When Maurice narrated to his father the various incidents which had
marked his interview with Marie-Anne in the pine grove near La Reche, M.
d’Escorval was prudent enough to make no allusion to the hopes of final
victory which he, himself, still entertained. “My poor Maurice,” he
thought, “is heart-broken, but resigned. It is better for him to remain
without hope than to be exposed to the danger of another possible
disappointment.”
But passion is not always blind, and Maurice divined what the baron
tried to conceal--and clung to this faint hope in his father’s
intervention, as tenaciously as a drowning man clings to the proverbial
straw. If he refrained from speaking on the subject, it was only because
he felt convinced that his parents would not tell him the truth. Still
he watched all that went on in the house with that subtlety of
penetration which fever so often imparts, and nothing that his father
said or did escaped his vigilant eyes and ears. He heard the baron put
on his boots, ask for his hat, and select a cane from among those placed
in the hall stand; and a moment later he, moreover, heard the
garden-gate grate upon its hinges. Plainly enough M. d’Escorval was
going out. Weak as he was, Maurice succeeded in dragging himself to the
window in time to ascertain the truth of his surmise. “If my father is
going out,” he thought, “it can only be to visit M. Lacheneur; and if he
is going to La Reche he has evidently not relinquished all hope.”
With this thought in his mind Maurice sank into an arm-chair close at
hand, intending to watch for his father’s return; by doing so, he might
know his fate a few moments sooner. Three long hours elapsed before the
baron returned, and by his dejected manner Maurice plainly saw that all
hope was lost. Of this, he was sure, as sure as the criminal who reads
the fatal verdict in the judge’s solemn face. He required all his energy
to regain his couch, and for a moment he felt that he should die. Soon,
however, he grew ashamed of this weakness, which he judged unworthy of
him, and prompted by a desire to know exactly what had happened he rang
the bell, and told the servant who answered his summons that he wished
to speak with his father. M. d’Escorval promptly made his appearance.
“Well!” exclaimed Maurice, as his father crossed the threshold of the
room.
The baron felt that all denial would be useless. “Lacheneur is deaf to
my remonstrances and entreaties,” he replied, sadly. “There is no hope,
my poor boy; you must submit. I will not tell you that time will assuage
the sorrow that now seems insupportable--for you wouldn’t believe me if
I did. But I do say to you be a man, and prove your courage. I will say
even more: fight against all thought of Marie-Anne, as a traveller on
the brink of a precipice fights against the thought of vertigo.”
“Have you seen Marie-Anne, father? Have you spoken to her?”
“I found her even more inflexible than Lacheneur.”
“They reject me, and yet no doubt they receive Chanlouineau.”
“Chanlouineau is living there.”
“Good heavens! And Martial de Sairmeuse?”
“He is their familiar guest. I saw him there.”
Evidently enough each of these replies fell upon Maurice like a
thunderbolt. But M. d’Escorval had armed him self with the
imperturbable courage of a surgeon, who only grasps his instrument more
firmly when the patient groans and writhes beneath his touch. He felt
that it was necessary to extinguish the last ray of hope in his son’s
heart.
“It is evident that M. Lacheneur has lost his reason!” exclaimed
Maurice.
The baron shook his head despondently. “I thought so myself at first,”
he murmured.
“But what does he say in justification of his conduct? He must say
something.”
“Nothing: he refuses any explanation.”
“And you, father, with all your knowledge of human nature, with all your
wide experience, have not been able to fathom his intentions?”
“I have my suspicions,” M. d’Escorval replied; “but only suspicions. It
is possible that Lacheneur, listening to the voice of hatred, is
dreaming of some terrible revenge. He may, perhaps, think of organizing
some conspiracy against the emigres. Such a supposition would explain
everything. Chanlouineau would be his aider and abettor; and he pretends
to be reconciled to the Marquis de Sairmeuse in order to obtain
information through him--”
The blood had returned to Maurice’s pale cheeks. “Such a conspiracy,”
said he, “would not explain M. Lacheneur’s obstinate rejection of my
suit.”
“Alas! yes, it would, my poor boy. It is through Marie-Anne that
Lacheneur exerts such great influence over Chanlouineau and the marquis.
If she became your wife to-day, they would desert him to-morrow. Then,
too, it is precisely because he has such sincere regard for us, that he
is determined to keep us out of a hazardous, even perilous enterprise.
