The baroness knew nothing of the secret which Marie-Anne had revealed at
the Croix d’Arcy, when she proclaimed her desire to die by her father’s
side; but Maurice was scarcely uneasy on that score, for his faith in
his mother was so great that he felt sure she would forgive them both
when she learnt the truth. Not unfrequently does it happen, that of all
women, chaste and loving wives and mothers are precisely the most
indulgent towards those whom the voice of passion has led astray.
Comforted by this reflection, which reassured him as to the future of
the girl he loved, Maurice now turned all his thoughts towards his
father.
The day was breaking, and he declared that he would disguise himself as
best he could, and go to Montaignac at once. It was not without a
feeling of anxiety that Madame d’Escorval heard him speak in this
manner. She was trembling for her husband’s life, and now her son must
hurry into danger. Perhaps before the day was over neither husband nor
son would be left to her. And yet she did not forbid his going; for she
felt that he was only fulfilling a sacred duty. She would have loved him
less had she supposed him capable of cowardly hesitation, and would have
dried her tears, if necessary to bid him “go.” Moreover, was not
anything preferable to the agony of suspense which they had been
enduring for hours?
Maurice had reached the drawing-room door when the abbe called him back.
“You must certainly go to Montaignac,” said he, “but it would be folly
to disguise yourself. You would surely be recognized, and the saying:
‘He who conceals himself is guilty,’ would at once be applied to you.
You must proceed openly, with head erect, and you must even exaggerate
the assurance of innocence. Go straight to the Duke de Sairmeuse and the
Marquis de Courtornieu. I will accompany you; we will go together in the
carriage.”
“Take this advice, Maurice,” said Madame d’Escorval, seeing that her son
seemed undecided, “the abbe knows what is best much better than we do.”
The cure had not waited for the assent which Maurice gave to his
mother’s words, but had already gone to order the carriage to be got
ready. On the other hand, Madame d’Escorval now left the room to write a
few lines to a lady friend, whose husband had considerable influence in
Montaignac; and Maurice and Marie-Anne were thus left alone. This was
the first moment of freedom they had found since Marie-Anne’s
confession. “My darling,” whispered Maurice, clasping the young girl to
his heart, “I did not think it was possible to love more fondly than I
loved you yesterday; but now---- And you--you wish for death when
another precious life depends on yours.”
“I was terrified,” faltered Marie-Anne. “I was terrified at the prospect
of shame which I saw--which I still see before me; but now I am
resigned. My frailty deserves punishment, and I must submit to the
insults and disgrace awaiting me.”
“Insults! Let any one dare insult you! But will you not now be my wife
in the sight of men, as you are in the sight of heaven? The failure of
your father’s scheme sets you free!”
“No, no, Maurice, I am not free! Ah! it is you who are pitiless! I see
only too well that you curse me, that you curse the day when we met for
the first time! Confess it!” And so speaking Marie-Anne lifted her
streaming eyes to his. “As for me,” she resumed, “I could not say so.
Grievous my fault is, no doubt, I am disgraced and humiliated, but
still----”
She could not finish; Maurice drew her to him, and their lips and their
tears met in one long embrace. “You love me,” he exclaimed, “you love me
in spite of everything! We shall succeed. I will save your father, and
mine--I will save your brother too.”
He had no time to say more. The baron’s berline, to which a couple of
horses had been harnessed, that they might reach Montaignac with greater
speed, was waiting in the courtyard; and the abbe’s voice could be heard
calling on Maurice to make haste, and Madame d’Escorval, moreover, now
returned, carrying a letter which she handed to her son. One long, last
embrace, and then leaving the two women to their tears and prayers,
Maurice and the abbe sprang into the carriage, which was soon dashing
along the high road towards Montaignac.
