by the duke’s acute anxiety that she had good grounds for hope, and she was now aware that Martial would favour her designs.

“We have, then, only the night before us,” resumed the marquis. “Fortunately, it is only half-past seven, and until ten o’clock my father can visit the citadel without exciting suspicion.” He paused, and seemed embarrassed. The fact was, he had just realised the existence of a difficulty which might thwart all his plans. “Have we any intelligent men in the citadel?” he murmured. “A jailer or a soldier’s assistance is indispensable.” Turning to his father, he abruptly asked him: “Have you any man whom one can trust?”

“I have three or four spies—they can be bought—”

“No! the wretch who betrays his comrade for a few sous would betray you for a few louis. We must have an honest man who sympathizes with Baron d’Escorval’s opinions—an old soldier who fought under Napoleon, if possible.”

“I know the man you require!” exclaimed Marie-Anne with sudden inspiration, and noticing Martial’s surprise. “Yes, a man at the citadel.”

“Take care,” observed the marquis. “Remember he will have a great deal to risk, for should this be discovered the accomplices must be sacrificed.”

“The man I speak of is the one you need. I will be responsible for him. His name is Bavois, and he is a corporal in the first company of grenadiers.”

“Bavois,” repeated Martial, as if to fix the name in his memory; “Bavois. Very well, I will confer with him. My father will find some pretext for having him summoned here.”

“It is easy to find a pretext,” rejoined Marie-Anne. “He was left on guard at Escorval after the searching party left the house.”

“That’s capital,” said Martial, walking towards his father’s chair. “I suppose,” he continued, addressing the duke, “that the baron has been separated from the other prisoners.”

“Yes, he is alone, in a large, comfortable room, on the second floor of the corner tower.”

“The corner tower!” said Martial, “is that the very tall one, built on the edge of the cliff, where the rock rises almost perpendicularly?”

“Precisely,” answered M. de Sairmeuse, whose promptness plainly implied that he was ready to risk a good deal to enable the prisoner to escape.

“What kind of a window is there in the baron’s room?” inquired Martial.

“Oh, a tolerably large one, with a double row of iron bars, securely riveted into the stone walls. It overlooks the precipice.”

“The deuce! The bars can easily be cut through, but that precipice is a serious difficulty, and yet, in one respect, it is an advantage, for no sentinels are stationed there, are they?”

“No, never. Between the walls and the citadel and the edge of the rock there is barely standing room. The soldiers don’t venture there even in the day time.”

“There is one more important question. What is the distance from M. d’Escorval’s window to the ground?”

“I should say it is about forty feet from the base of the tower.”

“Good! And from the base of the tower to the foot of the cliff—how far is that?”

“I really scarcely know. However, I should think fully sixty feet.”

“Ah, that’s terribly high; but fortunately the baron is still pretty vigorous.”

The duke was growing impatient. “Now,” said he to his son, “will you be so kind as to explain your plan?”

“My plan is simplicity itself,” replied Martial. “Sixty and forty are one hundred; so it is necessary to procure a hundred feet of strong rope. It will make a very large bundle; but no matter. I will twist it round me, wrap myself up in a large cloak, and accompany you to the citadel. You will send for Corporal Bavois, leave me alone with him in a quiet place; and I will explain our wishes to him.”

The Duke de Sairmeuse shrugged his shoulders. “And how will you procure a hundred feet of rope at this hour in Montaignac? Will you go about from shop to shop? You might as well trumpet your project all over France at once.”

“I shall attempt nothing of the kind. What I can’t do, the friends of the D’Escorval family will do.” Then seeing that the duke was about to offer some fresh objections, Martial earnestly added: “Pray don’t forget the danger that threatens us, nor the little time that is left us. I have made a blunder, let me repair it.” And turning to Marie-Anne: “You may consider the baron saved,” he pursued; “but it is necessary for me to confer with one of his friends. Return at once to the Hotel de France and tell the cure to meet me on the Place d’Armes, where I shall go at once and wait for him.”

XX.

