The three military men to whose care the Abbe Midon had entrusted
Maurice had considerable difficulty in getting him to the Hotel de
France, for he made continual attempts to return to the court-room,
having the fallacious idea that by telling the truth he might yet save
his father. In point of fact, however, the only effect of his confession
would have been to provide the Duke de Sairmeuse with another welcome
victim. When he and his custodians at length entered the room where
Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne were waiting in cruel suspense, the
baroness eagerly asked whether the trial was over.
“Nothing is decided yet,” replied one of the retired officers. “The cure
will come here as soon as the verdict is given.”
Then as the three military men had promised not to lose sight of
Maurice, they sat themselves down in gloomy silence. Not the slightest
stir could be heard in the hotel, which seemed indeed as if it were
deserted. At last, a little before four o’clock, the abbe came in,
followed by the lawyer, to whom the baron had confided his last wishes.
“My husband!” exclaimed Madame d’Escorval, springing wildly from her
chair. The priest bowed his head. “Death!” she faltered, fully
understanding the significance of this impressive gesture. “What? they
have condemned him!” And overcome with the terrible blow, she sank back,
with hanging arms. But this weakness did not last long. “We must save
him!” she exclaimed, abruptly springing to her feet again, her eyes
bright with some sudden resolution, “we must wrest him from the
scaffold. Up, Maurice! up, Marie-Anne! No more lamentations. To work!
You also, gentlemen, will assist me; and I can count on your help,
Monsieur le Cure. I do not quite know how to begin, but something must
be done. The murder of so good, so noble a man as he would be too great
a crime. God will not permit it.” She paused, with clasped hands, as if
seeking for inspiration. “And the king,” she resumed--”can the king
consent to such a crime? No. A king can refuse mercy, but he cannot
refuse justice. I will go to him. I will tell him everything. Ah! why
didn’t this thought occur to me sooner? We must start for Paris without
losing an instant. Maurice you must accompany me; and one of you
gentlemen go at once and order post-horses.” Then, thinking they would
obey her, she hastened into the next room to make preparations for her
journey.
“Poor woman!” whispered the lawyer to the abbe, “she does not know that
the sentence of a military commission is executed in twenty-four hours,
and that it requires four days to make the journey to Paris.” He
reflected a moment, and then added: “But, after all, to let her go would
be an act of mercy. Did not Ney, on the morning of his execution,
implore the king to order the removal of his wife who was sobbing and
moaning in his cell?”
The abbe shook his head. “No,” said he; “Madame d’Escorval would never
forgive us if we prevented her from receiving her husband’s last
farewell.”
At that very moment, the baroness re-entered the room, and the priest
was trying to gather sufficient courage to tell her the cruel truth,
when a loud knock was heard at the door. One of the retired officers
went to open it, and our old friend Bavois, the corporal of grenadiers,
entered, raising his right hand to his cap, as if he were in his
captain’s presence. “Is Mademoiselle Lacheneur here?” he asked.
Marie-Anne stepped forward. “I am she, sir,” she replied; “what do you
want with me?”
“I am ordered to conduct you to the citadel, mademoiselle.”
“What?” exclaimed Maurice, in a tone of anger; “so they imprison women
as well?”
The worthy corporal struck his forehead with his open hand. “I am an old
fool!” he exclaimed, “and don’t know how to express myself. I meant to
say that I came to fetch mademoiselle at the request of one of the
prisoners, a man named Chanlouineau, who wishes to speak with her.”
“Impossible, my good fellow,” said one of the officers; “they would not
allow this lady to visit one of the prisoners without special
permission----”
“Well, she has this permission,” said the old soldier. And then
persuaded he had nothing to fear from any one present, he added, in
lower tones: “This Chanlouineau told me that the cure would understand
his reasons.”
Had the brave peasant really found some means of salvation. The abbe
almost began to believe that such was the case. “You must go with this
worthy fellow, Marie-Anne,” said he.
The poor girl shuddered at the thought of seeing Chanlouineau again, but
the idea of refusing never once occurred to her. “Let me go,” she said
quietly.
But the corporal did not budge. Winking in a desperate fashion, as was
his wont whenever he wished to attract attention, he exclaimed: “Wait a
bit. I’ve something else to tell you. This Chanlouineau, who seems to be
a shrewd fellow, told me to say that all was going well. May I be hung
if I can see how! Still such is his opinion. He also told me to tell you
not to stir from this place, and not to attempt anything until
mademoiselle comes back again, which will be in less than an hour. He
swears that he will keep his promise, and only asks you to pledge your
word that you will obey him----”
“We will wait for an hour,” replied the abbe. “I can promise that----”
“Then that’ll do,” rejoined Bavois. “Salute company. And now,
mademoiselle, on the double, quick march! The poor devil over there must
be on coals of fire.”
