So it was really Maurice d’Escorval whom the Marquis de Sairmeuse had
seen leaving Lacheneur’s house.
Martial was not certain of it, but the very possibility made his heart
swell with anger.
“What part am I playing here, then?” he exclaimed, indignantly.
He had been so completely blinded by passion that he would not have been
likely to discover the real condition of affairs even if no pains had
been taken to deceive him.
Lacheneur’s formal courtesy and politeness he regarded as sincere.
He believed in the studied respect shown him by Jean; and the almost
servile obsequiousness of Chanlouineau did not surprise him in the
least.
And since Marie-Anne welcomed him politely, he concluded that his suit
was progressing favorably.
Having himself forgotten, he supposed that everyone else had ceased to
remember.
Moreover, he was of the opinion that he had acted with great generosity,
and that he was entitled to the deep gratitude of the Lacheneur family;
for M. Lacheneur had received the legacy bequeathed him by Mlle.
Armande, and an indemnity, besides all the furniture he had chosen to
take from the chateau, a total of at least sixty thousand francs.
“He must be hard to please, if he is not satisfied!” growled the duke,
enraged at such prodigality, though it did not cost him a penny.
Martial had supposed himself the only visitor at the cottage on the
Reche; and when he discovered that such was not the case, he became
furious.
“Am I, then, the dupe of a shameless girl?” he thought.
He was so incensed, that for more than a week he did not go to
Lacheneur’s house.
His father concluded that his ill-humor and gloom was caused by
some misunderstanding with Marie-Anne; and he took advantage of this
opportunity to gain his son’s consent to an alliance with Blanche de
Courtornieu.
A victim to the most cruel doubts and fears, Martial, goaded to the last
extremity, exclaimed:
“Very well! I will marry Mademoiselle Blanche.”
The duke did not allow such a good resolution to grow cold.
In less than forty-eight hours the engagement was made public; the
marriage contract was drawn up, and it was announced that the wedding
would take place early in the spring.
A grand banquet was given at Sairmeuse in honor of the betrothal--a
banquet all the more brilliant since there were other victories to be
celebrated.
The Duc de Sairmeuse had just received, with his brevet of
lieutenant-general, a commission placing him in command of the military
department of Montaignac.
The Marquis de Courtornieu had also received an appointment, making him
provost-marshal of the same district.
Blanche had triumphed. After this public betrothal Martial was bound to
her.
For a fortnight, indeed, he scarcely left her side. In her society
there was a charm whose sweetness almost made him forget his love for
Marie-Anne.
But unfortunately the haughty heiress could not resist the temptation
to make a slighting allusion to Marie-Anne, and to the lowliness of
the marquis’s former tastes. She found an opportunity to say that she
furnished Marie-Anne with work to aid her in earning a living.
Martial forced himself to smile; but the indignity which Marie-Anne had
received aroused his sympathy and indignation.
And the next day he went to Lacheneur’s house.
In the warmth of the greeting that awaited him there, all his anger
vanished, all his suspicions evaporated. Marie-Anne’s eyes beamed with
joy on seeing him again; he noticed it.
“Oh! I shall win her yet!” he thought.
All the household were really delighted at his return; the son of the
commander of the military forces at Montaignac, and the prospective
son-in-law of the provost-marshal, Martial was a most valuable
instrument.
“Through him, we shall have an eye and an ear in the enemy’s camp,” said
Lacheneur. “The Marquis de Sairmeuse will be our spy.”
He was, for he soon resumed his daily visits to the cottage. It was now
December, and the roads were terrible; but neither rain, snow, nor mud
could keep Martial from the cottage.
He made his appearance generally as early as ten o’clock, seated himself
upon a stool in the shadow of a tall fireplace, and he and Marie-Anne
talked by the hour.
She seemed greatly interested in matters at Montaignac, and he told her
all that he knew in regard to affairs there.
Sometimes they were alone.
Lacheneur, Chanlouineau, and Jean were tramping about the country with
their merchandise. Business was prospering so well that M. Lacheneur had
purchased a horse in order to extend his journeys.
But Martial’s conversation was generally interrupted by visitors. It was
really surprising to see how many peasants came to the house to speak to
M. Lacheneur. There was an interminable procession of them. And to each
of these peasants Marie-Anne had something to say in private. Then she
offered each man refreshments--the house seemed almost like a common
drinking-saloon.
But what can daunt the courage of a lover? Martial endured all this
without a murmur. He laughed and jested with the comers and goers; he
shook hands with them; sometimes he even drank with them.
He gave many other proofs of moral courage. He offered to assist M.
Lacheneur in making up his accounts; and once--it happened about the
middle of February--seeing Chanlouineau worrying over the composition of
a letter, he actually offered to act as his amanuensis.
“The d----d letter is not for me, but for an uncle of mine who is about
to marry off his daughter,” said Chanlouineau.
Martial took a seat at the table, and, at Chanlouineau’s dictation, but
not without many erasures, indited the following epistle:
“My dear friend--We are at last agreed, and the marriage has been
decided upon. We are now busy with preparations for the wedding, which
will take place on ----. We invite you to give us the pleasure of your
company. We count upon you, and be assured that the more friends you
bring with you the better we shall be pleased.”
Had Martial seen the smile upon Chanlouineau’s lips when he requested
him to leave the date for the wedding a blank, he would certainly have
suspected that he had been caught in a snare. But he was in love.
“Ah! Marquis,” remarked his father one day, “Chupin tells me you are
always at Lacheneur’s. When will you recover from your _penchant_ for
that little girl?”
Martial did not reply. He felt that he was at that “little girl’s”
mercy. Each glance of hers made his heart throb wildly. By her side
he was a willing captive. If she had asked him to make her his wife he
would not have said no.
But Marie-Anne had not this ambition. All her thoughts, all her wishes
were for her father’s success.
Maurice and Marie-Anne had become M. Lacheneur’s most intrepid
auxiliaries. They were looking forward to such a magnificent reward.
Such feverish activity as Maurice displayed! All day long he hurried
from hamlet to hamlet, and in the evening, as soon as dinner was over,
he made his escape from the drawing-room, sprang into his boat, and
hastened to the Reche.
M. d’Escorval could not fail to remark the long and frequent absences
of his son. He watched him, and soon became absolutely certain that
Lacheneur had, to use the baron’s own expression, seduced him.
Greatly alarmed, he decided to go and see his former friend, and fearing
another repulse, he begged Abbe Midon to accompany him.
It was on the 4th of March, at about half-past four o’clock, that M.
d’Escorval and the cure started for the Reche. They were so anxious
and troubled in mind that they scarcely exchanged a dozen words as they
wended their way onward.
A strange sight met their eyes as they emerged from the grove on the
Reche.
Night was falling, but it was still light enough for them to distinguish
objects only a short distance from them.
Before Lacheneur’s house stood a group of about a dozen persons, and M.
Lacheneur was speaking and gesticulating excitedly.
What was he saying? Neither the baron nor the priest could distinguish
his words, but when he ceased, the most vociferous acclamations rent the
air.
Suddenly a match glowed between his fingers; he set fire to a bundle of
straw and tossed it upon the thatched roof of his cottage, crying out in
a terrible voice:
“The die is cast! This will prove to you that I shall not draw back!”
Five minutes later the house was in flames.
In the distance the baron and his companion saw the windows of the
citadel at Montaignac illuminated by a red glare, and upon every
hill-side glowed the light of other incendiary fires.
The country was responding to Lacheneur’s signal.