PART II. THE HONOUR OF THE NAME. (continued 4)

Then came another roll of the drum. But with a bound, Lacheneur had already risen; and though he had believed himself utterly exhausted, he now found superhuman strength to fly. A price had been set upon his head; and the circumstance awakened in his breast the frenzy that renders a hunted beast so dangerous. In all the villages around him he fancied he could hear the rolling of drums, and the voices of criers proclaiming him an outlaw. Go where he would now, he was a tempting bait offered to treason and cupidity. Whom could he dare confide in? Whom could he ask for shelter? And even if he were dead, he would still be worth a fortune. Though he might die from lack of nourishment and exhaustion under a bush by the way side, yet his emaciated body would still be worth twenty thousand francs. And the man who found his corpse would not give it burial. He would place it on his cart and convey it to Montaignac, present it to the authorities and say: “Here is Lacheneur’s body—give me the reward.”

How long and by what paths he pursued his flight, he could not tell. But several hours afterwards, while he was wandering through the wooded hills of Charves, he espied two men, who sprang up and fled at his approach. In a terrible voice, he called after them: “Eh! you fellows! do you each want to earn a thousand pistoles? I am Lacheneur.”

They paused when they recognized him, and Lacheneur saw that they were two of his former followers, both of them well-to-do farmers, whom it had been difficult to induce to join in the revolt. They happened to have with them some bread and a little brandy, and they gave both to the famished man. They sat down beside him on the grass, and while he was eating they related their misfortunes. Their connection with the conspiracy had been discovered, and soldiers were hunting for them, but they hoped to reach Italy with the help of a guide who was waiting for them at an appointed place.

Lacheneur held out his hand. “Then I am saved,” said he. “Weak and wounded as I am, I should have perished, all alone.”

But the two farmers did not take the hand he offered. “We ought to leave you,” said the younger man gloomily, “for you are the cause of our misfortunes. You deceived us, Monsieur Lacheneur.”

The leader of the revolt dared not protest; the reproach was so well deserved. However, the other farmer gave his companion a peculiar glance and suggested that they might let Lacheneur accompany them all the same. So they walked on all three together, and that same evening, after nine hours journey through the mountains, they crossed the frontier. But, in the meanwhile, many and bitter had been the reproaches they had exchanged. On being closely questioned by his companions, Lacheneur, exhausted both in mind and body, finally admitted the insincerity of his promises, by means of which he had inflamed his followers’ zeal. He acknowledged that he had spread the report that Marie-Louise and the young king of Rome were concealed in Montaignac, and that it was a gross falsehood. He confessed that he had given the signal for the revolt without any chance of success, and without any precise means of action, leaving everything to chance. In short he confessed that nothing was real except the hatred, the bitter hatred he felt against the Sairmeuse family. A dozen times, at least, during this terrible confession, the peasants who accompanied him were on the point of hurling him over the precipice by the banks of which they walked. “So it was to gratify his own spite,” they thought, quivering with rage, “that he set every one fighting and killing each other—that he has ruined us and driven us into exile. We’ll see if he is to escape unpunished.”

After crossing the frontier the fugitives repaired to the first hostelry they could find, a lonely inn, a league or so from the little village of Saint-Jean-de-Coche, and kept by a man named Balstain. It was past midnight when they rapped, but, despite the lateness of the hour, they were admitted, and ordered supper. Lacheneur, weak from loss of blood, and exhausted by his long tramp, went off to bed, however, without eating. He threw himself on to a pallet in an adjoining room and soon fell asleep. For the first time since meeting him, the two farmers now found an opportunity to talk in private. The same idea had occurred to both of them. They believed that by delivering Lacheneur up to the authorities, they might secure pardon for themselves. Neither of them would have consented to receive a single sou of the blood-money; but they did not consider there would be any disgrace in exchanging their own lives and liberty for Lacheneur’s, especially as he had so deceived them. Eventually they decided to go to Saint-Jean-de-Coche directly supper was over, and inform the Piedmontese guards.

But they reckoned without their host. They had spoken loud enough to be overheard by Balstain, the inn-keeper, who, during the day, had been told of the magnificent reward promised for Lacheneur’s capture. On learning that the exhausted man, now quietly sleeping under his roof, was the famous conspirator, he was seized with a sudden thirst for gold, and whispering a word to his wife he darted through the window of a back room to run and fetch the carabineers, as the Italian gendarmes are termed. He had been gone half-an-hour or so when the two peasants left the house; for they had drunk heavily with the view of mustering sufficient courage to carry their purpose into effect. They closed the door so violently on going out that Lacheneur woke up. He rose from his bed and came into the front room, where he found the innkeeper’s wife alone. “Where are my friends?” he asked, anxiously. “And where is your husband?”

Moved by sympathy, the woman tried to falter some excuse, but finding none, she threw herself at his feet, exclaiming: “Fly, save yourself—you are betrayed!”

Lacheneur rushed back into his bedroom, trying to find a weapon with which to defend himself, or a mode of egress by which he could escape unperceived. He had thought they might abandon him, but betray him—no never! “Who has sold me?” he asked, in an agitated voice.

“Your friends—the two men who supped at that table.”

“That’s impossible!” he retorted: for he ignored his comrades’ designs and hopes; and could not, would not believe them capable of betraying him for lucre.

“But,” pleaded the innkeeper’s wife, still on her knees before him, “they have just started for Saint-Jean-de-Coche, where they mean to denounce you. I heard them say that your life would purchase theirs. They certainly mean to fetch the carabineers; and, alas, must I also say that my own husband has gone to betray you.”

Lacheneur understood everything now! And this supreme misfortune, after all the misery he had endured, quite prostrated him. Tears gushed from his eyes, and sinking on to a chair, he murmured: “Let them come; I am ready for them. No, I will not stir from here! My miserable life is not worth such a struggle.”

But the landlady rose, and grasping at his clothing, shook and dragged him to the door—she would have carried him had she possessed sufficient strength. “You shall not be taken here; it will bring misfortune on our house!”

Bewildered by this violent appeal, and urged on by the instinct of self-preservation, so powerful in every human heart, Lacheneur advanced to the threshold. The night was very dark, and chilly fog intensified the gloom.

“See, madame,” said he, in a gentle voice, “how can I find my way through these mountains, which I do not know, where there are no roads—where the foot-paths are scarcely traced.”

But Balstain’s wife would not argue; pushing him forward and turning him as one does a blind man to set him on the right track. “Walk straight before you,” said she, “always against the wind. God will protect you. Farewell!”

He turned to ask further directions, but she had re-entered the house and closed the door. Upheld by a feverish excitement, he walked on during long hours. Soon he lost his way, and wandered among the mountains, benumbed with cold, stumbling over the rocks, at times falling to the ground. It was a wonder that he was not precipitated over the brink of some precipice. He had lost all idea of his whereabouts, and the sun was already high in the heavens when at last he met some one of whom he could ask his way. This was a little shepherd boy, who was looking for some stray goats, but the lad frightened by the stranger’s wild and haggard aspect, at first refused to approach. At last the offer of a piece of money induced him to come a little nearer. “You are just on the frontier line,” said he. “Here is France; and there is Savoy.”

“And which is the nearest village?”

“On the Savoy side, Saint-Jean-de-Coche; on the French side, Saint-Pavin.”

So after all his terrible exertions, Lacheneur was not a league from the inn. Appalled by this discovery, he remained for a moment undecided which course to pursue. Still, after all what did it matter? Was he not doomed, and would not every road lead him to death? However, at last he remembered the carabineers, the innkeeper’s wife had warned him against, and slowly crawled down the steep mountain-side leading back into France. He was near Saint-Pavin, when he espied a cottage standing alone and in front of it a young peasant-woman spinning in the sunshine. He dragged himself towards her, and in a weak voice begged her hospitality.

The woman rose, surprised and somewhat alarmed by the aspect of this stranger, whose face was ghastly pale, and whose clothes were torn and soiled with dust and blood. She looked at him more closely, and then perceived that his age, stature, and features correspond with the descriptions of Lacheneur, which had been distributed round about the frontier. “Why you are the conspirator they are hunting for, and for whom they promise a reward of twenty thousand francs,” she said.

Lacheneur trembled. “Yes,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation; “I am Lacheneur. Betray me if you will, but in charity’s name give me a morsel of bread, and allow me to rest a little.”

“We betray you, sir!” said she. “Ah! you don’t know the Antoines! Come into our house, and lie down on the bed while I prepare some refreshment for you. When my husband comes home, we will see what can be done.”

It was nearly sunset when the master of the house, a sturdy mountaineer, with a frank face, entered the cottage. On perceiving the stranger seated at his fireside he turned frightfully pale. “Unfortunate woman!” he murmured to his wife, “don’t you know that anyone who shelters this fugitive will be shot, and his house levelled to the ground?”

Lacheneur overheard these words; he rose with a shudder. He knew that a price had been set upon his head, but until now he had not realised the danger to which his presence exposed these worthy people. “I will go at once,” said he, gently.

But the peasant laid his broad hand kindly on the outlaw’s shoulder and forced him to resume his seat. “It was not to drive you away that I said that,” he remarked. “You are at home, and you shall remain here until I can find some means of ensuring your safety.”

