At first Chupin’s extraordinary revelations and the thought that
Martial, the heir of his name and dukedom, should so degrade himself as
to enter into a conspiracy with vulgar peasants, had well-nigh overcome
the Duke de Sairmeuse. However, M. de Courtornieu’s composure soon
restored his _sang froid_. He hastened to the barracks, and in less than
half-an-hour five hundred linesmen and three hundred Montaignac
chasseurs were under arms. With those forces at his disposal it would
have been easy enough to suppress the movement without the slightest
bloodshed. It was only necessary to close the gates of the city, for it
was not with clubs and fowling-pieces that these infatuated peasants
could force an entrance into a fortified town.
Such moderation did not, however, suit a man of the duke’s violent
nature. Struggle and excitement were his elements, and ambition fanned
his zeal. He ordered the gates of the citadel to be left open, and
concealed numerous soldiers behind the parapets of the outer
fortifications. He then stationed himself where he could command a view
of the insurgents’ approach, and deliberately choose his moment for
giving the signal to fire. Still a strange thing happened. Out of four
hundred shots fired into a dense mass of fifteen hundred men, only three
hit their mark. More humane than their commander, nearly all the
soldiers had fired into the air.
However, the duke had no time to investigate this strange occurrence
now. He leaped into the saddle, and placing himself at the head of
several hundred men, both cavalry and infantry, he started in pursuit of
the fugitives. The peasants were, perhaps, some twenty minutes in
advance. These simple minded fellows might easily have made their
escape. They had only to disperse in twenty different directions; but
unfortunately, this thought never once occurred to the majority of them.
A few ran across the fields and then gained their homes in safety; while
the others fled panic stricken, like a flock of frightened sheep before
the pursuing soldiers. Fear lent them wings, for at each moment they
could hear the shots fired at the laggards.
There was one man, however, who was still steady galloping in the
direction of Montaignac; and this was Lacheneur. He had just reached
the Croix d’Arcy when the firing began. He listened and waited. No
discharge of musketry answered the first fusillade. What could be
happening? Plainly there was no combat. Had the peasantry been butchered
then? Lacheneur had a perception of the truth, and regretted that the
bullets just discharged had not pierced his own heart. He put spurs to
his horse and galloped past the cross-roads towards Montaignac. At last
he perceived the fugitives approaching in the distance. He dashed
forward to meet them, and mingling curses and insults together he vainly
tried to stay their flight. “You cowards!” he vociferated, “you
traitors! you fly and you are ten against one! Where are you going? To
your own homes? Fools! you will only find the gendarmes there, waiting
your coming to conduct you to the scaffold. Is it not better to die with
your weapons in your hands? Come--right about. Follow me! We may still
conquer. Re-enforcements are at hand; two thousand men are following
me!”
He promised them two thousand men; had he promised them ten thousand,
twenty thousand--an army and cannon, it would have made no difference.
Not until they reached the wide open space of the cross-roads, where
they had talked so confidently scarcely an hour before, did the more
intelligent of the throng regain their senses, while the others fled in
every direction.
About a hundred of the bravest and most determined of the conspirators
gathered round Lacheneur. In the midst of the little crowd was the Abbe
Midon with a gloomy and despondent countenance. He had been separated
from the baron, of whose fate he was ignorant. Had M. d’Escorval been
killed or taken prisoner? or was it possible that he had made his
escape? The worthy priest dared not return home. He waited, hoping that
his companion might rejoin him, and deemed himself fortunate in finding
the baron’s cabriolet still standing at a corner of the open space,
formed by the four cross roads. He was still waiting when the remnant of
the column confided to Maurice and Chanlouineau came up. Of the five
hundred men that composed this troop on its departure from Sairmeuse,
only fifteen remained, including the two retired officers, who had
escaped from Montaignac, and brought Lacheneur intelligence that the
conspiracy was discovered. Marie-Anne was in the centre of this little
party.
Her father and his friends were trying to decide what course should be
pursued. Should each man go his own way? or should they unite, and by an
obstinate resistance, give their comrades time to reach their homes?
Chanlouineau’s voice put an end to the hesitation. “I have come to
fight,” he exclaimed, “and I shall sell my life dearly.”
“We will make a stand then!” cried the others.
But Chanlouineau did not immediately follow them to the spot they
considered best adapted for a prolonged defence; he called Maurice and
drew him a little aside. “You must leave us at once M. d’Escorval,” he
said, in a rough voice.
“I--I came here, Chanlouineau, as you did, to do my duty.”
“Your duty, sir, is to serve Marie-Anne. Go at once, and take her with
you.”
“I shall remain,” said Maurice firmly.
