On the first Sunday in the month of August, 1815, at ten o’clock
precisely--as on every Sunday morning--the sacristan of the parish
church at Sairmeuse sounded the three strokes of the bell which warn
the faithful that the priest is ascending the steps of the altar to
celebrate high mass.
The church was already more than half full, and from every side little
groups of peasants were hurrying into the church-yard. The women were
all in their bravest attire, with cunning little _fichus_ crossed upon
their breasts, broad-striped, brightly colored skirts, and large white
coifs.
Being as economical as they were coquettish, they came barefooted,
bringing their shoes in their hands, but put them on reverentially
before entering the house of God.
But few of the men entered the church. They remained outside to talk,
seating themselves in the porch, or standing about the yard, in the
shade of the century-old elms.
For such was the custom in the hamlet of Sairmeuse.
The two hours which the women consecrated to prayer the men employed
in discussing the news, the success or the failure of the crops; and,
before the service ended, they could generally be found, glass in hand,
in the bar-room of the village inn.
For the farmers for a league around, the Sunday mass was only an excuse
for a reunion, a sort of weekly bourse.
All the cures who had been successively stationed at Sairmeuse had
endeavored to put an end to this scandalous habit, as they termed it;
but all their efforts had made no impression upon country obstinacy.
They had succeeded in gaining only one concession. At the moment of the
elevation of the Host, voices were hushed, heads uncovered, and a few
even bowed the knee and made the sign of the cross.
But this was the affair of an instant only, and conversation was
immediately resumed with increased vivacity.
But to-day the usual animation was wanting.
No sounds came from the little knots of men gathered here and there, not
an oath, not a laugh. Between buyers and sellers, one did not overhear
a single one of those interminable discussions, punctuated with the
popular oaths, such as: “By my faith in God!” or “May the devil burn
me!”
They were not talking, they were whispering together. A gloomy
sadness was visible upon each face; lips were placed cautiously at the
listener’s ear; anxiety could be read in every eye.
One scented misfortune in the very air. Only a month had elapsed since
Louis XVIII. had been, for the second time, installed in the Tuileries
by a triumphant coalition.
The earth had not yet had time to swallow the sea of blood that flowed
at Waterloo; twelve hundred thousand foreign soldiers desecrated the
soil of France; the Prussian General Muffling was Governor of Paris.
And the peasantry of Sairmeuse trembled with indignation and fear.
This king, brought back by the allies, was no less to be dreaded than
the allies themselves.
To them this great name of Bourbon signified only a terrible burden of
taxation and oppression.
Above all, it signified ruin--for there was scarcely one among them who
had not purchased some morsel of government land; and they were assured
now that all estates were to be returned to the former proprietors, who
had emigrated after the overthrow of the Bourbons.
Hence, it was with a feverish curiosity that most of them clustered
around a young man who, only two days before, had returned from the
army.
With tears of rage in his eyes, he was recounting the shame and the
misery of the invasion.
He told of the pillage at Versailles, the exactions at Orleans, and the
pitiless requisitions that had stripped the people of everything.
“And these accursed foreigners to whom the traitors have delivered
us, will not go so long as a shilling or a bottle of wine is left in
France!” he exclaimed.
As he said this he shook his clinched fist menacingly at a white flag
that floated from the tower.
His generous anger won the close attention of his auditors, and they
were still listening to him with undiminished interest, when the sound
of a horse’s hoofs resounded upon the stones of the only street in
Sairmeuse.
A shudder traversed the crowd. The same fear stopped the beating of
every heart.
Who could say that this rider was not some English or Prussian officer?
He had come, perhaps, to announce the arrival of his regiment, and
imperiously demand money, clothing, and food for his soldiers.
But the suspense was not of long duration.
The rider proved to be a fellow-countryman, clad in a torn and dirty
blue linen blouse. He was urging forward, with repeated blows, a little,
bony, nervous mare, fevered with foam.
“Ah! it is Father Chupin,” murmured one of the peasants with a sigh of
relief.
“The same,” observed another. “He seems to be in a terrible hurry.”
“The old rascal has probably stolen the horse he is riding.”
This last remark disclosed the reputation Father Chupin enjoyed among
his neighbors.
He was, indeed, one of those thieves who are the scourge and the terror
of the rural districts. He pretended to be a day-laborer, but the
truth was, that he held work in holy horror, and spent all his time in
sleeping and idling about his hovel. Hence, stealing was the only
means of support for himself, his wife, two sons--terrible youths, who,
somehow, had escaped the conscription.
They consumed nothing that was not stolen. Wheat, wine, fuel,
fruits--all were the rightful property of others. Hunting and fishing
at all seasons, and with forbidden appliances, furnished them with ready
money.
Everyone in the neighborhood knew this; and yet when Father Chupin was
pursued and captured, as he was occasionally, no witness could be found
to testify against him.