DIRECTLY the Baron d’Escorval was arrested, although he was unarmed and although he had taken no part in the insurrection, he fully realised the fact that he was a lost man. He knew how hateful he was to the royalist party, and having made up his mind that he would have to die, he turned all his attention to the danger threatening his son. The unfortunate blunder he made in contradicting Chupin’s evidence was due to his preoccupation, and he did not breathe freely until he saw Maurice led from the hall by the Abbe Midon and the friendly officers; for he feared that his son would be unable to restrain himself, that he would declare his guilt all to no purpose since the commission in its blind state would never forgive the father, but rather satisfy its rancour by ordering the execution of the son as well. When Maurice was eventually got away, the baron became more composed, and with head erect, and steadfast eye, he listened to his sentence. In the confusion that ensued in removing the prisoners from the hall M. d’Escorval 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, who seeing that he was momentarily unobserved, leant towards the baron, and whispered; “It is for you that I am working. Save all your strength for to-night.”

Chanlouineau’s words and his burning glance surprised M. d’Escorval, but he attributed both to fear. When the guards took him back to his cell, he threw himself on to his pallet, and became absorbed in 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 military commission. The next day—in a few hours—at dawn, perhaps, he would be taken from his cell, and placed in front of a squad of soldiers, an officer would lift his sword, and then all would be over. All over! ay, but what would become of his wife and son? His agony on thinking of those he loved 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. Had he not already determined to meet death without flinching? Resolved to shake off this fit of melancholy, he walked round and round 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 an adjoining apartment, but the door had long since been walled up. The cement which held the 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 crevices. Perhaps he had a friend for a neighbour, some wretched man who was to share his fate. No. He could not see anyone. He called, first in a whisper, and then louder; but no voice replied. “If I could 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 communicating like his with 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 protrude 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, the culminating point of which must be the waste land of La Reche. The dark mass of foliage that he saw on the right was probably the forest 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 in peace. And remembering past times, and thinking of his vanished dreams, his eyes once more filled with tears. But he quickly dried them as he heard some one draw back the bolts securing the door of his room.

Two soldiers entered, one of whom carried a torch, while the other had with him one of those long baskets divided into compartments which are used in carrying meals to officers on guard. These men were evidently deeply moved, and yet, obeying a sentiment of instinctive delicacy, they affected a semblance of gaiety. “Here is your dinner, sir,” said one soldier, “it ought to be good, since it comes from the commander’s kitchen.”

M. d’Escorval smiled sadly. Some attentions have a sinister significance coming from your jailer. Still, when he seated himself before the little table prepared for him, he found that he was really hungry. He ate with a relish, and was soon chatting 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 had finished his meal, he asked for pen, ink, and paper, which were almost immediately brought to him. He found himself again alone; but his conversation with the soldiers had been of service, for his weakness had passed away, his self-possession had returned, and he could not reflect. He was surprised that he had heard nothing from his wife or son. Had they been refused admittance to the prison? No, that could not be; he could not imagine his judges sufficiently cruel to prevent him from pressing his wife and son to his heart, in a last embrace. 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, on his knees at his mother’s bedside. Still they might come yet, for on consulting his watch, he found that it was only seven o’clock. But alas, he waited in vain. No one came. At last, he took up his pen, and was about to write, when he heard a bustle in the corridor outside. The clink of spurs resounded over the flagstones, and he heard the sharp clink of a musket as the sentinel presented arms. Trembling in spite of himself, the baron sprang up. “They have come at last!” he exclaimed.