However, of course, this is merely a conjecture.”
“Still, I see that it is necessary to submit,” faltered Maurice. “I must
resign myself; forget, I cannot.”
He said this because he wished to reassure his father; though, in
reality, he thought exactly the reverse. “If Lacheneur is organizing a
conspiracy,” he murmured to himself, “he must need assistance. Why
should I not offer mine? If I aid him in his preparations, if I share
his hopes and dangers, he cannot refuse me his daughter’s hand. Whatever
he may wish to undertake, I can surely be of greater assistance to him
than Chanlouineau.”
From that moment Maurice dwelt upon this thought; and the result was
that he no longer pined and fretted, but did all he could to hasten his
convalescence. This passed so rapidly that the Abbe Midon, who had taken
the place of the physician from Montaignac, was positively astonished.
Madame d’Escorval was delighted at her son’s wonderful improvement in
health and spirits, and declared that she would never have believed he
could be so soon and so easily consoled. The baron did not try to
diminish his wife’s satisfaction, though he regarded this almost
miraculous recovery with considerable distrust, having, indeed, a vague
perception of the truth. Skilfully, however, as he questioned his son he
could draw nothing from him; for Maurice had decided to keep whatever
determinations he had formed a secret even from his parents. What good
would it do to trouble them? and, besides, he feared remonstrance and
opposition; which he was anxious to avoid although firmly resolved to
carry out his plans, even if he were compelled to leave the paternal
roof.
One day in the second week of September the abbe declared that Maurice
might resume his ordinary life, and that, as the weather was pleasant it
would be well for him to spend much of his time in the open air. In his
delight, Maurice embraced the worthy priest, at the same time remarking
that he had felt afraid the shooting season would pass by without his
bagging a single bird. In reality he cared but little for a day on the
cover; the partiality he feigned being prompted by the idea that
“shooting” would furnish him with an excuse for frequent and protracted
absences from home.
He had never felt happier then he did the morning when, with his gun
over his shoulder, he crossed the Oiselle and started for M. Lacheneur’s
cottage at La Reche. He had just reached the little pine grove, and was
about to pause, when he perceived Jean Lacheneur and Chanlouineau leave
the house, each laden with a pedlar’s pack. This circumstance delighted
him, as he might now expect to find M. Lacheneur and Marie-Anne alone in
the cottage.
He hastened up the slope and lifted the door latch without pausing to
rap. Marie-Anne and her father were kneeling on the hearth in front of a
blazing fire. On hearing the door open, they turned; and at the sight
of Maurice, they both sprang to their feet. Lacheneur with a composed
look on his face, and Marie-Anne blushing to the roots of her hair.
“What brings you here?” they exclaimed in the same breath.
Under other circumstances, Maurice d’Escorval would have been dismayed
by such an unengaging greeting, but now he scarcely noticed it.
“You have no business to return here against my wishes, and after what I
said to you, M. d’Escorval,” exclaimed Lacheneur, rudely.
Maurice smiled, he was perfectly cool, and not a detail of the scene
before him had escaped his notice. If he had felt any doubts before,
they were now dispelled. On the fire he saw a large cauldron of moulten
lead, while several bullet-moulds stood on the hearth, besides the
andirons.
“If, sir, I venture to present myself at your house,” said young
d’Escorval in a grave, impressive voice, “it is because I know
everything. I have discovered your revengeful projects. You are looking
for men to aid you, are you not? Very well! look me in the face, in the
eyes, and tell me if I am not one of those a leader is glad to enrol
among his followers?”
Lacheneur seemed terribly agitated. “I don’t know what you mean,” he
faltered, forgetting his feigned anger; “I have no such projects as you
suppose.”
“Would you assert this upon oath? If so, why are you casting those
bullets? You are clumsy conspirators. You should lock your door; some
one else might have opened it.” And adding example to precept, he turned
and pushed the bolt. “This is only an imprudence,” he continued: “but to
reject a willing volunteer would be a mistake for which your associates
would have a right to call you to account. Pray understand that I have
no desire to force myself into your confidence. Whatever your cause may
be, I declare it mine; whatever you wish, I wish; I adopt your plans;
your enemies are my enemies; command me and I will obey you. I only ask
one favour, that of fighting, conquering, or dying by your side.”