The woman flung her arms round her husband’s neck, and in a loving voice, exclaimed: “Ah! you are a noble man Antoine.”

He smiled, tenderly kissed her, then, pointing to the open door: “Watch!” said he, and turning to Lacheneur: “It won’t be easy to save you, for the promise of that big reward has set a number of evil-minded people on the alert. They know that you are in the neighbourhood, and a rascally innkeeper has crossed the frontier for the express purpose of betraying your whereabouts to the French gendarmes.”

“Balstain?”

“Yes, Balstain; and he is hunting for you now. But that’s not everything, as I passed through Saint-Pavin, coming back a little while ago I saw eight mounted soldiers, with a peasant guide who was also on horseback. They declared that they knew you were concealed in the village, and were going to search each house in turn.”

These soldiers were the Montaignac chasseurs, placed at Chupin’s disposal by the Duke de Sairmeuse. The task was certainly not at all to their taste, but they were closely watched by the lieutenant in command, who hoped to receive some substantial reward if the expedition was crowned with success.

But to return to Lacheneur. “Wounded and exhausted as you are,” continued Antoine, “you can’t possibly make a long march for a fortnight hence, and till then you must conceal yourself. Fortunately, I know a safe retreat in the mountain, not far from here. I will take you there to-night, with provisions enough to last you for a week.”

Just then he was interrupted by a stifled cry from his wife. He turned, and saw her fall almost fainting against the door, her face white as her linen cap, her finger pointing to the path that led from Saint-Pavin to the cottage. “The soldiers—they are coming!” she gasped.

Quicker than thought, Lacheneur and the peasant sprang to the door to see for themselves. The young woman had spoken the truth; for here came the Montaignac chasseurs, slowly climbing the steep foot-path. Chupin walked in advance, urging them on with voice, gesture, and example. An imprudent word from the little shepherd-boy, had decided the fugitive’s fate; for on returning to Saint-Pavin, and hearing that the soldiers were searching for the chief conspirator, the lad had chanced to say: “I met a man just now on the mountain who asked me where he was; and I saw him go down the foot-path leading to Antoine’s cottage.” And in proof of his words, he proudly displayed the piece of silver which Lacheneur had given him.

“One more bold stroke and we have our man!” exclaimed Chupin. “Come, comrades!” And now the party were not more than two hundred feet from the house in which the outlaw had found an asylum.

Antoine and his wife looked at each other with anguish in their eyes. They saw that their visitor was lost.

“We must save him! we must save him!” cried the woman.

“Yes, we must save him!” repeated the husband gloomily. “They shall kill me before I betray a man in my own house.”

“If he could hide in the stable behind the bundles of straw—”

“Oh, they would find him! These soldiers are worse than tigers, and the wretch who leads them on must have a bloodhound’s scent.” He turned quickly to Lacheneur. “Come, sir,” said he, “let us leap from the back window and fly to the mountains. They will see us, but no matter! These horsemen are always clumsy runners. If you can’t run, I’ll carry you. They will probably fire at us, but miss their aim.”

“And your wife?” asked Lacheneur.

The honest mountaineer shuddered; still he simply said: “She will join us.”

Lacheneur grasped his protector’s hand. “Ah! you are a noble people,” he exclaimed, “and God will reward you for your kindness to a poor fugitive. But you have done too much already. I should be the basest of men if I exposed you to useless danger. I can bear this life no longer; I have no wish to escape.” Then drawing the sobbing woman to him and kissing her on the forehead. “I have a daughter, young and beautiful like yourself,” he added. “Poor Marie-Anne! And I pitilessly sacrificed her to my hatred! I must not complain; come what may, I have deserved my fate.”

The sound of the approaching footsteps became more and more distinct. Lacheneur straightened himself up, and seemed to be gathering all his energy for the decisive moment. “Remain inside,” he said imperiously, to Antoine and his wife. “I am going out; they must not arrest me in your house.” And as he spoke, he crossed the threshold with a firm tread. The soldiers were but a few paces off. “Halt!” he exclaimed, in a loud ringing voice. “Are you not seeking for Lacheneur? I am he! I surrender myself.”

His manner was so dignified, his tone so impressive, that the soldiers involuntarily paused. This man before them was doomed; they knew the fate awaiting him, and seemed as awed as if they had been in the presence of death itself. One there was among the search party, whom Lacheneur’s ringing words had literally terrified, and this was Chupin. Remorse filled his cowardly heart, and pale and trembling, he sought to hide himself behind the soldiers.

But Lacheneur walked straight towards him. “So it is you who have sold my life, Chupin?” he said scornfully. “You have not forgotten, I perceive, how often my daughter filled your empty larder—so now you take your revenge.”

The old scoundrel seemed crushed by these words. Now that he had done this foul deed, he knew what betrayal really was. “So be it,” resumed Lacheneur. “You will receive the price of my blood; but it will not bring you good fortune—traitor!”

Chupin, however, indignant with his own weakness, was already making a vigorous effort to recover a semblance of self composure. “You have conspired against the king,” he stammered. “I only did my duty in denouncing you.” And turning to the soldiers, he added: “As for you, comrades, you may be sure the Duke de Sairmeuse will remember your services.”

Lacheneur’s hands were bound, and the party was about to descend the slope, when a man, roughly clad, bare-headed, covered with perspiration, and panting for breath, suddenly made his appearance. The twilight was falling, but Lacheneur recognized Balstain. “Ah! you have him!” exclaimed the innkeeper, pointing to the prisoner, as soon as he was within speaking distance. “The reward belongs to me—I denounced him first on the other side of the frontier, as the carabineers at Saint-Jean-de-Coche will testify. He would have been captured last night in my house if he hadn’t managed to run away in my absence. I’ve been following the bandit for sixteen hours.” He spoke with extraordinary vehemence, being full of fear lest he might lose his reward, and only reap disgrace and obliquy in recompense for his treason.

“If you have any right to the money, you must prove it before the proper authorities,” said the officer in command.

“If I have any right!” interrupted Balstain; “who contests my right, then?” He looked threateningly around him, and casting his eyes on Chupin, “Is it you?” he asked. “Do you dare to assert that you discovered the brigand?”

“Yes, it was I who discovered his hiding place.”

“You lie, you impostor!” vociferated the innkeeper; “you lie!” The soldiers did not budge. This scene repaid them for the disgust they had experienced during the afternoon. “But,” continued Balstain, “what else could one expect from such a knave as Chupin? Every one knows that he’s been obliged to fly from France over and over again on account of his crimes. Where did you take refuge when you crossed the frontier, Chupin? In my house, in Balstain’s inn. You were fed and protected there. How many times haven’t I saved you from the gendarmes and the galleys? More times than I can count. And to reward me you steal my property; you steal this man who was mine——”

“The fellow’s insane!” ejaculated the terrified Chupin, “he’s mad!”

“At least you will be reasonable,” exclaimed the inn keeper, suddenly changing his tactics. “Let’s see, Chupin, what you’ll do for an old friend? Divide, won’t you? No, you say no? How much will you give me, comrade? A third? Is that too much? A quarter, then——”

Chupin felt that the soldiers were enjoying his humiliation. They were indeed, sneering at him, and only an instant before they had, with instinctive loathing, avoided coming in contact with him. The old knave’s blood was boiling, and pushing Balstain aside, he cried to the chasseurs:—”Come—are we going to spend the night here?”

On hearing these words, Balstain’s eyes sparkled with revengeful fury, and suddenly drawing his knife from his pocket and making the sign of the cross in the air: “Saint-Jean-de-Coche,” he exclaimed, in a ringing voice, “and you, Holy Virgin, hear my vow. May my soul burn in hell if I ever use a knife at meals until I have plunged the one I now hold, into the heart of the scoundrel who has defrauded me!” With these words he hurried away into the woods, and the soldiers took up their line of march.

But Chupin was no longer the same. His impudence had left him and he walked along with hanging head, his mind full of sinister presentiments. He felt sure that such an oath as Balstain’s, and uttered by such a man, was equivalent to a death warrant, or at least to a speedy prospect of assassination. The thought tormented him so much indeed, that he would not allow the detachment to spend the night at Saint-Pavin, as had been agreed upon. He was impatient to leave the neighbourhood. So after supper he procured a cart; the prisoner was placed in it, securely bound, and the party started for Montaignac. The great bell was tolling two in the morning when Lacheneur was conducted into the citadel; and at that very moment M. d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois were making their final preparations for escape.

XXII.

ON being left alone in his cell after Marie-Anne’s departure, Chanlouineau gave himself up to despair. He loved Marie-Anne most passionately, and the idea that he would never see her again on earth proved heart-rending. Some little comfort he certainly derived from the thought that he had done his duty, that he had sacrificed his own life to secure her happiness, but then this result had only been obtained by simulating the most abject cowardice, which must disgrace him for ever in the eyes of his fellow prisoners, and the guards. Had he not offered to sell Lacheneur’s life for his own moreover. True it was but a ruse, and yet those who knew nothing of his secret would always brand him as a traitor and a coward. To a man of his true valiant heart such a prospect was particularly distressing, and he was still brooding over the idea when the Marquis de Courtornieu entered his cell to ascertain the result of Marie-Anne’s visit. “Well, my good fellow——” began the old nobleman, in his most condescending manner; but Chanlouineau did not allow him time to finish. “Leave,” he cried, in a fit of rage. “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 in the prisoner’s manner. “What a dangerous bloodthirsty rascal!” he remarked to the guard. “It would, perhaps, be advisable to put him into a strait-jacket!”