But he was mistaken; the footsteps died away in the distance, and he reflected that this must have been some round of inspection. At the same moment, however, two objects thrown through the little grated opening in the door of his cell, fell on to the floor in the middle of the room. M. d’Escorval caught them up. Somebody had thrown him two files. His first feeling was one of distrust. He knew that there were jailers who left no means untried to dishonour their prisoners before delivering them over to the executioner. Who had sent him these instruments of deliverance, a friend or an enemy? Chanlouineau’s last words and the look that accompanied them recurred to his mind, perplexing him still more. He was standing with knitted brows, turning and re-turning the files in his hands, when he suddenly noticed on the floor a scrap of paper which at first had escaped his attention. He picked 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 feel assured, for he had at once recognized the Abbe Midon’s handwriting. “Ah! he is a true friend,” he murmured. “And this explains why neither my wife nor son came to visit me; and yet I doubted their energy—and was complaining of their neglect!” Intense joy filled his heart, 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 which were both well tempered, and was about to attack the bars, when he fancied he heard some one open the door of the next room. Some one had opened it, certainly, and had closed it again, but without locking it. The baron could hear this person moving cautiously about. What did it all mean? Were they incarcerating some fresh prisoner, or were they stationing a spy there? Holding his breath and listening with the greatest attention, the baron now heard a singular sound, the cause of which it was quite impossible to explain. He stealthily advanced to the door that had been walled up, knelt down and peered through one of the crevices in the masonry. The sight that met his eyes amazed him. A man was standing in a corner of the room, and the baron could see the lower part of his body by the light of a large lantern which he had deposited on the floor at his feet. He was turning quickly round and round, thus unwinding a long rope which had been twined round 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 so situated that the baron could not see the upper part of the man’s body; and despite all his efforts, he failed to distinguish the features 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 against the wall to question him, when the door of the room where this man stood was impetuously thrown open. Another man entered, but his lineaments also were beyond the baron’s range of vision. However, his voice could be heard quite plainly, and M. d’Escorval was seized with despair when this new comer ejaculated in a tone of intense astonishment: “Good heavens! what are you about?”

“All is discovered!” thought the baron, growing sick at heart; while to his increased surprise the man he believed to be his friend calmly continued unwinding the rope, and quietly replied: “As you see, I am freeing myself from this burden, 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 newcomer.

“I am going to hand it to the Baron d’Escorval, to whom I have already given a file. He must make his escape to-night.”

The scene was so improbable that the baron could not believe his own ears. “I can’t be awake; I must be dreaming,” he thought.

But the new-comer uttered a terrible oath, and, in an almost threatening tone, exclaimed: “We will see about that! If you have gone mad, thank God I still possess my reason! I will not permit——”

“Excuse me!” interrupted the other, coldly, “you will permit it. This is merely the result of your own—credulity. The time to say, ‘I won’t permit it,’ was when Chanlouineau asked you to allow him to receive a visit from Mademoiselle Lacheneur. Do you know what that cunning fellow wanted? Simply to give Mademoiselle Lacheneur a letter of mine, so compromising in its nature, 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 for the future. Then good-bye to all our projects of an alliance between our two families!” The newcomer heaved a mighty sigh, followed by a half angry, half sorrowful exclamation; but the man with the rope, without giving him any opportunity to reply, resumed: “You, yourself, marquis, would no doubt be compromised. Were you not a chamberlain during Bonaparte’s reign? Ah, marquis! how could a man of your experience, so subtle, penetrating, and acute, allow himself to be duped by a low, ignorant peasant?”

Now M. d’Escorval understood everything. He was not dreaming; it was the Marquis de Courtornieu and Martial de Sairmeuse who were talking on the other side of the wall. The former had been so crushed by Martial’s revelation that he made no effort to oppose him. “And this terrible letter?” he groaned.

“Marie-Anne Lacheneur gave it to the Abbe Midon, who came to me and said: ‘Either the baron will escape, or this letter will be taken to the Duke 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 I appointed in a quiet place; he coiled all this rope round my body, and here I am.”

“Then you think that if the baron escapes they will give you back your letter?”

“Most assuredly I do.”

“You deluded man! Why, as soon as the baron is safe, they will demand the life of another prisoner, with the same threats.”

“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 honour.”

M. de Courtornieu uttered an ejaculation which showed that he considered the abbe to be an egregious fool. “What!” he exclaimed. “You hold the proof, and—— But this is madness! Burn this wretched letter in your lantern, and let the baron go where his slumbers will be undisturbed.”

Martial’s silence betrayed something like stupefaction. “Ah! so that’s what you would do?” he asked at last.

“Certainly—and without the slightest hesitation.”

“Ah well! I can’t say that I quite congratulate you.”