That a condemned conspirator should be allowed to receive a visit from
his leader’s daughter--from the daughter of that Lacheneur who had
succeeded in making his escape--was indeed surprising. But Chanlouineau
had been ingenious enough to discover a means of procuring this special
permission; and with this aim in view, he had feigned the most abject
terror on hearing the sentence of death passed upon him. He even
contrived to weep in a bellowing fashion, and the guards could scarcely
believe their eyes when they saw this robust young fellow, so insolent
and defiant a few hours before, now utterly overcome, and even unable to
walk back to his cell. They had to carry him there, and then his
lamentations became still more boisterous, concluding with an urgent
prayer that one of the guard should go to the Duke de Sairmeuse, or the
Marquis de Courtornieu, and tell them he had revelations of the greatest
importance to make.
That potent word “revelations” made M. de Courtornieu hasten to the
prisoner’s cell. He found Chanlouineau on his knees, his features
distorted by what appeared to be an agony of fear. The crafty fellow
dragged himself towards the marquis, took hold of his hands and kissed
them, imploring mercy and forgiveness, and swearing that to save his own
life, he was ready to do anything, yes, anything, even to deliver
Lacheneur up to the authorities. Such a prospect had powerful
attractions for the Marquis de Courtornieu. “Do you know, then, where
this brigand is concealed?” he asked.
Chanlouineau admitted that he did not know, but declared that
Marie-Anne, Lacheneur’s daughter, was well acquainted with her father’s
hiding-place. She had, he said, perfect confidence in him, Chanlouineau;
and if they would only send for her, and allow him ten minutes private
conversation with her, he was positive he could ascertain where the
leader of the insurrection was concealed. So the bargain was quickly
concluded; and Chanlouineau’s life was promised him in exchange for
Lacheneur’s. A soldier, who fortunately chanced to be Corporal Bavois,
was then sent to summon Marie-Anne; and the young farmer awaited her
coming with feelings of poignant anxiety. He loved her, remember, and
the thought of seeing her once more--for the last time on earth--made
his heart throb wildly with mingled passion and despair. At last, at the
end of the corridor, he could hear footsteps approaching. The heavy
bolts securing the entrance to his cell were drawn back, the door
opened, and Marie-Anne appeared, accompanied by Corporal Bavois. “M. de
Courtornieu promised me that we should be left alone!” exclaimed
Chanlouineau.
“Yes, I know he did, and I am going,” replied the old soldier. “But I
have orders to return for mademoiselle in half-an-hour.”
When the door closed behind the worthy corporal, Chanlouineau took hold
of Marie-Anne’s hand and drew her to the tiny grated window. “Thank you
for coming,” said he, “thank you. I can see you and speak to you once
more. Now that my hours are numbered, I may reveal the secret of my soul
and of my life. Now, I can venture to tell you how ardently I have loved
you--how much I still love you.”
Involuntarily Marie-Anne drew away her hand and stepped back; for this
outburst of passion, at such a moment and in such a place, seemed at
once unspeakably sad and shocking.
“Have I, then, offended you?” asked Chanlouineau, sadly. “Forgive
me--for I am about to die! You cannot refuse to listen to the voice of
one, who, to-morrow, will vanish from earth forever. I have loved you
for a long time, Marie-Anne, for more than six years. Before I saw you,
I only cared for my belongings, and to raise fine crops and gather money
together seemed to me the greatest possible happiness here below. And
when at first I did meet you--you were so high, and I so low, that in my
wildest dreams I did not dare to aspire to you. I went to the church
each Sunday only that I might worship you as peasant women worship the
Virgin; I went home with my eyes and heart full of you--and that was
all. But then came your father’s misfortunes, which brought us nearer to
each other; and your father made me as insane, yes, as insane as
himself. After the insults he received from the Duke de Sairmeuse, M.
Lacheneur resolved to revenge himself upon all these arrogant nobles,
and selected me for his accomplice. He had read my heart as easily as if
it had been an open book; and when we left the baron’s house that Sunday
evening we both have such good reason to remember, he said to me: ‘You
love my daughter, my boy. Very well, assist me, and I promise you, that
if we succeed, she shall be your wife. Only,’ he added, ‘I must warn you
that you risk your life.’ But what was life in comparison with the hopes
that dazzled me? From that night, I gave body, soul, and fortune to his
cause. Others were influenced by hatred, or ambition; but I was actuated
by neither of these motives. What did the quarrels of these great folks
matter to me--a simple labourer? I knew that the greatest were powerless
to give my crops a drop of rain in seasons of drought, or a ray of
sunshine during long spells of rain. I took part in the conspiracy, it
was because I loved you----”
It seemed to Marie-Anne that he was reproaching her for the deception
she had been forced to practise, and for the cruel fate to which
Lacheneur’s wild designs had brought him. “Ah, you are cruel,” she
cried, “you are pitiless!”
