Time gradually heals all wounds, and in less than a year it was
difficult to discern any trace of the fierce whirlwind of passion which
had devastated the peaceful valley of the Oiselle.
What remained to attest the reality of all these events, which, though
they were so recent, had already been relegated to the domain of the
legendary?
A charred ruin on the Reche.
A grave in the cemetery, upon which was inscribed:
“Marie-Anne Lacheneur, died at the age of twenty. Pray for her!”
Only a few, the oldest men and the politicians of the village, forgot
their solicitude in regard to the crops to remember this episode.
Sometimes, during the long winter evenings, when they had gathered
at the Boeuf Couronne, they laid down their greasy cards and gravely
discussed the events of the past years.
They never failed to remark that almost all the actors in that bloody
drama at Montaignac had, in common parlance, “come to a bad end.”
Victors and vanquished seemed to be pursued by the same inexorable
fatality.
Look at the names already upon the fatal list!
Lacheneur, beheaded.
Chanlouineau, shot.
Marie-Anne, poisoned.
Chupin, the traitor, assassinated.
The Marquis de Courtornieu lived, or rather survived, but death would
have seemed a mercy in comparison with such total annihilation of
intelligence. He had fallen below the level of the brute, which is, at
least, endowed with instinct. Since the departure of his daughter he had
been cared for by two servants, who did not allow him to give them much
trouble, and when they desired to go out they shut him up, not in his
chamber, but in the cellar, to prevent his ravings and shrieks from
being heard from without.
If people supposed for awhile that the Sairmeuse would escape the fate
of the others, they were mistaken. It was not long before the curse fell
upon them.
One fine morning in the month of December, the duke left the chateau to
take part in a wolf-hunt in the neighborhood.
At nightfall, his horse returned, panting, covered with foam, and
riderless.
What had become of its master?
A search was instituted at once, and all night long twenty men, bearing
torches, wandered through the woods, shouting and calling at the top of
their voices.
Five days went by, and the search for the missing man was almost
abandoned, when a shepherd lad, pale with fear, came to the chateau one
morning to tell them that he had discovered, at the base of a precipice,
the bloody and mangled body of the Duc de Sairmeuse.
It seemed strange that such an excellent rider should have met with such
a fate. There might have been some doubt as to its being an accident,
had it not been for the explanation given by the grooms.
“The duke was riding an exceedingly vicious beast,” said these men. “She
was always taking fright and shying at everything.”
The following week Jean Lacheneur left the neighborhood.
The conduct of this singular man had caused much comment. When
Marie-Anne died, he at first refused his inheritance.
“I wish nothing that came to her through Chanlouineau!” he said
everywhere, thus calumniating the memory of his sister as he had
calumniated her when alive.
Then, after a short absence, and without any apparent reason, he
suddenly changed his mind.
He not only accepted the property, but made all possible haste to obtain
possession of it. He made many excuses; and, if one might believe him,
he was not acting in his own interest, but merely conforming to the
wishes of his deceased sister; and he declared that not a penny would go
into his pockets.
This much is certain, as soon as he obtained legal possession of the
estate, he sold all the property, troubling himself but little in regard
to the price he received, provided the purchasers paid cash.
He reserved only the furniture of the sumptuously adorned chamber at the
Borderie. These articles he burned.
This strange act was the talk of the neighborhood.
“The poor young man has lost his reason!” was the almost universal
opinion.
And those who doubted it, doubted it no longer when it became known
that Jean Lacheneur had formed an engagement with a company of strolling
players who stopped at Montaignac for a few days.
But the young man had not wanted for good advice and kind friends. M.
d’Escorval and the abbe had exerted all their eloquence to induce him to
return to Paris, and complete his studies; but in vain.
The necessity for concealment no longer existed, either in the case of
the baron or the priest.
Thanks to Martial de Sairmeuse they were now installed, the one in the
presbytery, the other at Escorval, as in days gone by.
Acquitted at his new trial, restored to the possession of his property,
reminded of his frightful fall only by a very slight lameness, the baron
would have deemed himself a fortunate man, had it not been for his great
anxiety on his son’s account.
Poor Maurice! his heart was broken by the sound of the clods of earth
falling upon Marie-Anne’s coffin; and his very life now seemed dependent
upon the hope of finding his child.
Assured of the powerful assistance of Abbe Midon, he had confessed all
to his father, and confided his secret to Corporal Bavois, who was an
honored guest at Escorval; and these devoted friends had promised him
all possible aid.
The task was very difficult, however, and certain resolutions on the
part of Maurice greatly diminished the chance of success.
Unlike Jean, he was determined to guard religiously the honor of the
dead; and he had made _his_ friends promise that Marie-Anne’s name
should not be mentioned in prosecuting the search.
“We shall succeed all the same,” said the abbe, kindly; “with time and
patience any mystery can be solved.”
He divided the department into a certain number of districts; then one
of the little band went each day from house to house questioning
the inmates, but not without extreme caution, for fear of arousing
suspicion, for a peasant becomes intractable at once if his suspicions
are aroused.
But the weeks went by, and the quest was fruitless. Maurice was deeply
discouraged.
“My child died on coming into the world,” he said, again and again.
But the abbe reassured him.
“I am morally certain that such was not the case,” he replied. “I know,
by Marie-Anne’s absence, the date of her child’s birth. I saw her after
her recovery; she was comparatively gay and smiling. Draw your own
conclusions.”
“And yet there is not a nook or corner for miles around which we have
not explored.”
“True; but we must extend the circle of our investigations.”
The priest, now, was only striving to gain time, knowing full well that
it is the sovereign balm for all sorrows.
His confidence, which had been very great at first, had been sensibly
diminished by the responses of an old woman, who passed for one of the
greatest gossips in the community.
Adroitly interrogated, the worthy dame replied that she knew nothing of
such a child, but that there must be one in the neighborhood, since it
was the third time she had been questioned on the subject.
Intense as was his surprise, the abbe succeeded in hiding it.
He set the old gossip to talking, and after a two hours’ conversation,
he arrived at the conclusion that two persons besides Maurice were
searching for Marie-Anne’s child.
Why, with what aim, and who these persons could be the abbe was unable
to ascertain.
“Ah! rascals have their uses after all,” he thought. “If we only had a
man like Chupin to set upon the track!”
But the old poacher was dead, and his eldest son--the one who knew
Blanche de Courtornieu’s secret--was in Paris.
Only the widow and the second son remained in Sairmeuse.
They had not, as yet, succeeded in discovering the twenty thousand
francs, but the fever for gold was burning in their veins, and they
persisted in their search. From morning until night the mother and son
toiled on, until the earth around their hut had been explored to the
depth of six feet.
A word dropped by a peasant one day put an end to these researches.
“Really, my boy,” he said, addressing young Chupin, “I did not suppose
you were such a fool as to persist in hunting birds’ nests after the
birds have flown. Your brother, who is in Paris, can undoubtedly tell
you where the treasure was concealed.”
The younger Chupin uttered the fierce roar of a wild beast.
“Holy Virgin! you are right!” he exclaimed. “Wait until I get money
enough to take me to Paris, and we will see.”