The sneer was so apparent that M. de Courtornieu was sorely tempted to make an angry reply. But he was not a man to yield to his first impulse—this ex-Imperial chamberlain now a grand prevot under His Majesty King Louis XVIII. He reflected. Should he, on account of a sharp word, quarrel with Martial—with the only suitor who had ever pleased his daughter? A quarrel and he would be left without any prospect of a son-in-law! When would heaven send him such another? And how furious Blanche would be! He concluded to swallow the bitter pill; and it was in a tone of paternal indulgence that he remarked: “I see that you are very young, my dear Martial.”

The baron was still kneeling beside the partition, holding his breath in an agony of suspense, and with his right ear against one of the crevices.

“You are only twenty, my dear Martial,” pursued the Marquis de Courtornieu; “you are imbued with all the enthusiasm and generosity of youth. Complete your undertaking; I shall not oppose you; but remember that all may be discovered—and then——”

“Have no fear, sir, on that score,” 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, at my request, has just assembled all the officers and guards together 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 require 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 everything. I had but one person to fear—yourself. A trusty messenger requested you to join me here. You came; you know all, you have agreed to remain neutral. I am at ease, and the baron will be safe in Piedmont when the sun rises.” He picked up his lantern, and added, gaily: “But let us go—my father can’t harangue those soldiers forever.”

“But you have not told me——” insisted M. de Courtornieu.

“I will tell you everything, 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, but, as he almost immediately discovered, it proved a thousand times more arduous than he had expected. 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 caused a harsh, grating sound which made him tremble. What if some one overheard 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 labours, 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 labour? Why mar the dignity of death by the disgrace of an unsuccessful effort to escape?

He was hesitating when footsteps approached his cell. At once he left the window and seated himself at the table. Almost directly afterwards the door opened and a soldier entered; an officer who did not cross the threshold remarking at the same moment: “You have your instructions, corporal, keep a close watch. If the prisoner needs anything, call.”

M. d’Escorval’s heart throbbed almost to bursting. What was coming now? Had M. de Courtornieu’s advice carried the day, or had Martial sent some one to assist him? But the door was scarcely closed when the corporal whispered: “We must not be dawdling here.”

M. d’Escorval sprang from his chair. This man was a friend. Here was help and life.

“I am Bavois,” continued the corporal. “Some one said to me just now: ‘One of the emperor’s friends is in danger; are you willing to lend him a helping hand!’ I replied, ‘Present,’ and here I am.”

This certainly was a brave fellow. The baron held out his hand, and in a voice trembling with emotion: “Thanks,” said he; “thanks. What, you don’t even know me, and yet you 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 don’t succeed they will chop off our heads with the same ax. But we shall succeed. Now, let’s stop talking and proceed to business.”

As he spoke he drew from under his long overcoat a strong iron crowbar and a small vial of brandy, both of which he laid upon the bed. He then took the candle and passed it five or six times before the window.

“What are you doing?” inquired the baron in suspense.

“I am signalling to your friends that everything is progressing favourably. They are down there waiting for us; and see they are now answering.” The baron looked, and three times they both perceived a little flash of flame, such as is produced by burning 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 was ‘prenticed to a locksmith once, and I know how to handle a file.” Then drawing the cork from the vial of brandy, he fastened it to the end of one of the files, and swathed the handle of the tool with a piece of damp linen. “That’s what they call putting a stop on the instrument,” he remarked, by way of explanation. Immediately afterwards he made an energetic attack on the bars, and it was at once evident that he had by no means exaggerated either his knowledge of the task, or the efficacy of his precautions for deadening the sound. The harsh grating which 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. Suspicion would be at once aroused if the gratings in the door were covered over, so the corporal hit upon another expedient. Moving the little table to another part of the room, he stood the candle-stick on 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 pausing for a minute, until you see me stop work.”

By this method they might reasonably hope to deceive the guards outside in the corridor; some of whom, indeed did come to the door and look in; but after a brief glance they walked away, and remarked to their companions: “We have just taken a look at the prisoner. He is very pale, and his eyes are glistening feverishly. He is reading aloud to divert his mind. Corporal Bavois is looking out of the window. It must be dull music for him.”