“If, by confessing your own guilt, you could save your father,” said the
Abbe Midon as they rolled through the village of Sairmeuse, “I should
tell you to give yourself up, and confess the whole truth. Such would be
your duty. But such a sacrifice would be not only useless, but
dangerous. Your confessions of guilt would only implicate your father
still more. You would be arrested, but they would not release him, and
you would both be tried and convicted. Let us then allow--I will not say
justice, for that would be blasphemy--but these blood-thirsty men, who
call themselves judges, to pursue their course, and attribute all that
you yourself have done to your father. When the trial comes on you will
be able to prove his innocence, and to produce _alibis_ of so
unimpeachable a character, that they will be forced to acquit him. And I
understand the people of our province well enough to feel sure that none
of them will reveal our stratagem.”
“And if we should not succeed in that way,” asked Maurice, gloomily,
“what could I do then?”
The question was so grave a one that the priest did not even try to
answer it, and tortured with anxiety and cruel forebodings, he and
Maurice remained silent during the rest of the journey. When they
reached the town young d’Escorval realised the abbe’s wisdom in
preventing him from assuming a disguise; for, armed as they were with
absolute power the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu had
closed all the gates of Montaignac but one, through which all those who
desired to leave or enter the town were obliged to pass; two officers
being moreover stationed beside it, to examine and question all comers
and goers. Maurice noticed these officers’ surprise when, on being asked
who he was, he gave them the name of d’Escorval. “Ah! you know what has
become of my father!” he exclaimed.
“The Baron d’Escorval is a prisoner,” replied one of the officers.
Although Maurice had expected this reply, he turned pale with suppressed
emotion. “Is he wounded?” he asked, eagerly.
“He hasn’t a scratch,” was the answer; “but please pass on.” From the
tone of this last remark, and the anxious looks the officers exchanged
one might have supposed that they feared they might compromise
themselves by conversing with the son of so great a criminal.
The carriage rolled under the archway, and had gone a couple of hundred
yards or so along the Grande Rue when Maurice noticed a large poster
affixed to one of the walls, and which an elderly man was busy perusing.
Instinctively both the inmates of the vehicle felt that this notice must
have some connection with the revolt; and they were not mistaken, for on
springing to the ground they themselves read as follows: “We, commander
of the Military Division of Montaignac, in virtue of the State of Siege,
decree--Article I.--The inmates of the house in which the elder
Lacheneur is found shall be handed over to a military commission for
trial. Article II.--Whoever shall deliver up the body of the elder
Lacheneur, dead or alive, will receive a reward of twenty thousand
francs. _Signed_: DUKE DE SAIRMEUSE.”
“God be praised!” exclaimed Maurice when he had finished his perusal.
“Then Marie-Anne’s father has escaped! He had a good horse, and in two
hours--”
A glance and a nudge from the abbe checked him; and in turning he
recognized that the man standing near them was none other than Father
Chupin. The old scoundrel had also recognized them, for he took off his
hat to the cure, and with an expression of intense covetousness
remarked: “Twenty thousand francs! What a sum! A man could live
comfortably all his life on the interest.”
The abbe and Maurice shuddered as they re-entered the carriage.
“Lacheneur is lost if that man discovers his whereabouts,” murmured the
priest.
“Fortunately he must have crossed the frontier before now,” replied
Maurice. “A hundred to one he is beyond reach.”
“And if you should be mistaken. What, if wounded and faint from loss of
blood, Lacheneur only had strength enough to drag himself to the nearest
house and implore the hospitality of its inmates?”
“Oh! even in that case he is safe; I know our peasants. There is not one
who is capable of selling the life of a proscribed man.”
This youthful enthusiasm elicited a sad smile from the priest. “You
forget the dangers to be incurred by those who shelter him,” he said.
“Many a man who would not soil his hands with the price of blood might
deliver up a fugitive from fear.”
They were passing through the principal street, and were struck with the
mournful aspect of the little city, usually so gay and full of bustle.
The shops were closed; and even the window shutters of the houses had
not been opened. So lugubrious was the silence that one might have
supposed there was a general mourning, and that each family had lost one
or more of its members. The manner of the few persons passing along the
footways testified to their deep anxiety. They hurried along, casting
suspicious glances on every side; and two or three who were
acquaintances of the Baron d’Escorval averted their heads directly they
saw his carriage, so as to avoid the necessity of bowing.
