The prospect of capturing Lacheneur, the chief conspirator, had so
excited the Marquis de Courtornieu that he had not been able to tear
himself away from the citadel to go home to dinner. Stationed near the
entrance of the dark corridor leading to Chanlouineau’s cell, he watched
Marie-Anne hasten away; but as he saw her go out into the twilight with
a quick, alert step, he felt a sudden doubt concerning Chanlouineau’s
sincerity. “Can it be that this miserable peasant has deceived me?”
thought he; and so strong was this new-born suspicion that he hastened
after the young girl, determined to question her--to ascertain the
truth--to arrest her even, if need be. But he no longer possessed the
agility of youth, and when he reached the gateway the sentinel told him
that Mademoiselle Lacheneur had already left the citadel. He rushed out
after her, looked about on every side, but could see no trace of the
nimble fugitive. Accordingly, he was constrained to return again,
inwardly furious with himself for his own credulity. “Still, I can visit
Chanlouineau,” thought he, “and to-morrow will be time enough to summon
this creature and question her.”
“This creature” was, even then, hastening up the long, ill-paved street
leading to the Hotel de France. Regardless of the inquisitive glances of
the passers-by, she ran on, thinking only of shortening the terrible
suspense which her friends at the hotel must be enduring. “All is not
lost!” she exclaimed, as she re-entered the room where they were
assembled.
“My God, Thou hast heard my prayers!” murmured the baroness. Then,
suddenly seized by a horrible dread, she added: “But do not try to
deceive me. Are you not trying to comfort me with false hopes?”
“No! I am not deceiving you, madame. Chanlouineau has placed a weapon in
my hands, which, I hope and believe, will place the Duke de Sairmeuse in
our power. He is only omnipotent at Montaignac, and the only man who
would oppose him, M. de Courtornieu, is his friend. I believe that M.
d’Escorval can be saved.”
“Speak!” cried Maurice; “what must we do?”
“Pray and wait, Maurice, I must act alone in this matter, but be assured
that I will do everything that is humanly possible. It is my duty to do
so, for am I not the cause of all your misfortune?”
Absorbed in the thought of the task before her, Marie-Anne had failed to
remark a stranger who had arrived during her absence--an old
white-haired peasant. The abbe now drew her attention to him. “Here is a
courageous friend,” said he, “who ever since morning, has been searching
for you everywhere, in order to give you some news of your father.”
Marie-Anne could scarcely falter her gratitude. “Oh, you need not thank
me,” said the old peasant. “I said to myself: ‘The poor girl must be
terribly anxious, and I ought to relieve her of her misery.’ So I came
to tell you that M. Lacheneur is safe and well, except for a wound in
the leg, which causes him considerable suffering, but which will be
healed in a few weeks. My son-in-law, who was hunting yesterday in the
mountains, met him near the frontier in company of two of his friends.
By this time he must be in Piedmont, beyond the reach of the gendarmes.”
“Let us hope now,” said the abbe, “that we shall soon hear what has
become of Jean.”
“I know already,” replied Marie-Anne, “that my brother has been badly
wounded, but some kind friends are caring for him.”
Maurice, the abbe, and the retired officers now surrounded the brave
young girl. They wished to know what she was about to attempt, and to
dissuade her from incurring useless danger. But she refused to reply to
their pressing questions; and when they suggested accompanying her, or,
at least, following her at a distance, she declared that she must go
alone. “However, I shall be here again in a couple of hours,” she said,
“and then I shall be able to tell you if there is anything else to be
done.” With these words she hastened away.
To obtain an audience of the Duke de Sairmeuse was certainly a difficult
matter, as Maurice and the abbe had ascertained on the previous day.
Besieged by weeping and heart-broken families, his grace had shut
himself up securely, fearing, perhaps, that he might be moved by their
entreaties. Marie-Anne was aware of this, but she was not at all
anxious, for by employing the same word that Chanlouineau had used--that
same word “revelation”--she was certain to obtain a hearing. When she
reached the Duke de Sairmeuse’s mansion she found three or four lacqueys
talking in front of the principal entrance.
“I am the daughter of M. Lacheneur,” said she, speaking to one of them.
“I must see the duke at once, on matters connected with the revolt.”
“The duke is absent.”
“I come to make a revelation.”
The servant’s manner suddenly changed. “In that case follow me,
mademoiselle,” said he.
She did follow him up the stairs and through two or three rooms. At last
he opened a door and bade her enter; but, to her surprise, it was not
the Duke de Sairmeuse who was in the room, but his son, Martial, who,
was stretched upon a sofa, reading a paper by the light of a large
candelabra. On perceiving Marie-Anne he sprang up, pale and agitated.
“You here!” he stammered; and then, swiftly mastering his emotion, he
bethought himself of the possible motive of such a visit: “Lacheneur
must have been arrested,” he continued, “and wishing to save him from
the military commission you have thought of me. Thank you for doing so,
dear Marie-Anne, thank you for your confidence in me. I will not abuse
it. Be reassured. We will save your father, I promise you--I swear it.
We will find a means, for he must be saved. I will have it so!” As he
spoke his voice betrayed the passionate joy that was surging in his
heart.
“My father has not been arrested,” said Marie-Anne, coldly.
“Then,” said Martial, with some hesitation--”Then it is Jean who is a
prisoner.”
“My brother is in safety. If he survives his wounds he will evade all
attempts at capture.”