“Oh! father refuse him!” exclaimed Marie-Anne, “refuse him! It would be
a crime to accept his offer.”
“A crime! And why, if you please?” asked Maurice.
“Because our cause is not your cause; because its success is doubtful;
because dangers surround us on every side.”
Maurice interrupted her with a cry of scorn. “And you think to dissuade
me,” said he, “by warning one of the dangers which you a girl can yet
afford to brave. You cannot think me a coward! If peril threatens you,
all the more reason to accept my aid. Would you desert me if I were
menaced, would you hide yourself, saying, ‘Let him perish, so that I be
saved!’ Speak! would you do this?”
Marie-Anne averted her face and made no reply. She could not force
herself to utter an untruth; and on the other hand she was unwilling to
answer: “I would act as you are acting.” She prudently waited for her
father’s decision.
“If I complied with your request, Maurice,” said M. Lacheneur, “in less
than three days you would curse me, and ruin us by some outburst of
anger. Loving Marie-Anne as you do, you could not behold her equivocal
position unmoved. Remember, she must neither discourage Chanlouineau nor
the marquis. I know as well as you do that the part is a shameful one;
and that it must result in the loss of a girl’s most precious
possession--her reputation; still, to ensure our success, it must be
so.”
Maurice did not wince. “So be it,” he said calmly. “Marie-Anne’s fate
will be that of all women who have devoted themselves to the political
cause of the man they love, be he father, brother, or lover. She will be
slandered and insulted, and still what does it matter! Let her continue
her task. I consent to it, for I shall never doubt her, and I shall know
how to hold my peace. If we succeed, she shall be my wife, if we fail--”
The gesture with which young d’Escorval concluded his sentence expressed
more strongly than any verbal protestations that come what might he was
ready and resigned.
Lacheneur seemed deeply moved. “At least give me time for reflection,”
said he.
“There is no necessity, sir, for further reflection.”
“But you are only a child, Maurice; and your father is my friend.”
“What of that?”
“Rash boy! don’t you understand that by compromising yourself you also
compromise the Baron d’Escorval? You think you are only risking your own
head, but you are also endangering your father’s life--”
“Oh, there has been too much parleying already!” interrupted Maurice,
“there have been too many remonstrances. Answer me in a word! Only
understand this: if you refuse, I shall immediately return home and blow
out my brains.”
It was plain from the young man’s manner that this was no idle threat.
The strange fire gleaming in his eyes, and the impressive tone of his
voice, convinced both his listeners that he really intended to effect
his deadly purpose; and Marie-Anne, with a heart full of cruel
apprehensions, clasped her hands and turned to her father with a
pleading look.
“You are one of us, then,” sternly exclaimed Lacheneur after a brief
pause; “but do not forget that your threats alone induced me to consent;
and whatever may happen to you or yours, remember that you would have it
so.”
These gloomy words, ominous as they were, produced, however, no
impression upon Maurice, who, feverish with anxiety a moment before, was
now well-nigh delirious with joy.
“At present,” continued Lacheneur, “I must tell you my hopes, and
acquaint you with the cause for which I am toiling--”
“What does that matter to me?” replied Maurice gaily; and springing
towards Marie-Anne he seized her hand and raised it to his lips, crying,
with the joyous laugh of youth: “Here is my cause--none other!”
Lacheneur turned aside. Perhaps he remembered that a sacrifice of his
own obstinate pride would suffice to assure his daughter’s and her
lover’s happiness.
Still if a feeling of remorse crept into his mind, he swiftly banished
it, and with increased sternness of manner exclaimed: “It is necessary,
however, that you should understand our agreement.”
“Let me know your conditions, sir,” said Maurice.
“First of all your visits here--after certain rumours that I have
circulated--would arouse suspicion. You must only come here at night
time, and then only at hours agreed upon in advance--never when you are
not expected.” Lacheneur paused, and then seeing that Maurice’s
attitude implied unreserved consent, he added: “You must also find some
way to cross the river without employing the ferryman, who is a
dangerous fellow.”
“We have an old skiff; I will persuade my father to have it repaired.”
“Very well. Will you also promise me to avoid the Marquis de Sairmeuse?”
“I will.”