The terror prevailing in the town was explained when Maurice and the
abbe reached the Hotel de France, where they proposed taking up their
quarters; and which establishment the former’s father had always
patronized whenever he visited Montaignac; the landlord being
Laugeron--Lacheneur’s friend, who had been so anxious to warn him of
the Duke de Sairmeuse’s return to France. On catching sight of his
visitors, this worthy man hastened into the courtyard, cap in hand, to
give them a fitting greeting. In such a situation politeness amounted to
heroism; but it has always been supposed that Laugeron was in some way
connected with the conspiracy. He at once invited Maurice and the abbe
to take some refreshments, doing so in such a way as to make them
understand that he was anxious to speak to them in private. Thanks to
one of the Duke de Sairmeuse’s valets who frequented the house, the
landlord knew as much as the authorities; and, indeed, he knew even
more, since he had also received information from several rebels who had
escaped capture. He conducted Maurice and the abbe to a room looking on
to the back of the house, where he knew they would be secure from
observation, and then it was that they obtained their first positive
information. In the first place, nothing had been heard either of
Lacheneur or his son Jean, who had so far eluded all pursuit. Secondly,
there were, at that moment, no fewer than two hundred prisoners in the
citadel, including both the Baron d’Escorval and Chanlouineau. And
finally, that very morning there had been at least sixty additional
arrests in Montaignac. It was generally supposed that these arrests were
due to traitorous denunciations, and all the inhabitants were trembling
with fear. M. Laugeron knew the real cause, however, for it had been
confided to him under pledge of secrecy by his customer, the duke’s
valet. “It certainly seems an incredible story, gentlemen,” he remarked;
“but yet it is quite true. Two officers, belonging to the Montaignac
militia, were returning from the expedition this morning at daybreak,
when on passing the Croix d’Arcy they perceived a man, wearing the
uniform of the emperor’s body guard, lying dead in a ditch. Not
unnaturally they examined the body, and to their great astonishment they
found a slip of paper between the man’s clenched teeth. It proved to be
a list of Montaignac conspirators, which this old soldier, finding
himself mortally wounded, had endeavored to destroy; but the agonies of
death had prevented him from swallowing it----.”
The abbe and Maurice had no time to listen to the general news the
landlord might have to impart. They requested him to procure a
messenger, who was at once despatched to Escorval, so that the baroness
and Marie-Anne might be made acquainted with the information they had
obtained concerning both the baron and Lacheneur. They then left the
hotel and hastened to the house occupied by the Duke de Sairmeuse. There
was a crowd at the door; a crowd of a hundred persons or so--men with
anxious faces, women in tears--all of them begging for an audience.
These were the friends and relatives of the unfortunate men who had been
arrested. Two footmen, wearing gorgeous liveries, of haughty mien, stood
in the doorway, their time being fully occupied in keeping back the
struggling throng. Hoping that his priestly dress would win him a
hearing, the Abbe Midon approached and gave his name. But he was
repulsed like the others. “M. le Duc is busy, and can receive nobody,”
said one of the servants. “M. le Duc is preparing his report to his
majesty.” And in support of his assertion, he pointed to the horses,
standing saddled in the courtyard, and waiting for the couriers who were
to carry the despatches.
The priest sadly rejoined his companions. “We must wait!” said he. And
yet, intentionally or not, the servants were deceiving these poor
people; for, just then, the duke was in no wise troubling himself about
his despatches. In point of fact, he happened to be engaged in a violent
altercation with the Marquis de Courtornieu. Each of these noble
personages was anxious to play the leading part--that which would meet
with the highest reward at the hands of the supreme authorities at
Paris. This quarrel had begun on some petty point, but soon they both
lost their tempers and stinging words, bitter allusions, and even
threats were rapidly exchanged. The marquis declared it necessary to
inflict the most frightful--he said the most _salutary_ punishment upon
the offenders; while the duke, on the contrary, was inclined to be
indulgent. The marquis opined that since Lacheneur, the prime mover, and
his son, had both eluded pursuit, it was absolutely requisite that
Marie-Anne should be arrested. M. de Sairmeuse, however, would not
listen to the suggestion. To his mind it would be most impolitic to
arrest this young girl. Such a course would render the authorities
odious, and would exasperate all the rebels who were still at large.