They little suspected why the baron’s eyes glistened in this feverish fashion; and had no idea that if he read aloud it was with the view of overpowering any suspicious sound which might result from Corporal Bavois’ labour. The time passed on, and while the latter worked, M. d’Escorval continued reading. 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 shan’t know where to go, for the regiment, you see, is my only family. Ah, well! if you give me a home with you I shall be very well content.” Thereupon he swallowed some of the brandy, and set to work again with renewed ardour.

He had cut one of the bars of the second row, when he was interrupted by M. d’Escorval who, without pausing in his renewed perusal, was pulling him by the coat tails to attract attention. The corporal turned round at once. “What’s up?” said he.

“I heard a singular noise just now in the adjoining room where the ropes are.”

Honest Bavois muttered a terrible oath. “Do they intend to betray us?” he asked. “I risked my life, and they promised me fair play.” He placed his ear against a crevice in the partition, and listened for a long while. Nothing, not the slightest sound could be detected. “It must have been some rat that you heard,” he said at last. “Go on with your reading.” And he turned to 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 keyhole. “Now,” said he, in the same measured tone he would have used in instructing a recruit, “attention! sir, and obey the word of command.”

Then he calmly explained that the escape would consist of two distinct operations; first, one would have to gain the narrow platform at the base of the tower; next one must descend 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,” said Bavois to the baron, “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. Don’t 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 shan’t be long in joining you. Are you ready?”

In reply M. d’Escorval lifted his arms, the rope was fastened securely about him, and he crawled through the window.

From above the height seemed immense. Below, in the barren fields surrounding the citadel, eight persons were waiting, silent, anxious, breathless with suspense. They were Madame d’Escorval and Maurice, Marie-Anne, the Abbe Midon, and four retired officers. There was no moon, but the night was very clear, and they could see the tower plainly. Soon after four o’clock struck from the church steeples, they perceived a dark object glide slowly down the side of the tower—this was the baron. A short interval and then another form followed rapidly—this was Bavois. Half of the perilous journey was accomplished. The watchers below 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. Suddenly one of the figures stepped forward 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. Alas! at that same moment a terrible cry rent the still night air.

M. d’Escorval was falling from a height of fifty feet; he was being hurled to the foot of the precipice. The rope had parted. Had it broken naturally? Maurice examined it; and then with a vow of vengeance exclaimed that they had been betrayed—that their enemy had arranged to deliver only a dead body into their hands—that the rope had been foully tampered with, intentionally cut with a knife beforehand!

XXI.

FATHER CHUPIN, the false witness and the crafty spy, had refrained from sleeping and almost from drinking ever since that unfortunate morning when the Duke de Sairmeuse affixed to the walls of Montaignac the decree in which he promised twenty thousand francs to the person who delivered up Lacheneur, dead or alive. “Twenty thousand francs,” muttered the old rascal gloomily; “twenty sacks with a hundred golden pistoles in each! Ah! if I could only discover this Lacheneur, even if he were dead and buried a hundred feet under ground, I should gain the reward.”

He cared nothing for the shame which such a feat would entail. His sole thought was the reward—the blood-money. Unfortunately for his greed he had nothing whatever to guide him in his researches; no clue, however vague. All that was known in Montaignac was that Lacheneur’s horse had been killed at the Croix-d’Arcy. But no one could say whether Lacheneur himself had been wounded, or whether he had escaped from the fray uninjured. Had he gained the frontier? or had he found an asylum in some friend’s house. Chupin was thus hungering for the price of blood, when, on the day of the baron’s trial, as he was returning from the citadel, after giving his evidence, he chanced to enter a wine-shop. He was indulging in a strong potation when he suddenly heard a peasant near him mention Lacheneur’s name in a low voice. This peasant was an old man who sat at an adjoining table, emptying a bottle of wine in a friend’s company, and he was telling the latter that he had come to Montaignac on purpose to give Mademoiselle Lacheneur some news of her father. He said that his son-in-law had met the chief conspirator in the mountains which separate the arrondissement of Montaignac from Savoy, and he even mentioned the exact place of meeting, which was near Saint Pavin-des-Grottes, a tiny village of only a few houses. Certainly the worthy fellow did not think he was committing a dangerous indiscretion, for in his opinion Lacheneur had already crossed the frontier, and put himself out of danger. But in this surmise he was grievously mistaken.