“Wait a moment--we must be prepared for any emergency. Perhaps in spite
of our precautions you may meet him here. M. de Sairmeuse is arrogance
itself; and he hates you. You detest him, and you are very hasty. Swear
to me that if he provokes you, you will ignore his insults.”
“But I should be considered a coward.”
“Probably; but will you swear?”
Maurice was hesitating when an imploring look from Marie-Anne decided
him. “I swear it!” he said gravely.
“As far as Chanlouineau is concerned it would be better not to let him
know of our agreement; but I will see to that point myself.” Lacheneur
paused once more and reflected for a moment whether he had left anything
forgotten. “All that remains, Maurice,” he soon resumed, “is to give you
a last and very important piece of advice. Do you know my son?”
“Certainly; we were formerly the best of friends when we met during the
holidays.”
“Very well. When you know my secret--for I shall confide it to you
without reserve--beware of Jean.”
“What, sir?”
“Beware of Jean. I repeat it.” And Lacheneur’s face flushed as he added:
“Ah! it is a painful avowal for a father; but I have no confidence in my
own son. He knows no more of my plans than I told him on the day of his
arrival. I deceive him, because I fear he might betray us. Perhaps it
would be wise to send him away; but in that case, what would people say?
Most assuredly they would say that I wanted to save my own blood, while
I was ready to risk the lives of others. Still I may be mistaken; I may
misjudge him.” He sighed, and again added: “Beware!”
It will be understood from the foregoing that it was really Maurice
d’Escorval whom the Marquis de Sairmeuse perceived leaving Lacheneur’s
cottage on the night he played the spy. Martial was not positively
certain of the fugitive’s identity, but the very idea made his heart
swell with anger. “What part am I playing here, then?” he exclaimed
indignantly.
Passion had hitherto so completely blinded him that even if no pains had
been taken to deceive him, he would probably have remained in blissful
ignorance of the true condition of affairs. He fully believed in the
sincerity of Lacheneur’s formal courtesy and politeness and of Jean’s
studied respect; while Chanlouineau’s almost servile obsequiousness did
not surprise him in the least. And since Marie-Anne welcomed him
cordially he had concluded that his suit was favourably progressing.
Having himself forgotten the incidents which marked the return of his
family to Sairmeuse, he concluded that every one else had ceased to
remember them. Moreover, he was of opinion that he had acted with great
generosity, and that he was fully entitled to the gratitude of the
Lacheneurs; for Marie-Anne’s father had received the legacy bequeathed
him by Mademoiselle Armande, with an indemnity for his past services;
and in addition he had selected whatever furniture he pleased among the
appointments of the chateau. In goods and coin he had been presented
with quite sixty thousand francs; and the hard fisted old duke, enraged
at such prodigality, although it did not cost him a penny, had
discontentedly growled, “He must be hard to please indeed if he is not
satisfied with what we’ve done for him.”
Such being the position of affairs, and having for so long supposed that
he was the only visitor to the cottage on La Reche, Martial was
perfectly incensed when he discovered that such was not the case. Was
he, after all, merely a shameless girl’s foolish dupe? So great was his
anger, that for more than a week he did not go to Lacheneur’s house. His
father concluded that his ill humour was caused by some misunderstanding
with Marie-Anne; and he took advantage of this opportunity to obtain his
son’s consent to a marriage with Blanche de Courtornieu. Goaded to the
last extremity, tortured by doubt and fear, the young marquis eventually
agreed to his father’s proposals; and, naturally enough, 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 honour of the
betrothal--a banquet all the more brilliant since there were other
victories to be celebrated, for the Duke de Sairmeuse had just received,
with his brevet of lieutenant-general, a commission placing him in
command of the military district of Montaignac; while the Marquis de
Courtornieu had also been appointed provost-marshal of the same region.
Thus it was that Blanche triumphed, for, after this public betrothal,
might she not consider that Martial was bound to her? For a fortnight,
indeed, he scarcely left her side, finding in her society a charm which
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 the lowliness of the marquis’s former tastes; finding,
moreover, an opportunity to inform him that she furnished Marie-Anne
with work to aid her in earning a living. Martial forced himself to
smile; but the disparaging remarks made by his betrothed concerning
Marie-Anne aroused his sympathy and indignation; and the result was that
the very next day he went to Lacheneur’s house.