But there was no necessity for that; for scarcely had the marquis left, than the young farmer threw himself on to his pallet, oppressed with feverish anxiety. Would Marie-Anne know how to make the best use of the weapon he had placed in her hands? He hoped so, for she would have the Abbe Midon’s assistance, and besides he considered that the possession of this letter would frighten the Marquis de Sairmeuse into any concessions. In this last surmise Chanlouineau was entirely mistaken. The fear which Martial seemingly evinced during the interview with Marie-Anne and his father was all affected. He pretended to be alarmed, in order to frighten the duke, for he really wished to assist the girl he so passionately loved, and besides the idea of saving an enemy’s life, of wresting him from the executioner on the very steps of the scaffold, was very pleasing to his mind which at times took a decidedly chivalrous turn. Poor Chanlouineau, however, was ignorant of all this, and consequently his anxiety was perfectly natural. Throughout the afternoon he remained in anxious suspense, and when the night fell, stationed himself at the window of his cell gazing on to the plain below, and trusting that if the baron succeeded in escaping, some sign would warn him of the fact. Marie-Anne had visited him, she knew the cell he occupied and surely she would find some means of letting him know that his sacrifice had not been in vain. Shortly after two o’clock in the morning he was alarmed by a great bustle in the corridor outside. Doors were thrown open, and then slammed to; there was a loud rattle of keys; guards hurried to and fro, calling each other; the passage was lighted up, and then as Chanlouineau peered through the grating in the door of his cell he suddenly perceived Lacheneur as pale as a ghost walk by conducted by some soldiers. The young farmer almost doubted his eyesight; for he really believed his former leader had escaped. Another hour, and another hour passed by and yet did he prolong his anxious vigil. Not a sound, save the tramp of the guards in the corridor, and the faint echo of some distant challenge as sentinels were relieved outside. At last, however, there abruptly came a despairing cry. What was it? He listened; but it was not repeated. After all the occurrence was not so surprising. There were twenty men in that citadel under sentence of death, and the agony of that their last night, might well call forth a lamentation. At length the grey light of dawn stole through the window bars, the sun rose rapidly and Chanlouineau, hopeful for some sign, till then murmured in despair, that the letter must have been useless. Poor generous peasant! His heart would have leapt with joy if as he spoke those words he could only have cast a glance on the court-yard of the citadel.

An hour after the reveille had sounded, two country-women, carrying butter and eggs to market, presented themselves at the fortress gate, and declared that while passing through the fields below the cliff on which the citadel was built, they had perceived a rope dangling from the side of the rock. A rope! Then one of the condemned prisoners must have escaped. The guards hastened from cell to cell and soon discovered that the Baron d’Escorval’s room was empty. And not merely had the baron fled, but he had taken with him the man who had been left to guard him—Corporal Bavois, of the grenadiers. Everyone’s amazement was intense, but their 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 forever blighted. What should be said to the formidable Duke de Sairmeuse and to the Marquis de Courtornieu, who in spite of his calm polished manners, was almost as much to be feared? It was necessary to warn them, however, and so a sergeant was despatched with the news. Soon they made their appearance, accompanied by Martial; and to look at all three it would have been said that they were boiling over with anger and indignation. The Duke de Sairmeuse’s rage was especially conspicuous. He swore at everybody, accused everybody, and threatened everybody. He began by consigning all the keepers and guards to prison, and 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!”

The officials had hoped to appease the duke’s wrath a little, by informing him of Lacheneur’s arrest; but he knew of this already, for Chupin had ventured to wake him up in the middle of the night to tell him the great news. The baron’s escape afforded his grace an opportunity to exalt Chupin’s merits. “The man who discovered Lacheneur will know how to find this traitor D’Escorval,” he remarked.

As for M. de Courtornieu, he took what he called “measures for restoring this great culprit to the hands of justice.” That is to say, he despatched couriers in every direction, with orders to make close inquiries throughout the neighbourhood. 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 houses and sow the description of D’Escorval’s appearance broadcast through the land. But first of all he issued instructions for the arrest of the Abbe Midon and Maurice d’Escorval.

Among the officers present there was an old lieutenant, who had felt deeply wounded by some of the imputations which the Duke de Sairmeuse had cast right and left in his affected wrath. This lieutenant heard the Marquis de Courtornieu give his orders, and then stepped forward with a gloomy air, remarking that these measures were doubtless all very well, but at the same time it was urgent that an investigation should take place at once, so as to learn for certain how the baron had escaped and who were his accomplices if he had any. At the mention of this word “investigation,” both the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu shuddered. They could not ignore the fact that their reputations were at stake, and that the merest trifle might disclose the truth. A neglected precaution, any insignificant detail, an imprudent word or 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 simplicity, and was impatient to verify his presumptions. In point of fact, they were unnecessarily alarmed, for the old lieutenant had not the slightest suspicion of the truth. He had spoken on the impulse of the moment, merely to give vent to his displeasure. He was not even keen enough to remark a rapid glance which the duke and the marquis exchanged. Martial noticed this look, however, and with studied politeness, remarked: “Yes we must institute an investigation; that suggestion is as shrewd as it is opportune.”

The old lieutenant turned away with a muttered oath. “That coxcomb is poking fun at me,” he thought; “and he and his father and that prig the marquis deserve a box on the ears.”

In reality, however, Martial was not poking fun at him. Bold as was his remark it was made advisedly. To silence all future suspicions it was absolutely necessary that an investigation should take place immediately. But then it would, by reason of their position and functions, naturally devolve on the duke and the marquis, who would know just how much to conceal, and how much to disclose. They began their task immediately, with a haste which could not fail to dispel all doubts, if indeed any existed in the minds of their subordinates.

Martial thought he knew the details of the escape as well as the fugitives themselves, for even if they had been the actors, he was at any rate the author of the drama played that night. However, he was soon obliged to admit that he was mistaken in his opinion; for the investigation revealed several incomprehensible particulars. It had been determined beforehand that the baron and the corporal would have to make two successive descents. Hence the necessity of having two ropes. These ropes had been provided, and 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 at the base of the citadel where it was made fast to an iron crowbar. From the window of the cell, to the platform, there was no rope, however. “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 can’t understand.”

But Martial soon found other causes for surprise. On examining the rope that remained—the one which had been used in making the descent of the cliff—he discovered that it was not of 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, while it was wound round him, and it had then 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 the marquis; “what I can’t say.”

“Well, what does it matter?” replied M. de Courtornieu, “you have the compromising letter, haven’t you?”

But Martial’s mind was one of these that never rest, until they have solved the problem before them. Accordingly, he insisted on going to inspect the rocks at the foot of the precipice. Here they discovered several stains, formed of coagulated blood. “One of the fugitives must have fallen,” said Martial, quickly, “and been dangerously wounded!”

“Upon my word!” exclaimed the Duke de Sairmeuse, “if it is the Baron d’Escorval, who has broken his neck, I shall be delighted!”

Martial turned crimson, and looked searchingly at his father. “I suppose, sir, that you do not mean one word of what you are saying,” he observed, coldly. “We pledged ourselves upon the honour of our name, to save the baron. If he has been killed it will be a great misfortune for us, a very great misfortune.”

When his son addressed him in this haughty freezing tone of his, 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 also was Chupin’s opinion. He had been sent for by the duke, and had just made his appearance. But the old scoundrel, usually so loquacious and officious, now replied in the briefest fashion; and, strange to say, he did not offer his services. His habitual assurance and impudence, and his customary cunning smile, had quite forsaken him; and in lieu thereof his brow was overcast, and his manners strangely perturbed. So marked was the change that even the Duke de Sairmeuse observed it. “What misfortune have you had Master Chupin?” he asked.

“Why, while I was coming here,” replied the old knave in a sullen tone, “a band of ragamuffins pelted me with mud and stones, and ran after me, shouting, ‘Traitor! traitor!’ as loud as they could.” He clenched his fists, as he spoke, as if he were meditating vengeance; then suddenly he added: “The people of Montaignac are quite pleased this morning. They know that the baron has escaped, and they are rejoicing.”

Alas! the joy which Chupin spoke of, was destined to be of short duration, for the execution of the conspirators sentenced on the preceding afternoon was to take place that very day. At noon the gate of the citadel was closed, and the drums rolled loudly as a preface to the coming tragedy. Consternation spread through the town. Doors were carefully secured, shutters closed, and window-blinds pulled down. The streets became deserted, and a death-like silence prevailed. At last, just as three o’clock was striking, the gate of the fortress was re-opened, and under the lofty archway came fourteen doomed men, each with a priest by his side. One and twenty had been condemned to death, but the Baron d’Escorval had eluded the executioner, and remorse or fear had tempered the Duke de Sairmeuse’s thirst for blood. He and M. de Courtornieu had granted reprieves to six of the prisoners, and at that very moment a courier was starting for Paris with six petitions for pardon, signed by the military commission.