He was going to join his comrades when Chanlouineau stopped him. “You
have no right to sacrifice your life here,” he said quickly. “It belongs
to the woman who has given herself to you.”
“Wretch! how dare you--”
Chanlouineau sadly shook his head. “What is the use of denying it?” said
he. “It was so great a temptation that only an angel could have resisted
it. It was not your fault, nor was it hers. Lacheneur was a bad father.
There was a day when I wanted either to kill myself or to kill you, I
didn’t know which. Ah! you certainly were near death that day. You were
scarcely five paces from the muzzle of my gun. It was God who stayed my
hand by reminding me what her despair would be. But now that I have to
die, and Lacheneur as well, some one must take care of Marie-Anne. Swear
that you will marry her. You may be involved in some difficulty on
account of this affair; but I have the means of saving you.”
He was suddenly interrupted by a fusillade. The Duke de Sairmeuse’s
soldiers were approaching. “Good heavens!” exclaimed Chanlouineau, “and
Marie-Anne.”
They rushed in pursuit of her, and Maurice was the first to find her,
standing in the centre of the open space clinging to the neck of her
father’s horse. He took her in his arms, trying to drag her away.
“Come!” said he, “come!”
But she refused. “Leave me, leave me!” she entreated.
“But all is lost!”
“Yes, I know that all is lost--even honour. Leave me here. I must
remain; I must die, and thus hide my shame. It must, it shall be so!”
Just then Chanlouineau reached them. Had he divined the secret of her
resistance? Perhaps so, but at all events without uttering a word, he
lifted her in his strong arms as if she had been a child, and carried
her to the cabriolet, beside which the Abbe Midon was standing. “Get
in,” he said, addressing the priest, “and quick--take Mademoiselle
Lacheneur. Now, Maurice it’s your turn!”
But the duke’s soldiers were already masters of the field. They had
perceived this little group and hastened forward. Brave Chanlouineau
certainly was. He seized his gun, and brandishing it like a club managed
to hold the enemy at bay, while Maurice sprang into the carriage, caught
the reins and started the horse off at a gallop. All the cowardice and
all the heroism displayed on that terrible night will never be really
known. Two minutes after the departure of the vehicle, Chanlouineau was
still battling with the foe. He had at least a dozen men to deal with.
Twenty shots had been fired, and yet he was unwounded, and his enemies
almost believed him to be invulnerable.
“Surrender!” cried the soldiers, amazed by his bravery; “surrender!”
“Never! never!” he shrieked in reply, at the same time warding his
assailants off with well-nigh superhuman strength and agility. The
struggle might have lasted some time longer, had not one of the soldiers
managed to crawl behind him, without being perceived. This linesman
seized Chanlouineau by the legs, and although the latter struggled
furiously, he was taken at such a disadvantage that further resistance
was impossible. He fell to the ground with a loud cry of “Help! friends,
help!”
But no one responded to this appeal. At the other end of the open space
those upon whom he called had virtually yielded, after a desperate
struggle. The main body of the duke’s infantry was near at hand. The
rebels could hear the drums beating the charge; and see the bayonets
gleaming in the moonlight.
Lacheneur, who had remained on horseback amid his partisans, utterly
ignoring the bullets that whistled round him, felt that his few
remaining friends were about to be exterminated. At that supreme moment
a vision of the past flitted before his mind’s eye, with the rapidity of
a flash of lightning. He read and judged his own heart. Hatred had led
him to crime. He loathed himself for the humiliation which he had
imposed upon his daughter, and cursed himself for the falsehoods with
which he had deceived these brave men, for whose death he would be
accountable to God. Enough blood had flowed; he must save those who
remained. “Cease firing, my friends,” he commanded; “retreat!”
They obeyed--he could see them scatter in every direction. He too could
fly, for was he not mounted on a swift steed which would bear him beyond
the reach of the enemy? But he had sworn that he would not survive
defeat. Maddened with remorse, despair, sorrow, and impotent rage, he
saw no refuge except in death. He had only to wait for it, for it was
fast approaching; and yet he preferred to rush to meet it. Gathering up
the reins, and applying the spurs he charged upon the enemy.
The shock was rude, the ranks opened, and there was a moment’s
confusion. Then Lacheneur’s horse, wounded by a dozen bayonet thrusts,
reared on its hind-legs, beat the air with its forehoofs, and, falling
backwards, pinned its rider underneath. And the soldiers marched onward
not suspecting that the rider was struggling to free himself.