In the warmth of the greeting which there awaited him all his anger
vanished, and all his suspicions were dispelled. He perceived that
Marie-Anne’s eyes beamed with joy on seeing him again, and could not
help thinking he should win her yet. All the household were really
delighted at his return; as the son of the commander of the military
forces at Montaignac, and the prospective son-in-law of the
provost-marshal, Martial was bound to prove 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.”
And such he soon became, for he speedily resumed his daily visits to the
cottage. It was now December, and the roads were scarcely passable; but
neither rain, snow, nor mud could keep Martial away. He generally made
his appearance at ten o’clock in the morning, seated himself on a stool
in the shadow of a tall fire-place, and then he and Marie-Anne began to
talk by the hour. She always seemed greatly interested in what was going
on at Montaignac, and he told her everything he knew, whether it were
of a military, political, or social character.
At times they remained alone. Lacheneur, Chanlouineau, and Jean were
tramping about the country with their pedlar’s packs. Business was
indeed prospering so well that Lacheneur had even purchased a horse in
order to extend the circuit of his rounds. But, although the usual
occupants of the cottage might be away, it so happened that Martial’s
conversation was generally interrupted by visitors. It was indeed really
surprising to see how many peasants called at the cottage to speak with
M. Lacheneur. They called at all hours and in rapid succession,
sometimes alone, and at others in little batches of two or three. And to
each of these peasants Marie-Anne had something to say in private. Then
she would offer them refreshments; and at times one might have imagined
oneself in an ordinary village wine shop. But what can daunt a lover’s
courage? Martial endured the peasants and their carouses without a
murmur. He laughed and jested with them, shook them by the hand, and at
times he even drained a glass in their company.
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 volunteered to act as his amanuensis. “The letter
is not for me, but for an uncle of mine who is about to marry his
daughter,” said the stalwart young farmer.
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 is decided on.
We are now busy preparing 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 did not see it,
and, besides, 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 foolish fancy for
that little girl?”
Martial did not reply. He felt that he was at that “little girl’s”
mercy. Each glance she gave him made his heart throb wildly. He lingered
by her side a willing captive; and if she had asked him to make her his
wife he would certainly not have refused. But Marie-Anne had no such
ambition. All her thoughts and 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.
Feverish, indeed, was the activity which 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 La Reche.
M. d’Escorval could not fail to notice his son’s long and frequent
absences. He watched him, and soon discovered that some secret
understanding existed between Maurice and Lacheneur. Recollecting his
previous suspicion that Lacheneur was harbouring some seditious design
he became greatly alarmed for his son’s safety, and decided to go to La
Reche and try once more to learn the truth. Previous repulses had
diminished his confidence in his own persuasive powers, and being
anxious for an auxiliary’s assistance he asked the Abbe Midon to
accompany him.
It was the 4th of March, and half-past four in the evening when M.
d’Escorval and the cure started from Sairmeuse bound for the cottage at
La Reche. They were both anxious as to the result of the step they were
taking, and scarcely exchanged a dozen words as they walked towards the
banks of the Oiselle. They had crossed the river and traversed the
familiar pine grove, when on reaching the outskirts of the waste they
witnessed a strange sight well calculated to increase their anxiety and
alarm.
Night was swiftly approaching, but yet it was still sufficiently light
to distinguish objects at a short distance, and on the summit of the
slope they could perceive in front of Lacheneur’s cottage a group of
twenty persons who, judging by their frequent gesticulations, were
engaged in animated conversation. Lacheneur himself was there, and his
manner plainly indicated that he was in a state of great excitement.
Suddenly he waved his hand, the others clustered round him, and he began
to speak. What was he saying? The baron and the priest were still too
far off to distinguish his words, but when he ceased they were startled
by a loud acclamation which literally rent the air. Suddenly the former
lord of Sairmeuse struck a match, and setting fire to a bundle of straw
lying before him he tossed it on to the roof of the cottage, shouting as
he did so, “Yes, the die is cast! and this will prove to you that I
shall not draw back!”
Five minutes later the house was in flames and in the distance the baron
and his companion could perceive a ruddy glare illuminating the windows
of the citadel at Montaignac, while on every hillside round about glowed
the light of other incendiary fires. The whole district was answering
Lacheneur’s signal.