Chanlouineau was not among those for whom royal clemency was solicited. When he left his cell, without knowing whether his plan for saving the Baron d’Escorval, had proved of any use or not, he counted and examined his thirteen comrades with keen anxiety. His eyes betrayed such an agony of anguish that the priest who accompanied him asked him in a whisper. “Who are you looking for, my son?”

“For the Baron d’Escorval.”

“He escaped last night.”

“Ah! now I shall die content!” exclaimed the heroic peasant. And he died as he had sworn he would—without even changing colour—calm and proud, the name of Marie-Anne upon his lips.

There was one woman, a fair young girl, who was not in the least degree affected by the tragic incidents attending the repression of the Montaignac revolt. This was Blanche de Courtornieu, who smiled as brightly as ever, and who, although her father exercised almost dictatorial power in conjunction with the Duke de Sairmeuse, did not raise as much as her little finger to save any one of the condemned prisoners from execution. These rebels had dared to stop her carriage on the public road, and this was an offence which she could neither forgive nor forget. She also knew that she had only owed her liberty to Marie-Anne’s intercession, and to a woman of such jealous pride this knowledge was galling in the extreme. Hence, it was with bitter resentment that, on the morning following her arrival in Montaignac, she denounced to her father what she styled that Lacheneur girl’s inconceivable arrogance, and the peasantry’s frightful brutality. And when the Marquis de Courtornieu asked her if she would consent to give evidence against the Baron d’Escorval, she coldly replied that she considered it was her duty to do so. She was fully aware that her testimony would send the baron to the scaffold, and yet she did not hesitate a moment. True, she carefully concealed her personal spite, and declared she was only influenced by the interests of justice. Impartiality compells us to add, moreover, that she really believed the Baron d’Escorval to be a leader of the rebels. Chanlouineau had pronounced the name in her presence, and her error was all the more excusable as Maurice was usually known in the neighbourhood by his Christian name. Had the young farmer called to “Monsieur Maurice” for instructions, Blanche would have understood the situation, but he had exclaimed, “M. d’Escorval,” and hence her mistake.

After she had delivered to her father her written statement of what occurred on the highroad on the night of the revolt, the heiress assumed an attitude of seeming indifference, and when any of her friends chanced to speak of the rising, she alluded to the plebian conspirators in tones of proud disdain. In her heart, however, she blessed this timely outbreak, which had removed her rival from her path. “For now,” thought she, “the marquis will return to me, and I will make him forget the bold creature who bewitched him!” In this she was somewhat mistaken. True, Martial returned and paid his court, but he no longer loved her. He had detected the calculating ambition she had sought to hide under a mask of seeming simplicity. He had realised how vain and selfish she was, and his former admiration was now well nigh transformed into repugnance; for he could but contrast her character with the noble nature of Marie-Anne, now lost to him for ever. It was mainly the knowledge that Lacheneur’s daughter could never be his which prompted him to a seeming reconciliation with Blanche. He said to himself that the duke, his father, and the Marquis de Courtornieu had exchanged a solemn pledge, that he, too, had given his word, and that after all Blanche was his promised wife. Was it worth while to break off the engagement? Would he not be compelled to marry some day or another? His rank and name required him to do so, and such being the case what did it matter who he married, since the only woman he had ever truly loved—the only woman he ever could love—was never to be his? To a man of Martial’s education it was no very difficult task to pay proper court to the jealous Blanche, to surround her with every attention, and to affect a love he did not really feel; and, indeed, so perfectly did he play his part, that Mademoiselle de Courtornieu might well flatter herself with the thought that she reigned supreme in his affections.

While Martial seemed wholly occupied with thoughts of his approaching marriage, he was really tortured with anxiety as to the fate which had overtaken the Baron d’Escorval and the other fugitives. The three members of the D’Escorval family, the abbe, Marie-Anne, Corporal Bavois, and four half-pay officers, had all disappeared, leaving no trace behind them. This was very remarkable, as the search prescribed by MM. de Sairmeuse and Courtornieu had been conducted with feverish activity, greatly to the terror of its promoters. Still what could they do? They had imprudently excited the zeal of their subordinates, and now they were unable to allay it. Fortunately, however, all the efforts to discover the fugitives proved unsuccessful; and the only information that could be obtained came from a peasant, who declared that on the morning of the escape, just before day-break, he had met a party of 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 stains of blood at the bottom of the cliff, made Martial tremble. He was also strongly impressed by another circumstance, which came to light when the soldiers on guard the night of the escape were questioned as to what transpired. “I was on guard in the corridor communicating with the prisoner’s quarters in the tower,” said one of these soldiers, “when at about half-past two o’clock, just 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 let him pass. He went down the passage, and entered the empty room next to M. d’Escorval’s. He remained there about five minutes.”

“Did you recognize this officer?” asked Martial eagerly.

“No,” answered the soldier. “He wore a large cloak, the collar of which was turned up so high that it hid his face to the very eyes.”

“Who could this mysterious officer have been?” thought Martial, racking his brains. “What was he doing in the room where I left the ropes?”

The Marquis de Courtornieu, present at the examination, seemed much disturbed. Turning to the witness he asked him angrily, “How could you be ignorant that there were so many sympathizers with this movement among the garrison? You might have known that this visitor, who concealed his face so carefully, was an accomplice warned by Bavois, who had come to see if he needed a helping hand.”

This seemed a plausible explanation, but it did not satisfy Martial. “It is very strange,” he thought, “that M. d’Escorval has not even deigned to let me know he is in safety. The service I rendered him deserves that acknowledgment, at least.”

Such was the young marquis’s anxiety, that despite his repugnance for Chupin the spy, he resolved to seek that archtraitor’s assistance, with the view of discovering what had become of the fugitives. It was no longer easy, however, to secure the old rascal’s services, for since he had received the price of Lacheneur’s blood—these twenty thousand francs which had so fascinated him—he had deserted the Duke of Sairmeuse’s house, and taken up his quarters in a small inn at the outskirts of the town; where he spent his days alone in a large room on the second floor. At night-time he barricaded the door, and drank, drank, drank; and till daybreak he might be heard cursing and singing, or struggling against imaginary enemies. Still he dared not disobey the summons which a soldier brought him to hasten to the Hotel de Sairmeuse at once.

“I wish to discover what has become of the Baron d’Escorval,” said Martial when the old spy arrived.

Chupin trembled, and a fleeting colour dyed his cheeks. “The Montaignac police are at your disposal,” he answered sulkily. “They, perhaps, can satisfy your curiosity, Monsieur le Marquis, but I don’t belong to the police.”

Was he in earnest, or was he merely simulating a refusal with the view of obtaining a high price for his services? Martial inclined to the latter opinion. “You shall have no reason to complain of my generosity,” said he. “I will pay you well.”

That word “pay” would have made Chupin’s eyes gleam with delight a week before, but on hearing it now he at once flew into a furious passion. “So it was to tempt me again that you summoned me here!” he exclaimed. “You would do much better to leave me quietly at my inn.”

“What do you mean, you fool?”

But Chupin did not even hear the interruption. “People told me,” quoth he, with increasing fury, “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, folks despised me, perhaps; but they didn’t 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’ve twenty thousand francs in my pocket, and yet I’m treated as if I were a venomous beast. If I approach any one he draws back, and if I enter a room, those who are there hasten out of it.” At the recollection of the insults heaped upon him since Lacheneur’s capture, the old rascal’s rage reached a climax. “Was what I did so abominable?” he pursued. “Then why did your father propose it? The shame should fall on him. He shouldn’t have tempted a poor man with wealth like that. If, on the contrary, I did my duty, let them make laws to protect me.”

Martial perceived the necessity of reassuring this troubled mind. “Chupin, my boy,” said he, “I don’t ask you to discover M. d’Escorval in order to denounce him; far from it—I only want you to ascertain if any one at Saint-Pavin, or at Saint-Jean-de-Coche, knows of his having crossed the frontier.”

The mention of Saint-Jean-de-Coche made Chupin shudder. “Do you want me to be murdered?” he exclaimed, remembering Balstain’s vow. “I must let you know that I value my life now that I’m rich.” And seized with a sort of panic he fled precipitately.

Martial was stupefied with astonishment. “One might really suppose that the rascal was sorry for what he had done,” thought he.

If that were really the case, Chupin was not the only person afflicted with qualms of conscience, for both M. de Courtornieu and the Duke de Sairmeuse were secretly blaming themselves for the exaggeration of their first reports, and the manner in which they had magnified the proportions of the rebellion. They accused each other of undue haste, of neglecting the proper forms of process, and had to admit in their hearts that the sentences were most unjust. They each tried to make the other responsible for the blood which had been spilt; and were certainly doing all that they could to obtain a pardon for the six prisoners who had been reprieved. But their efforts did not succeed; for one night a courier arrived at Montaignac, bearing the following laconic despatch: “The twenty-one convicted prisoners must all be executed.” That is to say, the Duke de Richelieu, and M. Decazes, with their colleagues of the council of ministers, had decided that the petitions for clemency must be refused.