It was half-past one in the morning--the open space where the cross
roads met was virtually deserted. Nothing could be heard save the moans
of a few wounded men, calling on their comrades for succour. Before
thinking of attending to the wounded, M. de Sairmeuse had to occupy
himself with his own personal interests and glory. Now that the
insurrection had, so to say, been suppressed, it was necessary to
exaggerate its magnitude as much as possible, in order that his grace’s
reward might be in proportion with the services he would be supposed to
have rendered. Some fifteen or twenty rebels had been captured; but
these were not sufficient to give the victory all the _eclat_ which the
duke desired. He must find more culprits to drag before the
provost-marshal or before a military commission. He, therefore, divided
his troops into several detachments, and sent them in every direction
with orders to explore the villages, search the houses, and arrest all
suspected persons. Having given this order and recommended implacable
severity, he turned his horse and started at a brisk trot for
Montaignac.
Like his friend, M. de Courtornieu, he would have blessed these honest,
artless conspirators, had not a growing fear impaired his satisfaction.
Was his son, the Marquis de Sairmeuse, really implicated in this
conspiracy or not? The duke could scarcely believe in Martial’s
connivance, and yet the recollection of Chupin’s assertions troubled
him. On the other hand, what could have become of Martial? Had he been
met by the servant sent to warn him? Was he returning? And, in that
case, by which road? Had he fallen into the hands of the peasants? So
many questions which could not with certainty be answered.
His grace’s relief was intense when, on reaching his residence in
Montaignac, after a conference with M. de Courtornieu, he learnt that
Martial had returned home about a quarter of an hour before. The servant
who brought him this news added that the marquis had gone to his own
room directly he dismounted from his horse.
“All right,” replied the duke. “I will go to him there.” At the same
time, however, despite his outward placidity of manner, he was secretly
murmuring, “What abominable impertinence! What! I am on horseback at the
head of my troops, my life imperilled, and my son goes quietly to bed
without even assuring himself of my safety!”
He reached Martial’s room, and finding the door closed and locked on the
inside, rapped angrily against the panel.
“Who is there?” inquired the young marquis.
“It is I,” replied the duke; “open the door.”
Martial at once complied, and M. de Sairmeuse entered; but the sight
that met his gaze made him tremble. On the table stood a basin full of
blood, and Martial, with bare chest, was bathing a large wound near the
right nipple.
“You have been fighting!” exclaimed the duke, in an agitated voice.
“Yes.”
“Ah!--then you were, indeed--”
“I was where?--what?”
“Why, at the rendezvous of those miserable peasants who, in their folly,
dared to dream of overthrowing the best of princes!”
“I think you must be jesting, sir,” replied Martial, in a tone of deep
surprise, which somewhat reassured his father, though it failed to
dissipate his suspicions entirely.
“Then these vile rascals attacked you?” inquired M. de Sairmeuse.
“Not at all. I have been simply obliged to fight a duel.”
“With whom? Name the scoundrel who has dared to insult you?”
A faint flush tinged Martial’s cheek; but it was with his usual careless
manner that he replied: “Upon my word, no; I shall not give his name.
You would trouble him, perhaps; and I really owe the fellow a debt of
gratitude. It happened upon the highway; he might have murdered me
without ceremony had he only chosen, but he offered me open combat.
Besides, he was wounded far more severely than I.”
All M. de Sairmeuse’s doubts had now returned. “And why, instead of
summoning a physician, are you attempting to dress this wound yourself?”
“Because it is a mere trifle, and because I wish to keep it a secret.”
The duke shook his head. “All this is scarcely plausible,” he remarked;
“especially after the statements made to me concerning your complicity
in the revolt.”
“Ah!” said the young marquis, “so your head spy has been at work again.
However, I am certainly surprised that you can hesitate for a moment
between your son’s word and the stories told you by such a wretch.”
“Don’t speak ill of Chupin, marquis; he is a very useful man. Had it not
been for him, we should have been taken unawares. It was through him
that I learned of this vast conspiracy organized by Lacheneur--”
“What! is it Lacheneur--”
“Who is at the head of the movement?--yes, marquis. Ah! your usual
discernment has failed you in this instance. What, you were a constant
visitor at his house, and yet you suspected nothing? And you contemplate
a diplomatic career! But this is not everything. Now you know what
became of the money you so lavishly bestowed on these people. They used
it to purchase guns, powder and ammunition.”
The duke was satisfied that his earlier suspicions concerning his son’s
complicity were without foundation; still he could not resist the
temptation to taunt Martial anent his intimacy with the ex-steward of
Sairmeuse. But, despite the bitterness of the situation, it proved a
fruitless effort. Martial knew very well that he had been duped, but he
did not think of resentment. “If Lacheneur has been captured,” he
murmured to himself, “if he were condemned to death, and if I could only
save him, then Marie-Anne would have nothing to refuse me.”