The frontier bordering on Savoy was guarded by soldiers, who had received orders to prevent any of the conspirators passing into Italian territory. And even if Piedmont was gained it seemed likely that the Italian authorities would themselves arrest the fugitive rebels, and hand them over to their judges. Chupin was aware of all this, and resolved to act at once. He threw a coin on the counter, and without waiting for his change, rushed back to the citadel, and asked a sergeant at the gate for pen and paper. Writing was for him usually a most laborious task, but to-day it only took him a moment to pen these lines: “I know Lacheneur’s retreat, and beg monseigneur to order some mounted soldiers to accompany me, so that we may capture him.

“Chupin.”

This letter was given to one of the guards, with a request to take it to the Duke de Sairmeuse, who was then presiding over the military commission. Five minutes later the soldier returned with the same note, on the margin of which the duke had written an order, placing a lieutenant and eight men of the Montaignac chasseurs, who could be relied upon, at Chupin’s disposal. The old spy also asked the loan of a horse for his own use, and this was granted him: and the party then started off at once in the direction of St. Pavin.

When, at the finish of the final stand made by the insurgents at the Croix-d’Arcy, Lacheneur’s horse received a bayonet wound in the chest, and reared and fell, burying its rider underneath; the latter lost consciousness, and it was not till some hours later that, restored by the fresh morning air, he regained his senses and was able to look about him. All he perceived was a couple of dead bodies lying some little distance off. It was a terrible moment, and in his soul he cursed the fate which had left him still alive. Had he been armed, he would no doubt have put an end to the mental tortures he was suffering by suicide—but then he had no weapon. So he must resign himself to life. Perhaps, too, the voice of honour whispered that it was cowardice to strive to escape responsibility by self-inflicted death. At last, he endeavoured to draw himself from under his horse, which proved no easy task, as his foot was still in the stirrup, and his limbs were so cramped that he could scarcely move them. Finally, however, he succeeded in freeing himself, and, on examination, discovered that he had only one wound, inflicted by a bayonet thrust, in the left leg. It caused him considerable pain, and he was trying to bandage it with his handkerchief, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He had no time for reflection; but at once darted 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 some two hundred soldiers, who were bringing back a score of peasants as prisoners. Crouching behind an oak tree scarcely fifteen paces from the road, Lacheneur recognized several of the captives in the grey 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 many detachments 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 would be able to successfully elude his pursuers could he only gain the shelter of the hills. He began his journey courageously, but soon he was obliged to admit that he had greatly over estimated his strength, which was well nigh quite exhausted by the excessive labour and excitement of the past few days, coupled with the loss of blood occasioned by his wound. He tore up a stake in an adjacent vineyard, and using it as a staff, slowly dragged himself along, keeping in the shelter of the woods as much as possible, and creeping beside the hedges and in the ditches whenever he was obliged to cross an open space. Physical suffering and mental anguish, were soon supplemented by the agony of hunger. He had eaten nothing for thirty hours, and felt terribly weak from lack of nourishment. Soon the craving for food became so intolerable that he was willing to brave anything to appease it. At last he perceived the thatched roofs of a little hamlet. He was going forward, decided to enter the first house and ask for food; the outskirts of the village were reached, and a cottage stood within a few yards—when suddenly he heard the rolling of a drum. Surmising that a party of troops was near at hand, he instinctively hid himself behind a wall. But the drum proved to be that of a public crier summoning the village folk together; and soon he could hear a clear, penetrating voice reciting the following words: “This is to give notice that the authorities of Montaignac promise a reward of twenty thousand francs to whosoever delivers up the man known as Lacheneur, dead or alive. Dead or alive! Understand, that if he be dead, the compensation will be the same; twenty thousand francs! to be paid in gold. God save the king.”