This despatch was a terrible blow for the Duke de Sairmeuse and M. de Courtornieu. They knew, better than any one else, how little these poor fellows were deserving of death. They knew it would soon be publicly proved that two of these six men had taken no part whatever in the conspiracy. What was to be done? Martial wished his father to resign his authority; but the duke had not the strength of mind to do so. Besides, M. de Courtornieu encouraged him to retain his functions, remarking, that no doubt all this was very unfortunate, but, since the wine was drawn, it was necessary to drink it; indeed, his grace could not now draw back without causing a terrible scandal.

Accordingly, the next day a dismal roll of drums was heard again, 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.

The prime mover in the conspiracy had not, however, yet been tried. He had fallen into a state of gloomy despondency, which lasted during his whole term of imprisonment. He was terribly broken, both in body and mind. Once only did the blood mount to his pallid cheeks, and that was on the morning when the Duke de Sairmeuse entered the cell to examine him. “It was you who drove me to do what I did,” exclaimed Lacheneur. “God sees us and judges us both!”

Unhappy man! his faults had been great: his chastisement was terrible. He had sacrificed his children on the altar of his wounded pride; and did not even have the consolation of pressing them to his heart and of asking their forgiveness before he died. Alone in his cell, he could not turn his mind from his son and 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, however, he learned that nothing had been heard of Jean, and that it was supposed Marie-Anne had escaped to some foreign country with the D’Escorval family. When summoned before the court for trial, Lacheneur was calm and dignified in manner. He made no attempt at defence, but answered every question with perfect frankness. He took all the blame upon himself, and would not give the name of any one accomplice. Condemned to be beheaded, he was executed on the following day, walking to the scaffold and mounting to the platform with a firm step. A few seconds later the blade of the guillotine fell with a loud whirr, and the rebellion of the fourth of March counted its twenty-first victim.

That same evening the townsfolk of Montaignac were busy talking of the magnificent rewards which were to be bestowed on the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu, for their services to the royal cause, and a report was flying abroad to the effect that Martial and Mademoiselle Blanche were now to be married with great pomp, and with as little delay as possible.

XXIII.

AFTER Lacheneur had been executed, the co-dictators, regretting, as we have already said, the precipitation with which they had sentenced many of the minor partisans of the revolt, sought to propitiate public opinion by treating the remaining prisoners with unexpected clemency. Out of a hundred peasants still confined in the citadel, only eighteen or twenty were tried, and the sentences pronounced upon them were light in the extreme; all the others were released. Major Carini, the leader of the military conspirators in Montaignac, had expected to lose his head, but to his own astonishment he was only sentenced to two years’ imprisonment. This tardy indulgence did not, however, efface popular recollections of previous severity, and the townsfolk of Montaignac openly declared that if MM. de Sairmeuse and de Courtornieu were clement, it was only because they were afraid of the consequences that might await continued tyranny. So thus it came to pass that people execrated them for their past cruelty, and despised them for their subsequent cowardice. However, both the duke and the marquis were ignorant of the true current of public opinion, and hurried on with their preparations for their children’s wedding. It was arranged that the ceremony should take place on the 17th of April, at the village church of Sairmeuse, and that a grand entertainment should be given to the guests in the duke’s chateau, which was indeed transformed into a fairy palace for the occasion.

A new priest, who had taken the Abbe Midon’s place, celebrated the nuptial mass, and then addressed the newly-wedded pair in congratulatory terms. “You will be, you must be happy!” he exclaimed in conclusion, fully believing for the moment that he spoke the words of prophecy. And who would not have believed as he did? Where could two young people be found more richly dowered with all the attributes of worldly happiness—youth, health, opulence, and rank. And yet although the new marchioness’s eyes sparkled joyfully, the bridegroom seemed strangely preoccupied. Blanche was before him radiant with beauty, proud with success; but his mind, despite all efforts, wandered back to Marie-Anne—to the Marie-Anne he had lost, who had disappeared, whom he might never behold again. “Ah! if she had but loved him,” thought Martial, “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 his sadness, thanks, perhaps, to the exhilarating influence of several glasses of champagne, and when the guests rose from table he had almost forgotten his forebodings. He was rising in his turn, when a servant approached him and whispered: “There is a young peasant in the hall who wishes to speak with Monsieur le Marquis. He would not give me his name.”

“Wouldn’t give his name?” ejaculated Martial. “Ah, well, on one’s wedding-day one must grant an audience to everybody.” And with a smile he descended the staircase. Beside the fragrant flowering plants with which the vestibule was lined, he found a young a man with a pale face, whose eyes glittered with feverish brilliancy. On recognising him Martial could not restrain an exclamation of surprise. “Jean Lacheneur!” he exclaimed; “you imprudent fellow!”

Young Lacheneur stepped forward. “You thought you were rid of me,” he said, bitterly. “But you see you were mistaken. However, you can order your people to arrest me if you choose.”

Martial’s brow lowered on hearing these insulting words. “What do you want?” he asked coldly.

“I am to give you this on behalf of Maurice d’Escorval,” replied Jean, drawing a letter from his pocket.

With an eager hand, Martial broke the seal; but scarcely had he glanced at the contents than he turned as pale as death and staggered back, exclaiming, “Infamous!”

“What am I to say to Maurice,” insisted Jean. “What do you intend to do?”

“Come—you shall see,” replied the young marquis, seizing Jean by the arm and dragging him up the staircase. The expression of Martial’s features had so changed during his brief absence that the wedding guests looked at him with astonishment when he re-entered the grand saloon holding an open letter in one hand, and leading with the other a young peasant whom no one recognised. “Where is my father?” he asked, in a husky voice; “where is the Marquis de Courtornieu?”

The duke and the marquis were with Blanche in a little drawing-room leading out of the main hall. Martial hastened there, followed by a crowd of wondering guests, who, foreseeing a stormy scene, were determined to witness it. He walked straight towards M. de Courtornieu, who was standing by the fire-place, and handing him the letter: “Read!” said he, in a threatening voice.

M. de Courtornieu mechanically obeyed the injunction; but suddenly he turned livid; the paper trembled in his hands: he averted his glance, and was obliged to lean against the mantelpiece for support. “I don’t understand,” he stammered: “no, I don’t understand.”

The duke and Blanche had both sprung forward. “What is the matter?” they both asked in one breath; “what has happened?”

Martial’s reply was to tear the letter from the Marquis de Courtornieu’s hands, and to turn to his father with these words: “Listen to this note I have just received.”

Three hundred people were assembled in the room, or clustering round the doorway, but the silence was so perfect that Martial’s voice reached the farthest extremity of the grand hall as he read: “Monsieur le Marquis—Upon the honour of your name, and in exchange for a dozen lines that threatened you with ruin, you promised us the Baron d’Escorval’s life. 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 on to the rocks below. You have forfeited your honour, sir. You have soiled your name with opprobrium, and while a drop of blood remains in my veins, I will leave no means untried to punish you for your cowardice and treason. By killing me you would, it is true, escape the chastisement I am reserving for you. I challenge you to fight with me. Shall I wait for you to-morrow on La Reche? At what hour? With what weapons? If you are the vilest of men, you can appoint a meeting, and then send your gendarmes to arrest me. That would be an act worthy of you.

“Maurice d’Escorval.”

On hearing these words the Duke de Sairmeuse was seized with despair. He saw the secret of the baron’s flight made public, and his own political prospects ruined. “Hush!” he hurriedly exclaimed in a low voice; “hush, wretched fellow, you will ruin us!”

But Martial did not even seem to hear him. He finished his perusal, and then looking the Marquis de Courtornieu full in the face: “Now, what do you think?” he asked.

“I am still unable to comprehend,” replied the old nobleman, coldly.

Martial raised his hand; and every one present believed that he was about to strike his father-in-law. “You don’t comprehend,” he exclaimed sarcastically. “Ah, well, if you don’t, I do. I know who that officer was who entered the room where I deposited the ropes—and I know what took him there.” He paused, crumpled the letter between his hands, and threw it in M. de Courtornieu’s face, with these last words: “Here, take your reward, you cowardly traitor!”

Overwhelmed by this denouement the marquis sank back into an arm-chair, and Martial, still holding Jean Lacheneur by the arm, was on the point of leaving the room, when his young wife, wild with despair, tried to detain him. “You shall not go!” she exclaimed, “you cannot! Where are you going? That young fellow with you is Jean Lacheneur. I recognize him. You want to join his sister—your mistress!”

Martial indignantly pushed his wife aside. “How dare you insult the noblest and purest of women,” he exclaimed. “Ah, well—yes—I am going to find Marie-Anne. Farewell!” And with these words he left the chateau.

XXIV.

THE ledge of rock on which the Baron d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois rested on descending from the tower was not more than a yard and a half across its widest part. It sloped down towards the edge of the precipice, and its surface was so rugged and uneven that it was considered very imprudent to stand there, even in the day-time. Thus it will be understood that the task of lowering a man from this ledge, at dead of night, was perilous in the extreme. Before allowing the baron to descend, Bavois took every possible precaution to save himself from being dragged over the verge of the precipice by his companion’s weight. He fixed his crowbar firmly in a crevice of the rock, seated himself, braced his feet against the bar, threw his shoulders well back, and then feeling that his position was secure he bid the baron let himself down. The sudden parting of the rope hurled the corporal against the tower wall, and then he rebounded forward on his knees. For an instant he hung suspended over the abyss, his hands clutching at the empty air. A hasty movement, and he would have fallen. But he possessed a marvellous power of will, and had faced danger so often in his life that he was able to restrain himself. Prudently, but with determined energy, he screwed his feet and knees into the crevices of the rock, feeling with his hands for some point of support; then gradually sinking on to one side, he at last succeeded in dragging himself from the verge of the precipice.