“He is a hard case,” men said; “and if he had a grudge against anyone,
he would be quite capable of lying in ambush and shooting him as he
would a squirrel.”
Meanwhile the rider had drawn rein at the inn of the Boeuf Couronne.
He alighted from his horse, and, crossing the square, approached the
church.
He was a large man, about fifty years of age, as gnarled and sinewy as
the stem of an old grape-vine. At the first glance one would not have
taken him for a scoundrel. His manner was humble, and even gentle; but
the restlessness of his eye and the expression of his thin lips betrayed
diabolical cunning and the coolest calculation.
At any other time this despised and dreaded individual would have been
avoided; but curiosity and anxiety led the crowd toward him.
“Ah, well, Father Chupin!” they cried, as soon as he was within the
sound of their voices; “whence do you come in such haste?”
“From the city.”
To the inhabitants of Sairmeuse and its environs, “the city” meant
the country town of the _arrondissement_, Montaignac, a charming
sub-prefecture of eight thousand souls, about four leagues distant.
“And was it at Montaignac that you bought the horse you were riding just
now?”
“I did not buy it; it was loaned to me.”
This was such a strange assertion that his listeners could not repress a
smile. He did not seem to notice it, however.
“It was loaned me,” he continued, “in order that I might bring some
great news here the quicker.”
Fear resumed possession of the peasantry.
“Is the enemy in the city?” anxiously inquired some of the more timid.
“Yes; but not the enemy you refer to. This is the former lord of the
manor, the Duc de Sairmeuse.”
“Ah! they said he was dead.”
“They were mistaken.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No, I have not seen him, but someone else has seen him for me, and has
spoken to him. And this someone is Monsieur Laugeron, the proprietor of
the Hotel de France at Montaignac. I was passing the house this morning,
when he called me. ‘Here, old man,’ he said, ‘do you wish to do me a
favor?’ Naturally I replied: ‘Yes.’ Whereupon he placed a coin in my
hand and said: ‘Well! go and tell them to saddle a horse for you,
then gallop to Sairmeuse, and tell my friend Lacheneur that the Duc
de Sairmeuse arrived here last night in a post-chaise, with his son,
Monsieur Martial, and two servants.’”
Here, in the midst of these peasants, who were listening to him with
pale cheeks and set teeth, Father Chupin preserved the subdued mien
appropriate to a messenger of misfortune.
But if one had observed him carefully, one would have detected an
ironical smile upon his lips and a gleam of malicious joy in his eyes.
He was, in fact, inwardly jubilant. At that moment he had his revenge
for all the slights and all the scorn he had been forced to endure. And
what a revenge!
And if his words seemed to fall slowly and reluctantly from his lips, it
was only because he was trying to prolong the sufferings of his auditors
as much as possible.
But a robust young fellow, with an intelligent face, who, perhaps, read
Father Chupin’s secret heart, brusquely interrupted him:
“What does the presence of the Duc de Sairmeuse at Montaignac matter to
us?” he exclaimed. “Let him remain at the Hotel de France as long as he
chooses; we shall not go in search of him.”
“No! we shall not go in search of him,” echoed the other peasants,
approvingly.
The old rogue shook his head with affected commiseration.
“Monsieur le Duc will not put you to that trouble,” he replied; “he will
be here in less than two hours.”
“How do you know?”
“I know it through Monsieur Laugeron, who, when I mounted his horse,
said to me: ‘Above all, old man, explain to my friend Lacheneur that the
duke has ordered horses to be in readiness to convey him to Sairmeuse at
eleven o’clock.’”
With a common movement, all the peasants who had watches consulted them.
“And what does he want here?” demanded the same young farmer.
“Pardon! he did not tell me,” replied Father Chupin; “but one need not
be very cunning to guess. He comes to revisit his former estates, and
to take them from those who have purchased them, if possible. From you,
Rousselet, he will claim the meadows upon the Oiselle, which always
yield two crops; from you, Father Gauchais, the ground upon which
the Croix-Brulee stands; from you, Chanlouineau, the vineyards on the
Borderie----”
Chanlouineau was the impetuous young man who had interrupted Father
Chupin twice already.
“Claim the Borderie!” he exclaimed, with even greater violence; “let
him try, and we will see. It was waste land when my father bought
it--covered with briers; even a goat could not have found pasture there.
We have cleared it of stones, we have scratched up the soil with our
very nails, we have watered it with our sweat, and now they would try to
take it from us! Ah! they shall have my last drop of blood first!”
“I do not say but----”
“But what? Is it any fault of ours that the nobles fled to foreign
lands? We have not stolen their lands, have we? The government offered
them for sale; we bought them, and paid for them; they are lawfully
ours.”
“That is true; but Monsieur de Sairmeuse is the great friend of the
king.”
The young soldier, whose voice had aroused the most noble sentiments
only a moment before, was forgotten.
Invaded France, the threatening enemy, were alike forgotten. The
all-powerful instinct of avarice was suddenly aroused.