“These men must be put down with a strong hand!” urged M. de
Courtornieu.
“I don’t wish to exasperate the populace,” replied the duke.
“Bah! what does public sentiment matter?”
“It matters a great deal when you cannot depend upon your soldiers. Do
you know what happened last night? There was enough powder burned to win
a battle, and yet there were only fifteen peasants wounded. Our men
fired in the air. You forget that the Montaignac corps is for the most
part composed of men who formerly fought under Bonaparte, and who are
burning to turn their weapons against us.”
Thus did the dispute continue, ostensibly for motives of public policy,
though, in reality, both the duke and the marquis had a secret reason
for their obstinacy. Blanche de Courtornieu had reached Montaignac that
morning and had confided her anxiety and her sufferings to her father,
with the result that she had made him swear to profit of this
opportunity to rid her of Marie-Anne. On his side, the duke was
convinced that Marie-Anne was his son’s mistress, and wished, at any
cost, to prevent her appearance at the tribunal. Finding that words had
no influence whatever on his coadjutor, his grace at last finished the
dispute by a skillful stratagem. “As we are of different opinions we
can’t possibly work together,” quoth he; “we are one too many.” And
speaking in this fashion he glanced so meaningly at a pair of pistols
that the noble marquis felt a disagreeable chilliness creep up his
spine. He had never been noted for bravery, and did not in the least
relish the idea of having a bullet lodged in his brains. Accordingly he
waived his proposal, and eventually agreed to go to the citadel with the
duke to inspect the prisoners.
The whole day passed by without M. de Sairmeuse consenting to give a
single audience, and Maurice spent his time in watching the moving arms
of the semaphore perched on the tall keep-tower. “What orders are
travelling through space?” he said to the abbe. “Are these messages of
life, or death?”
The messenger despatched from the Hotel de France had been instructed
to make haste, and yet he did not reach Escorval until night-fall. Beset
by a thousand fears, he had taken the longest but less frequented roads,
and had made numerous circuits to avoid the people he had seen
approaching in the distance. Scarcely had the baroness read the letter,
written to her by Maurice, than turning to Marie-Anne, she exclaimed,
“We must go to Montaignac at once!”
But this was easier said than done; for they only kept three horses at
Escorval. The one which had been harnessed to the cabriolet the
preceding night was lame--indeed, nearly dead: while the other two had
been taken to Montaignac that morning by Maurice and the priest. What
were the ladies to do? They appealed to some neighbours for assistance,
but the latter, having heard of the baron’s arrest, firmly refused to
lend a horse, believing they should gravely compromise themselves if
they in any way helped the wife of a man charged with such grievous
offences as high treason and revolt. Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne
were talking of making the journey on foot, when Corporal Bavois, still
left on guard at the chateau, swore by the sacred name of thunder that
this should not be. He hurried off with his two men, and, after a brief
absence, returned leading an old plough-horse by the mane. He had, more
or less forcibly, requisitioned this clumsy steed, which he harnessed to
the cabriolet as best he could. This was not his only demonstration of
good will. His duties at the chateau were over, now that M. d’Escorval
had been arrested, and nothing remained for him but to rejoin his
regiment. Accordingly he declared that he would not allow these ladies
to travel unattended at night-time, along a road where they might be
exposed to many disagreeable encounters, but should escort them to their
journey’s end with his two subordinates. “And it will go hard with
soldier or civilian who ventures to molest them, will it not, comrades?”
he exclaimed.
As usual, his companions assented with an oath; and as Madame d’Escorval
and Marie-Anne journeyed onward, they could perceive the three men
preceding or following the vehicle, or oftener walking beside it. Not
until they reached the gates of Montaignac did the old soldier forsake
his protegees, and then, not without bidding them a respectful
farewell, in his own name and that of his subordinates, adding that if
they had need of his services, they had only to call upon Bavois,
corporal of grenadiers in company No. 1., stationed at the citadel.