The effort had been a terrible one, his limbs were quite cramped, and he was obliged to sit down and rest himself. He fully believed that the baron had been killed by his fall, but this catastrophe did not produce much effect upon the old soldier, who had seen so many comrades fall by his side on fields of battle. What did amaze him, however, was the breaking of the rope—a rope so thick that one would have supposed it capable of sustaining the weight of ten men like the baron. It was too dark to examine the fragment remaining in his possession, but on feeling it at the lower end with his finger, the corporal was surprised to find it quite smooth and even, not rough and ragged as is usual after a break. “It must have been cut—yes cut nearly through,” exclaimed Bavois with an oath. And at the same time a previous incident recurred to his mind. “This,” thought he, “explains the noise which the poor baron heard in the next room! And I said to him: ‘Nonsense! it is a rat!’ ”

With the view of verifying his conjectures, Bavois passed the cord round about the crowbar and pulled at it with all his strength. It parted in three places. The discovery appalled him. A part of the rope had fallen with the baron, and it was evident that the remaining fragments even if tied together would not be long enough to reach the base of the rock. What was to be done? How could he escape? If he could not descend the precipice he must remain on the ledge from which there was no other mode of escape. “It’s all up, corporal,” he murmured to himself. “At daybreak they will find the baron’s cell empty. They will poke their heads out of the window, and see you here perched like a stone saint on his pedestal. Of course you’ll be captured, tried, and condemned, and have to take your turn in the ditches. Ready! Aim! Fire! That’ll be the end of your story.”

He stopped short, for a vague idea had just entered his mind, which he felt might lead to salvation. It had come to him in touching the rope which he and the baron had used in their descent from the latter’s cell to the rocky ledge, and which, firmly attached to the bars above hung down the side of the tower. “If you had that rope which hangs there, corporal,” said he, you could tie it to these bits, and then the cord would be long enough to take you down the precipice. But how can one obtain it? If one goes back after it, one can’t bring it down and come down again ones’ self at the same time. He pondered for a moment and then began talking to himself again. “Attention, corporal,” said he. “You are going to knot the five pieces of rope you’ve got here together, and you’re going to fasten them to your waist; next you’re going to climb up to that window, hand over hand. Not an easy matter! A staircase would be preferable. But no matter, you mustn’t be finical, corporal. So you will climb up and find yourself in the cell again. What are you going to do there? A mere nothing. You will unfasten the cord secured to the window bars, you will tie it to this one and that will give you eighty feet of good strong rope. Then you will pass the rope about one of the bars that remain intact, you will tie the two ends together, and then the rope will be doubled. Next you must let yourself down here again, and when you are here, you will only have to untie one of the knots, and the rope will be at your service. Do you understand, corporal?”

The corporal did understand so well that in less than twenty minutes he was back again upon the narrow shelf of rock, having successfully accomplished the dangerous feat which he had planned. Not without a terrible effort, however, not without torn and bleeding hands and knees. Still he had succeeded in obtaining the rope, and now he was certain that he could make his escape from his dangerous position. He was chuckling gleefully at the prospect when suddenly he bethought himself of M. d’Escorval whom he had forgotten first in his anxiety, and then in his joy. “Poor baron,” murmured the corporal remorsefully. “I shall succeed in saving my miserable life, for which no one cares, but I was unable to save his. No doubt, by this time his friends have carried him away.”

As he uttered these words he leant forward, and to his intense amazement perceived a faint light moving here and there in the depths below. What could have happened? Something extraordinary, that was evident; or else intelligent men like the baron’s friends would never have displayed this light, which, if noticed from the citadel, would betray their presence and ruin them. However, the corporal’s time was too precious to be wasted in idle conjectures. “Better go down on the double-quick,” he said aloud, as if to spur on his courage. “Come, my friend, spit on your hands and be off!”

As he spoke the old soldier threw himself flat on his belly and crawled slowly backwards to the verge of the precipice. The spirit was strong, but the flesh shuddered. To march upon a battery had been a mere pastime for him in days of imperial glory; but to face an unknown peril, to suspend one’s life upon a cord, was a very different matter. Great drops of perspiration, caused by the horror of his situation, stood out upon his brow when he felt that half his body had passed over the edge of the precipice, and that the slightest movement would now launch him into space. Still he did not hesitate, but allowed himself to glide on, murmuring: “If there is a God who watches over honest people let Him open His eyes this instant!”

Providence was watching; and Bavois arrived at the end of his dangerous journey alive and safe. He fell like a mass of rock; and groaned aloud when at last, after a swift flight through space, he sank heavily on to the rugged soil below. For a minute he lay stunned and dizzy on the ground. He was rising when he felt himself seized by either arm. “No foolishness,” he cried quickly. “It is I, Bavois.”

But his captors did not loosen their hold. “How does it happen,” asked one of them in a threatening tone, “that the Baron d’Escorval is precipitated half way down the cliff, and that you alight in safety a few moments later?”

The old soldier was too shrewd not to understand the import of this insinuation; and the indignation he felt, gave him sufficient strength to free himself with a violent jerk from his captor’s hand. “A thousand thunderclaps!” he cried, “so I pass for a traitor, do I! No, it is impossible, well, just listen to me.” Then rapidly, but with great clearness, he recounted all the phases of his escape, his despair, his perilous situation, and the almost insurmountable obstacles which he had overcome. His tone was so sincere, the details he gave so circumstantial, that his questioners—two of the retired officers who had been waiting for the baron—at once held out their hands, sorry that they had wounded the feelings of a man so worthy of their respect and gratitude. “Forgive us, corporal,” said one of them sadly. “Misery makes men suspicious and unjust, and we are very unhappy.”

“No offence,” he growled. “If I had trusted poor M. d’Escorval, he would be alive now.”

“The baron still breathes,” observed one of the officers.

This was such astounding news that for a moment Bavois was utterly confounded. “Ah! I will give my right hand, if necessary, to save him!” he exclaimed, at last.

“If it is possible to save him, he will be saved, my friend. That worthy priest whom you see there, is an excellent physician. He is examining M. d’Escorval’s wounds at this moment. It was by his order that we procured and lighted that candle, which may bring our enemies upon us at any moment; but this is not a time for hesitation.”

Bavois looked with all his eyes, but from where he was standing he could only distinguish a confused group of moving figures. On stepping forward, however, he perceived that Marie-Anne was holding a candle over the baron who lay stretched upon the ground, his head reclining on his wife’s knees. His face was not disfigured; but he was extremely pale, and his eyes were closed at intervals. He shuddered, and then the blood would trickle from his mouth. His clothing was hacked—literally hacked to pieces; and it was easy to see that he had been frightfully mauled and wounded. Kneeling beside the unconscious man, the Abbe Midon was dexterously staunching the blood and applying bandages, torn from the linen of those present. Maurice and one of the officers were assisting him. “Ah! if I had my hands on the scoundrel who cut the rope,” cried the corporal, with passionate indignation; “but patience. I shall have him yet.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“Only too well!” He said no more. The abbe had done all it was possible to do, and was now lifting the wounded man a little higher on Madame d’Escorval’s knees. This change of position elicited a moan which betrayed the baron’s intense sufferings. He opened his eyes and faltered a few words—the first he had uttered. “Firmin!” he murmured, “Firmin!” This was the name of his former secretary, a devoted helpmate who had been dead for several years. It was evident that the baron’s mind was wandering. Still he had some vague idea of his terrible situation, for in a stifled, almost inaudible voice, he added: “Oh! how I suffer! Firmin, I will not fall into the hands of the Marquis de Courtornieu alive. I would rather kill myself.”

This was all; his eyes closed again, and his head fell back a dead weight. The officers clustering round believed that he had expired, and it was with poignant anxiety that they drew the abbe aside. “Is it all over?” they asked. “Is there any hope?”

The priest shook his head sadly, and pointing to heaven: “My hope is in God!” he said reverently.

The hour, the place, the catastrophe, the present danger, the threatening future, all combined to impart solemnity to the priest’s few words; and so profound was the impression that, for a moment, these men, familiar with death and peril, stood in awed silence. Maurice, who approached, followed by Corporal Bavois, brought them back to the exigencies of the situation. “Ought we not to make haste and carry my father away?” he asked. “Mustn’t we be in Piedmont before evening?”

“Yes!” exclaimed one of the officers, “let us start at once.”

But the priest did not move, and it was in a despondent voice that he remarked: “Any attempt to carry M. d’Escorval across the frontier in his present condition would cost him his life.”

This seemed so inevitably a death-warrant for them all, that they shuddered. “My God! what shall we do?” faltered Maurice. “What course shall we adopt?”