“In my opinion,” resumed Chanlouineau, “we should do well to consult the
Baron d’Escorval.”
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the peasants; “let us go at once!”
They were starting, when a villager who sometimes read the papers,
checked them by saying:
“Take care what you do. Do you not know that since the return of the
Bourbons Monsieur d’Escorval is of no account whatever? Fouche has him
upon the proscription list, and he is under the surveillance of the
police.”
This objection dampened the enthusiasm.
“That is true,” murmured some of the older men; “a visit to Monsieur
d’Escorval would, perhaps, do us more harm than good. And, besides, what
advice could he give us?”
Chanlouineau had forgotten all prudence.
“What of that?” he exclaimed. “If Monsieur d’Escorval has no counsel to
give us about this matter, he can, perhaps, teach us how to resist and
to defend ourselves.”
For some moments Father Chupin had been studying, with an impassive
countenance, the storm of anger he had aroused. In his secret heart
he experienced the satisfaction of the incendiary at the sight of the
flames he has kindled.
Perhaps he already had a presentiment of the infamous part he would play
a few months later.
Satisfied with his experiment, he assumed, for the time, the role of
moderator.
“Wait a little. Do not cry before you are hurt,” he exclaimed, in an
ironical tone. “Who told you that the Duc de Sairmeuse would trouble
you? How much of his former domain do you all own between you? Almost
nothing. A few fields and meadows and a hill on the Borderie. All these
together did not in former times yield him an income of five thousand
francs a year.”
“Yes, that is true,” replied Chanlouineau; “and if the revenue you
mention is quadrupled, it is only because the land is now in the hands
of forty proprietors who cultivate it themselves.”
“Another reason why the duke will not say a word; he will not wish to
set the whole district in commotion. In my opinion, he will dispossess
only one of the owners of his former estates, and that is our worthy
ex-mayor--Monsieur Lacheneur, in short.”
Ah! he knew only too well the egotism of his compatriots. He knew with
what complacency and eagerness they would accept an expiatory victim
whose sacrifice should be their salvation.
“That is a fact,” remarked an old man; “Monsieur Lacheneur owns nearly
all the Sairmeuse property.”
“Say all, while you are about it,” rejoined Father Chupin. “Where does
Monsieur Lacheneur live? In that beautiful Chateau de Sairmeuse whose
gable we can see there through the trees. He hunts in the forests which
once belonged to the Ducs de Sairmeuse; he fishes in their lakes; he
drives the horses which once belonged to them, in the carriages upon
which one could now see their coat-of-arms, if it had not been painted
out.
“Twenty years ago, Lacheneur was a poor devil like myself; now, he is a
grand gentleman with fifty thousand livres a year. He wears the finest
broadcloth and top-boots like the Baron d’Escorval. He no longer works;
he makes others work; and when he passes, everyone must bow to the
earth. If you kill so much as a sparrow upon his lands, as he says, he
will cast you into prison. Ah, he has been fortunate. The emperor made
him mayor. The Bourbons deprived him of his office; but what does that
matter to him? He is still the real master here, as the Sairmeuse were
in other days. His son is pursuing his studies in Paris, intending to
become a notary. As for his daughter, Mademoiselle Marie-Anne--”
“Not a word against her!” exclaimed Chanlouineau; “if she were mistress,
there would not be a poor man in the country; and yet, how some of her
pensioners abuse her bounty. Ask your wife if this is not so, Father
Chupin.”
Undoubtedly the impetuous young man spoke at the peril of his life.
But the wicked old Chupin swallowed this affront which he would never
forget, and humbly continued:
“I do not say that Mademoiselle Marie-Anne is not generous; but after
all her charitable work she has plenty of money left for her fine
dresses and her fallals. I think that Monsieur Lacheneur ought to
be very well content, even after he has restored to its former owner
one-half or even three-quarters of the property he has acquired--no one
can tell how. He would have enough left then to grind the poor under
foot.”
After his appeal to selfishness, Father Chupin appealed to envy. There
could be no doubt of his success.
But he had not time to pursue his advantage. The services were over, and
the worshippers were leaving the church.
Soon there appeared upon the porch the man in question, with a young
girl of dazzling beauty leaning upon his arm.
Father Chupin walked straight toward him, and brusquely delivered his
message.
M. Lacheneur staggered beneath the blow. He turned first so red, then so
frightfully pale, that those around him thought he was about to fall.
But he quickly recovered his self-possession, and without a word to the
messenger, he walked rapidly away, leading his daughter.
Some minutes later an old post-chaise, drawn by four horses, dashed
through the village at a gallop, and paused before the house of the
village cure.
Then one might have witnessed a singular spectacle.
Father Chupin had gathered his wife and his children together, and the
four surrounded the carriage, shouting, with all the power of their
lungs:
“Long live the Duc de Sairmeuse!”