The clocks were striking half-past ten when Madame d’Escorval and
Marie-Anne alighted at the Hotel de France. They found Maurice in
despair, and even the abbe disheartened, for since the morning events
had progressed with fearful rapidity. The semaphore signals were now
explained; orders had come from Paris; and there they could be read in
black and white, affixed to the walls of the town. “Montaignac must be
regarded as in a state of siege. The military authorities have been
granted discretionary powers. A military commission will exercise
jurisdiction in lieu of all other courts. Let peaceable citizens take
courage; let the evil disposed tremble! As for the rabble, the sword of
the law is about to strike!” Only six lines in all--but each word
fraught with menace!
The abbe most regretted that trial before a military commission had been
substituted for the customary court-martial. Indeed this upset all the
plans he had devised in the hope of saving his friend. A court-martial
is, of course, hasty and often unjust in its decisions; but still, it
observes some of the forms of procedure practiced in judicial tribunals.
It still retains some of the impartiality of legal justice, which asks
to be enlightened before condemning. But the military commission now to
be appointed would naturally neglect all legal forms; and the prisoners
would be summarily condemned and punished after the fashion in which
spies are treated in time of war.
“What!” exclaimed Maurice, “would they dare to condemn without
investigating, without listening to testimony, without allowing the
prisoners time to prepare their defence?” The abbe remained silent. The
turn events had taken exceeded his worst apprehensions. Now, indeed, he
believed that anything was possible.
Maurice had spoken of investigation. Investigation, if such it could be
called, had indeed begun that very day, and was still continuing by the
light of a jailor’s lantern. That is to say, the Duke de Sairmeuse and
the Marquis de Courtornieu were passing the prisoners in review. They
now numbered three hundred, and the duke and his companion had decided
to begin by summoning before the commission thirty of the most
dangerous conspirators. How were they to select them? By what method
could they hope to discover the extent of each prisoner’s guilt? It
would have been difficult for them to explain the course they took. They
simply went from one man to another, asking any question that entered
their minds, and when the terrified captive had answered them they
either said to the head jailor, “Keep this one until another time,” or,
“This one for to-morrow,” their decision being guided by the impression
the man’s language and demeanour had created. By daylight, they had
thirty names upon their list, at the head of which figured those of the
Baron d’Escorval and Chanlouineau.
Although the unhappy party at the Hotel de France were not aware of this
circumstance, they passed a sleepless, anxious night; and it was relief,
indeed, when the daylight peered through the windows and the _reveille_
could be heard beating at the citadel; for now at least they might renew
their efforts. The abbe intimated his intention of going alone to the
duke’s house, declaring that he would find a way to force an entrance.
He had just bathed his red and swollen eyes in fresh water, and was
preparing to start, when a rap was heard at the door. Directly
afterwards M. Laugeron, the landlord, entered the room. His face
betokened some dreadful misfortune; and indeed he had just been made
acquainted with the composition of the military commission. In defiance
of all equity and justice, the presidency of this tribunal of vengeance
had been offered to the Duke de Sairmeuse who had unblushingly accepted
it--he who was at the same time both witness and executioner. Moreover,
he was to be assisted by other officers hitherto placed under his
immediate orders.
“And when does the commission enter upon its functions?” inquired the
abbe.
“To-day,” replied the host, hesitatingly; “this morning--in an
hour--perhaps sooner!”
The priest understood well enough what M. Laugeron meant, but what he
dared not say: “The commission is assembling, make haste.” “Come!” said
the abbe Midon turning to Maurice, “I wish to be present when your
father is examined.”
The baroness would have given anything to accompany the priest and her
son; but this could not be; she understood it, and submitted. As
Maurice and his companion stepped into the street they saw a soldier a
short distance off who made a friendly gesture. Recognizing Corporal
Bavois, they paused instinctively. But he now passing them by with an
air of the utmost indifference, and apparently without observing them,
hastily exclaimed: “I have seen Chanlouineau. Be of good cheer: he
promises to save the baron!”