No one replied. It was clear that they hoped for salvation through the priest alone. He was lost in thought, and it was some time before he spoke. “About an hour’s walk from here,” he said, at last, “beyond the Croix-d’Arcy, lives a peasant on whom I can rely. His name is Poignot; and he was formerly in M. Lacheneur’s employ. With the assistance of his three sons, he now tills quite a large farm. We must procure a litter and carry M. d’Escorval to this honest peasant’s house.”

“What,” interrupted one of the officers, “you want us to procure a litter at this hour of the night, and in this neighbourhood?”

“It must be done.”

“But won’t it awake suspicion?”

“Most assuredly.”

“The Montaignac police will follow us.”

“I am certain of it.”

“The baron will be recaptured?”

“No.” The abbe spoke in the tone of a man who, having assumed all the responsibility, feels that he has a right to be obeyed. “When the baron had been conveyed to Poignot’s house,” he continued, “one of you gentlemen will take the wounded man’s place on the litter; the others will carry him, and the party will remain together until you have reached Piedmontese territory. Then you must separate and pretend to conceal yourselves, but do it in such a way that you are seen everywhere.”

The priest’s simple plan was readily understood. The royalist emissaries must be thrown off the track; and at the very moment when it seemed to them that the baron was in the mountains, he would be safe in Poignot’s house.

“One word more,” added the cure. “The party which will accompany the pretended baron must look as much like the people one would expect to find with him, as possible. So Mademoiselle Lacheneur will go with you, and Maurice also. Again, people know that I would not leave the baron; and as my priestly robe would attract attention, one of you must assume it. God will forgive the deception on account of its worthy motive.”

It was now necessary to procure the litter; and the officers were trying to decide where they should go to obtain it, when Corporal Bavois interrupted them. “Give yourselves no uneasiness,” he remarked; “I know an inn not far from here where I can procure one.”

He started off on the run, and a few minutes later returned with a small litter, a thin mattress, and a coverlid. He had thought of everything. The baron was lifted carefully from the ground and placed on the mattress—a long and difficult operation which, in spite of extreme caution, provoked many terrible groans from the wounded man. When everything was ready, each officer took an end of the litter, and the little procession, headed by the abbe, started on its way. They were obliged to proceed slowly as the least jolting increased the baron’s sufferings. Still they made some progress, and by daybreak they were about half way to Poignot’s house. They then chanced to meet some peasants going to their daily toil. The latter paused to look at them, and when the group had passed by stood gazing curiously after these strange folks who were apparently carrying a dead body. However, these meetings did not at all seem to worry the Abbe Midon. At all events, he made no attempt to avoid them. At last they came in sight of Poignot’s cottage. There was a little grove not far from the house, and here the party halted, the priest bidding his companions conceal themselves while he went forward to reconnoitre and confer with the man upon whose decision the safety of the whole party depended.

As the priest approached the house, a short, slim peasant with grey hair and a sunburnt face emerged from the stable. This was Father Poignot himself. “What! is this you, Monsieur le Cure!” he exclaimed, delightedly. “Heavens! how pleased my wife will be. We have a great favour to ask of you——” And then, without giving the abbe an opportunity to open his lips, the farmer began to relate his perplexities. The night of the revolt he had given shelter to a poor fellow who had received an ugly swordthrust. Neither his wife nor himself knew how to dress the wound, and he did not dare to send for a doctor. “And this wounded man,” he added, “is Jean Lacheneur, my old employer’s son.”

This recital made the priest feel very anxious. This peasant had already given an asylum to one wounded conspirator, but would he consent to receive another? He could not say, but his voice trembled as he presented his petition. The farmer turned very pale and shook his head gravely more than once, while the priest was speaking. When the abbe had finished, he coldly asked: “Do you know, sir, that I incur a great risk by converting my house into a hospital for these rebels?” The abbe dared not answer. “They told me,” continued Father Poignot, “that I was a coward, because I would not join in the revolt. Such was not my opinion. Now, however, I choose to shelter these wounded men. In my opinion, it requires quite as much courage to do that as to go and fight.”

“Ah! you are a brave fellow!” cried the abbe.

“Never mind about that, but bring M. d’Escorval here. There is no one but my wife and boys, and they won’t betray him!”

The offer was at once accepted, and half-an-hour later the baron was lying in a small loft, where Jean Lacheneur was already installed. From the window, the Abbe Midon and Madame d’Escorval watched the little party, organized for the purpose of deceiving the Duke de Sairmeuse’s spies, as it moved rapidly away. Corporal Bavois, with his head bound up with blood-stained linen, had taken the baron’s place on the litter carried by the retired officers. These latter only knew the baron by name and reputation. But then he was the friend of their former ruler—the friend of that great captain whom they had made their idol, and they rejoiced with all their hearts when they saw him reposing under Father Poignot’s roof in comparative security. After this, there was the task of misleading the government emissaries, and they took various skilful precautions, not knowing that they were quite unnecessary. Public sentiment had declared itself in an unmistakable manner, and the police did not ascertain a single detail of the escape. They did not even hear of the little party that travelled nearly three leagues in the full light of day, bearing a wounded man upon a litter. Among the two thousand peasants who believed that this wounded man was the Baron d’Escorval, there was not one who turned informer, or made an indiscreet remark.

The fugitives were ignorant of this willing connivance, and on approaching the frontier, which they had heard was strictly guarded, they became extremely cautious. They waited until nightfall before presenting themselves at a lonely inn, where they hoped to procure a guide to lead them through the mountain passes. Sad news awaited them there, for the inn-keeper informed them of the executions that had taken place that day at Montaignac, giving the particulars as he had heard them from an eye witness. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he knew nothing of M. d’Escorval’s flight or of M. Lacheneur’s arrest. But he was well acquainted with Chanlouineau, and was quite inconsolable concerning the death of that “handsome young fellow, the best farmer in the country.”

Finding this man’s views so favourable, the officers, who had left the litter a short distance from the inn, decided to confide in him, at least in some degree. “We are carrying one of our wounded comrades,” they said. “Can you guide us across the frontier to-night?”

The inn-keeper replied that he would do so willingly, that he could promise to take them safely past the military posts; but that he could not think of starting before the moon rose. At midnight the fugitives were on their way; and at daybreak they set foot on the territory of Piedmont. They had dismissed their guide some time before. They now proceeded to break the litter in pieces; and handful by handful cast the wool of the mattress to the wind.

“Our task is accomplished,” said one of the officers to Maurice. “We will now return to France. May God protect you! Farewell!”

It was with tears in his eyes that Maurice parted from these brave fellows who had proved so instrumental in saving his father’s life. Now he was the sole protector of Marie-Anne, who, pale and overcome with fatigue and emotion trembled on his arm. But no—for Corporal Bavois still lingered by his side. “And you, my friend,” he asked, sadly, “what are you going to do?”

“Follow you,” replied the old soldier. “I have a right to a home with you; that was agreed between your father and myself! so don’t hurry, for the young lady does not seem well, and I can see a village only a short distance off.”

XXV.

ESSENTIALLY a woman in grace and beauty, as well as in devotion and tenderness, Marie-Anne, as we have shown, was moreover capable of truly virile bravery. Her energy and coolness during those trying days had been the admiration and astonishment of all around her. But human endurance has its limits, and after excessive efforts there invariably comes a moment when the shrinking flesh fails the firmest will. Thus, when Marie-Anne tried to resume her journey she found that her strength was exhausted; her swollen feet and limbs scarcely supported her, her head whirled, and she shivered feverishly. Maurice and the old soldier were both obliged to support her, almost to carry her; but fortunately they were not far from a village, as was evident from an old church tower just discernible through the morning mist. Soon, however, they distinguished several cottages, and with the prospect of speedy rest before them they were hastening forward, when suddenly Bavois stopped short, “A thousand thunderclaps!” he exclaimed; “why, I’m in uniform! It would excite suspicion at once if I went into the village dressed like this; before we had a chance to sit down, the Piedmontese gendarmes would arrest us.” He reflected for a moment, twirling his moustache furiously; then, in a tone that would have made a passer-by tremble, he remarked, “All things are fair in love and war. The next person who passes——”

“But I have money with me,” interrupted Maurice, unbuckling a belt filled with gold, which he had put on under his clothing on the night of the revolt.

“Eh! then we are fortunate!” cried Bavois. “Give me some, and I will soon find a shop where I can purchase a change of clothing.”

He started; and it was not long before he re-appeared clad in peasant’s garb, his thin weazened countenance well-nigh hidden by a large broad-brimmed slouching hat. “Now, steady, forward, march!” he said to Maurice and Marie-Anne, who scarcely recognized him in this disguise.

What they had taken to be a mere village proved to be almost a small town, called Saliente, as they almost immediately afterwards ascertained from a sign-post. The fourth house they met with was a hostelry, the Traveller’s Rest. They went in, and at once asked the hostess to take the young lady to a room, and to assist her in undressing. While these instructions were being complied with, Maurice and the corporal proceeded to the dining-room, and ordered something to eat. Refreshments were served at once, but the glances cast upon the new arrivals were by no means friendly. They were evidently regarded with suspicion. A tall man, who was apparently the landlord, hovered round them, and at last embraced a favourable opportunity to ask their names. “My name is Dubois,” replied Maurice, without the slightest hesitation. “I am travelling on business, and this man with me is a farmer of mine.”