But Chanlouineau scarcely heard her words. All the bitterness of the
past was rising to his brain like fumes of alcohol; and he was scarcely
conscious of what he said himself. “However, the day soon came,” he
continued, “when my foolish illusions were destroyed. You could not be
mine since you belonged to another. I might have broken my compact! I
thought of doing so, but I did not have the courage. To see you, to hear
your voice, to spend my time under the same roof as you, was happiness
enough. I longed to see you happy and honoured; I fought for the triumph
of another, for him you had chosen----” A sob rose in his throat and
choked his utterance; he buried his face in his hands to hide his tears,
and, for a moment, seemed completely overcome. But he mastered his
weakness after a brief interval, and in a firm voice, exclaimed: “We
must not linger any longer over the past. Time flies, and the future is
ominous.”
As he spoke, he went to the door and applied first his eyes and then his
ear to the grating, to see that there were no spies outside. But he
could perceive no one, nor could he hear a sound. He came back to
Marie-Anne’s side, and tearing the sleeve of his jacket open with his
teeth, he drew from the lining two letters, wrapped carefully in a piece
of cloth. “Here,” he said, in a low voice, “is a man’s life!”
Marie-Anne knew nothing of Chanlouineau’s promises and hopes, and she
was moreover so distressed by what the young farmer had previously said
that at first she did not understand his meaning. All she could do was
to repeat mechanically, “This is a man’s life!”
“Hush speak lower!” interrupted Chanlouineau. “Yes, one of these letters
might, perhaps, save the life of a prisoner now under sentence of
death.”
“Unfortunate man! Why do you not make use of it and save yourself?”
The young farmer shook his head. “Would it ever be possible for you to
love me?” he said. “No it wouldn’t be possible; and so what wish can I
have to live? At least I shall be able to forget everything when I am
underground. Moreover, I have been justly condemned. I knew what I was
doing when I left La Reche with my gun over my shoulder, and my sword by
my side; I have no right to complain. But these judges of ours have
condemned an innocent man----”
“The Baron d’Escorval?”
“Yes--Maurice’s father!” His voice changed as he pronounced the name of
his envied rival--envied, no doubt, and yet to assure this rival’s
happiness and Marie-Anne’s he would have given ten lives had they been
his to give. “I wish to save the baron,” he added, “and I can do so.”
“Oh! if what you said were true? But you undoubtedly deceive yourself.”
“I know what I am saying,” rejoined Chanlouineau; and still fearful lest
some spy might be concealed outside; he now came close to Marie-Anne and
in a low voice spoke rapidly as follows: “I never believed in the
success of this conspiracy, and when I sought for a weapon of defence in
case of failure, the Marquis de Sairmeuse furnished it. When it became
necessary to send out a circular, warning our accomplices of the date
decided upon for the rising, I persuaded M. Martial to write a model. He
suspected nothing. I told him it was for a wedding, and he did what I
asked. This letter, which is now in my possession, is the rough draft of
the circular we sent; and it is in the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s
handwriting. It is impossible for him to deny it. There is an erasure in
every line, and every one would look at the letter as the handiwork of a
man seeking to convey his real meaning in ambiguous phrases.”
With these words Chanlouineau opened the envelope and showed her the
famous letter he had dictated, in which the space for the date of the
insurrection was left blank. “My dear friend, we are at last agreed, and
the marriage is decided on, etc.”
The light that had sparkled in Marie-Anne’s eyes was suddenly bedimmed.
“And you think that this letter can be of any use?” she inquired, with
evident discouragement.
“I don’t _think_ so!”
“But----”
With a gesture, he interrupted her. “We must not lose time in
discussion--listen to me. Of itself, this letter might be unimportant,
but I have arranged matters in such a way that it will produce a
powerful effect. I declared before the commission that the Marquis de
Sairmeuse was one of the leaders of the movement. They laughed; and I
read incredulity on all the judges’ faces. But calumny is never without
its effect. When the Duke de Sairmeuse is about to receive a reward for
his services, there will be enemies in plenty to remember and repeat my
words. He knew this so well that he was greatly agitated, even while his
colleagues sneered at my accusation.”
“It’s a great crime to charge a man falsely,” murmured Marie-Anne, with
simple honesty. “No doubt,” rejoined Chanlouineau, “but I wish to save
the baron, and I cannot choose my means. As I knew that the marquis had
been wounded, I declared that he was fighting against the troops by my
side and asked that he should be summoned before the tribunal; swearing
that I had in my possession unquestionable proofs of his complicity.”