The landlord seemed somewhat reassured by this reply. “And what is your business?” he enquired.

“I have come into this land of inquisitive people to buy mules,” laughed Maurice, striking his belt of money.

On hearing the jingle of the coin the landlord deferentially raised his cap. Breeding mules was the chief industry of the district. This would-be purchaser was very young, but he had a well-filled purse, and that was enough. “You will excuse me,” resumed the landlord, in quite a different tone. “You see, we are obliged to be very careful. There has been some trouble at Montaignac.”

The imminence of the peril and the responsibility devolving upon him, gave Maurice unusual assurance; and it was in the most careless, off-hand manner possible that he concocted quite a plausible story to explain his early arrival on foot with his wife, who had been taken poorly on the way. He congratulated himself upon his address, but the old corporal was far from satisfied. “We are too near the frontier to bivouac here,” he grumbled. “As soon as the young lady is on her feet again we must hurry on.”

He believed, and Maurice hoped, that twenty-four hours’ rest would set Marie-Anne right again. But they were both mistaken. She could not move, but remained in a state of torpor from which it was impossible to rouse her. When she was spoken to she made no reply, and it seemed very doubtful whether she could even hear and understand. Fortunately the landlord’s mother proved to be a good, kind-hearted old woman, who would not leave the so-called Madame Dubois’s bed-side, but nursed her with the greatest care during three long days, while Marie-Anne remained in this strange and alarming condition. When at last she spoke, Maurice could at first scarcely understand the import of her words. “Poor girl!” she sighed; “poor, wretched girl!” In point of fact she was alluding to herself. By a phenomenon which often manifests itself after a crisis in which reason has been temporarily imperilled, it seemed to her that it was some one else who had been the victim of all these misfortunes, the recollection of which gradually returned to her like the memory of a painful dream. What strange and terrible events had taken place since that August Sunday when, on leaving church with her father, she first heard of the Duke de Sairmeuse’s return to France. And that was only nine months ago. What a difference between the past—when she lived happy and envied in that beautiful Chateau de Sairmeuse, of which she believed herself the mistress—and the present, when she found herself lying in the comfortless room of a miserable country inn, attended by an old woman whom she did not know, and with no other protectors than her proscribed lover, and an old soldier—a deserter, whose life was in constant peril. Hope, fortune, and future happiness, had all been wrecked, and she had not even saved her honour. But was she alone responsible? Who was it that had forced her to play that odious part with Maurice, Martial, and Chanlouineau? As this last name darted through her mind, she recalled with startling clearness all the incidents of her last meeting with the young farmer. She saw him at her feet in that dingy cell of the citadel at Montaignac; she felt his first and only kiss upon her cheek, and remembered that he had given her a second letter, saying as he did so: “You will read this when I am dead.”

She might read it now, for he had already cruelly expiated his share in her father’s enterprise. But then what had become of it? She had not given it a thought till now; but at present, raising herself up in bed, she exclaimed in an eager, imperious voice: “My dress, give me my dress.”

The old nurse obeyed her, and Marie-Anne could not restrain an exclamation of delight when, on examining the pocket, she found the letter there. She opened it and read it slowly, then, sinking back on her pillows, she burst into tears. Maurice hastily approached her. “What is the matter?” he inquired anxiously. Her only reply was to hand him the missive.

Chanlouineau, it should be remembered, was only a poor peasant. Scarcely possessing the rudiments of education, as his letter (written on common paper and closed with a huge wafer, specially purchased from a grocer in Sairmeuse) evinced plainly enough. The heavy, laboured, distorted characters, had evidently been traced by a man who was more at home when guiding a plough than a pen. There was but one straight line, and every third word, at least, was mis-spelt. And yet the thoughts expressed were noble and generous, well worthy of the true heart that had beat in the young farmer’s breast. “Marie-Anne,”—So the letter began. “The outbreak is at hand, and whether it succeeds or fails, at all events, I shall die. I decided that on the day when I learned that you could marry no other man than Maurice d’Escorval. The conspiracy cannot succeed; and I understand your father well enough to know that he will not survive defeat. And if Maurice and your brother should both be killed, what would become of you? Oh, my God, would you not be reduced to beggary? The thought has haunted me continually. I have reflected, and this is my last will: I give and bequeath to you all my property, everything that I possess: My house, the Borderie, with its gardens and vineyards, the woodland and pastures of Berarde, and five lots of lands at Valrollier. An inventory of this property, and of the other possessions I leave to you is deposited with the notary at Sairmeuse. You can accept this bequest without fear; for I have no relatives, and am at liberty to dispose of my belongings as I please. If you do not wish to remain in France, the property can be sold for at least forty thousand francs. But it would, it seems to me, be better for you to remain in your own province. The house on the Borderie is comfortable and convenient, for I have had it thoroughly repaired. Upstairs you will find a room that has been fitted up by the best upholsterer in Montaignac. I intended it for you. Under the hearth-stone in this same room I have deposited a box containing three hundred and twenty-seven louis d’or and one hundred and forty-six livres. If you refuse this gift, it will be because you scorn me even after I am dead. Accept it, if not for your own sake, for the sake of—I dare not finish, but you will understand my meaning only too well. If Maurice is not killed, and I shall try my best to stand between him and danger, he will marry you. Then, perhaps, you will be obliged to ask his consent in order to accept my gift. I hope that he will not refuse his permission. One is not jealous of the dead! Besides, he knows well enough that you scarcely ever vouchsafed a glance to the poor peasant who loved you so much. Do not be offended at anything I have said, I am in such agony that I cannot weigh my words. Farewell, Marie-Anne. Farewell for ever.

Chanlouineau.”

Maurice read this letter carefully, at times pausing with suppressed emotion. After finishing its perusal he remained silent for a moment, and then in a husky voice exclaimed: “You cannot refuse; it would be wrong.” Then, fearing lest he might betray his feelings, he hastily left the room. Chanlouineau’s words had evidently made a deep impression on his mind. This noble peasant had saved their lives at the Croix d’Arcy, he had wrested the Baron d’Escorval from the hands of the executioner, and he had never allowed either a complaint or a reproach to escape his lips. His abnegation had been sublime; and yet, as if what he had done in life were not sufficient, he sought to protect the woman he loved, even after he was dead. When Maurice recalled all that he and Marie-Anne owed to Chanlouineau, he could not help reproaching himself with inferiority and unworthiness. But, good heavens! what if this same comparison should arise in Marie-Anne’s mind as well? How could he compete with the memory of such nobility of soul and such self-sacrifice? Ay, Chanlouineau was mistaken; one may, perhaps, be jealous of the dead! However, Maurice took good care to conceal his anxiety, and when he returned to Marie-Anne’s room his face was calm and even cheerful.

Although, as we have seen, Marie-Anne had recovered the full possession of her mental faculties, her strength had not yet returned. She was almost unable to sit up; and Maurice had to relinquish all thought of leaving Saliente for the present. The so-called Madame Dubois’ persistent weakness began to astonish the old nurse, and her faith in herbs, gathered by moonlight, was considerably shaken. Fortunately, however, Bavois had succeeded in finding a medical man in the neighbourhood—a physician of great ability, who, after being at one time attached to Prince Eugene Beauharnais’ vice-regal court at Milan had, for political reasons, been forced to take refuge in this secluded spot. The corporal’s discovery was a happy one, for in these days the smaller towns and villages of Italy rarely possessed any other doctors than some ignorant barber, who invariably treated all complaints with a lancet and a stock of leeches. Bavois’ physician was at once summoned, and he promptly made his appearance. He was a man of uncertain age, with a furrowed brow and a keen and piercing glance. After visiting the sick-room, he drew Maurice aside. “Is this young lady really your wife, Monsieur—Dubois?” he asked, hesitating so strangely over this name, Dubois, that Maurice’s face crimsoned to the roots of his hair.

“I do not understand your question,” he retorted, angrily.

“I beg your pardon, of course, but you seem very young for a married man, and your hands are too soft for a farmer’s. And when I spoke to this young lady about her husband, she turned scarlet. The man who accompanies you, moreover, has terrible moustaches for a farmer, and besides, you must remember that there have been troubles across the frontier at Montaignac.”

From crimson Maurice had turned white. He felt that he was discovered—that he was in this man’s power. What should he do? What was the use of denial? At times it is only prudent to confess, and extreme confidence often meets with sympathy and protection. He weighed these considerations in his mind, and then in an anxious voice replied: “You are not mistaken, monsieur. My friend and myself are both fugitives, undoubtedly condemned to death in France by this time.” And then, without giving the doctor an opportunity to respond, he briefly narrated the terrible events that had recently happened at Sairmeuse. He neither concealed his own name nor Marie-Anne’s, and when his recital was completed, the physician, whom his confidence had plainly touched, warmly shook his hand.

“It is just as I supposed,” said the medical man. “Believe me, Monsieur Dubois, you must not tarry here. What I have discovered others will discover as well. And, above everything, don’t warn the hotel-keeper of your departure. He has not been deceived by your explanation. Self-interest alone has kept his mouth shut. He has seen your money, and so long as you spend it at his house he will hold his tongue; but if he discovers that you are going away, he will probably betray you.”