“Did you say that the Marquis de Sairmeuse had been wounded?” inquired
Marie-Anne.
Chanlouineau’s face wore a look of intense astonishment. “What!” he
exclaimed, “don’t you know----?” Then after an instant’s reflection:
“Fool that I am!” he resumed. “After all who could have told you what
happened? However, you remember that while we were on our way to the
Croix-d’Arcy, after your father had rode on in advance, Maurice placed
himself at the head of one division, and you walked beside him, while
your brother Jean and myself stayed behind to urge the laggards forward.
We were performing our duty conscientiously enough, when suddenly we
heard the gallop of a horse behind us. ‘We must know who is coming,’
said Jean to me. So we paused. The horse soon reached us; we caught the
bridle and held him. Can you guess who the rider was? Why, Martial de
Sairmeuse. It would be impossible to describe your brother’s fury when
he recognized the marquis. ‘At last I find you, you wretched noble!’ he
exclaimed, ‘and now we will settle our account! After reducing my
father, who had just given you a fortune, to despair and penury, you
tried to degrade my sister. I will have my revenge! Down, we must
fight!’”
Marie-Anne could scarcely tell whether she was awake or dreaming. “What,
my brother challenged the marquis!” she murmured, “Is it possible?”
“Brave as the marquis may be,” pursued Chanlouineau, “he did not seem
inclined to accept the invitation. He stammered out something like this:
‘You are mad--you are jesting--haven’t we always been friends? What does
all this mean?’ Jean ground his teeth in rage. ‘This means that we have
endured your insulting familiarity long enough,’ he replied, ‘and if you
don’t dismount and fight me fairly, I will blow your brains out!’ Your
brother, as he spoke, manipulated his pistol in so threatening a manner
that the marquis jumped off his horse and addressing me: ‘You see,
Chanlouineau,’ he said, ‘I must fight a duel or submit to murder. If
Jean kills me there is no more to be said--but if I kill him, what is to
be done?’ I told him he would be free to go off unmolested on condition
he gave me his word not to proceed to Montaignac before two o’clock.
‘Then I accept the challenge,’ said he, ‘give me a weapon.’ I gave him
my sword, your brother drew his, and they took their places in the
middle of the highway.”
The young farmer paused to take breath, and then more slowly he resumed:
“Marie-Anne, your father and I misjudged your brother. Poor Jean’s
appearance is terribly against him. His face indicates a treacherous,
cowardly nature, his smile is cunning, and his eyes always shun yours.
We distrusted him, but we should ask his forgiveness for having done so.
A man who fights as I saw him fight, deserves all our confidence. For
this combat in the road, and in the darkness, was terrible. They
attacked each other furiously, and at last Jean fell.”
“Ah! my brother is dead!” exclaimed Marie Anne.
“No,” promptly replied Chanlouineau; “at least I have reason to hope
not; and I know he has been well cared for. The duel had another
witness, a man named Poignot, whom you must remember as he was one of
your father’s tenants. He took Jean away with him, and promised me that
he would conceal him and care for him. As for the marquis, he showed me
that he was wounded as well, and then he remounted his horse, saying:
‘What could I do? He would have it so.’”
Marie-Anne now understood everything. “Give me the letter,” she said to
Chanlouineau, “I will go to the duke. I will find some way of reaching
him, and then God will guide me in the right course to pursue.”
The noble-hearted young farmer calmly handed her the scrap of paper
which might have been the means of his own salvation. “You must on no
account allow the duke to suppose that you have the proof with which you
threaten him about your person. He might be capable of any infamy under
such circumstances. He will probably say, at first, that he can do
nothing--that he sees no way to save the baron; but you must tell him
that he must find a means, if he does not wish this letter sent to
Paris, to one of his enemies----”
He paused, for the bolt outside was being withdrawn. A moment later
Corporal Bavois re-appeared. “The half-hour expired ten minutes ago,”
said the old soldier sadly, “and I must obey my orders.”
“Coming,” replied Chanlouineau; “we have finished.” And then handing
Marie-Anne the second letter he had taken from his sleeve, “This is for
you,” he added. “You will read it when I am no more. Pray, pray, do not
cry so! Be brave! You will soon be Maurice’s wife. And when you are
happy, think sometimes of the poor peasant who loved you so.”
Marie-Anne could not utter a word, but she raised her face to his. “Ah!
I dare not ask it!” he exclaimed. And for the first and only time in
life he clasped her in his arms, and pressed his lips to her pallid
cheek. “Now, good-bye,” he said once more. “Do not lose a moment.
Good-bye, for ever!”