The pale face of the Marquis de Sairmeuse turned a deep crimson.
Marie-Anne’s manner showed him that she was acquainted with the duel. It
would have been useless to try and deny it; still he endeavoured to
excuse himself. “It was Jean who challenged me,” he said; “I tried to
avoid fighting, and I only defended my life in fair combat, and with
equal weapons----”
Marie-Anne interrupted him. “I do not reproach you, Monsieur le
Marquis,” she said, quietly.
“Ah! Marie-Anne, I am more severe than you. Jean was right to challenge
me. I deserved his anger. He knew my guilty thoughts, of which you were
ignorant. Oh! Marie-Anne, if I wronged you in thought it was because I
did not know you. Now I know that you, above all others, are pure and
chaste----”
He tried to take her hands, but she instantly repulsed him, and broke
into a fit of passionate sobbing. Of all the blows she had received this
last was most terrible. What shame and humiliation? Now, indeed, her cup
of sorrow was filled to overflowing. “Chaste and pure!” he had said. Oh,
the bitter mockery of those words!
But Martial misunderstood the meaning of her grief. “Your indignation is
just,” he resumed, with growing eagerness. “But if I have injured you
even in thought, I now offer you reparation. I have been a fool--a
miserable fool--for I love you; I love, and can love you only. I am the
Marquis de Sairmeuse. I am wealthy. I entreat you, I implore you to be
my wife.”
Marie-Anne listened in utter bewilderment. But an hour before
Chanlouineau in his cell cried aloud that he died for love of her, and
now it was Martial, who avowed his willingness to sacrifice his ambition
and his future for her sake. And the poor peasant condemned to death,
and the son of the all-powerful Duke de Sairmeuse, had confessed their
passion in almost the same words.
Martial paused, awaiting some reply--a word, a gesture. None came; and
then with increased vehemence, “You are silent,” he cried. “Do you
question my sincerity? No, it is impossible! Then why this silence? Do
you fear my father’s opposition? You need not. I know how to gain his
consent. Besides, what does his approbation matter to us? Have we any
need of him? Am I not my own master? Am I not rich--immensely rich? I
should be a miserable fool, a coward, if I hesitated between his stupid
prejudices and the happiness of my life.” He was evidently weighing all
the possible objections, in order to answer and overrule them
beforehand. “Is it on account of your family that you hesitate?” he
continued. “Your father and brother are pursued, and France is closed
against them. But we will leave France, and they shall come and live
near you. Jean will no longer dislike me when you are my wife. We will
all live in England or in Italy. Now I am grateful for the fortune that
will enable me to make your life a continual enchantment. I love
you--and in the happiness and tender love which shall be yours in the
future, I will make you forget all the bitterness of the past!”
Marie-Anne knew the Marquis de Sairmeuse well enough to understand the
intensity of the love revealed by these astounding proposals. And for
that very reason she hesitated to tell him that he had triumphed over
his pride in vain. She was anxiously wondering to what extremity his
wounded vanity would carry him, and if a refusal might not transform him
into a bitter foe.
“Why do you not answer?” asked Martial, with evident anxiety.
She felt that she must reply, that she must speak, say something; and
yet it was with intense reluctance that she at last unclosed her lips.
“I am only a poor girl, Monsieur le Marquis,” she murmured. “If I
accepted your offer, you would regret it for ever.”
“Never!”
“But you are no longer free. You have already plighted your troth.
Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu is your promised wife.”
“Ah! say one word--only one--and this engagement which I detest shall be
broken.”
She was silent. It was evident that her mind was fully made up, and that
she refused his offer.
“Do you hate me, then?” asked Martial, sadly.
If she had allowed herself to tell the whole truth, Marie-Anne would
have answered “Yes;” for the Marquis de Sairmeuse did inspire her with
almost insurmountable aversion. “I no more belong to myself than you
belong to yourself,” she faltered.
A gleam of hatred shone for a second in Martial’s eyes. “Always
Maurice!” said he.
“Always.”
She expected an angry outburst, but he remained perfectly calm. “Then,”
said he, with a forced smile, “I must believe this and other evidence. I
must believe that you forced me to play a ridiculous part. Until now I
doubted it.”
Marie-Anne bowed her head, blushing with shame to the roots of her hair;
still she made no attempt at denial. “I was not my own mistress,” she
stammered; “my father commanded and threatened, and I--I obeyed him.”
“That matters little,” he interrupted; “a pure minded young girl should
not have acted so.” This was the only reproach he allowed himself to
utter, and he even regretted it, perhaps because he did not wish her to
know how deeply he was wounded, perhaps because--as he afterwards
declared--he could not overcome his love for her. “Now,” he resumed, “I
understand your presence here. You come to ask mercy for M. d’Escorval.”
“Not mercy, but justice. The baron is innocent.”
Martial drew close to Marie-Anne, and lowering his voice: “If the father
is innocent,” he whispered, “then it is the son who is guilty.”
She recoiled in terror. What! he knew the secret which the judges could
not, or would not penetrate!
But seeing her anguish, he took pity on her. “Another reason,” said he,
“for attempting to save the baron! If his blood were shed upon the
guillotine there would be an abyss between you and Maurice which neither
of you could cross. So I will join my efforts to yours.”
Blushing and embarrassed, Marie-Anne dared not thank him; for was she
not about to requite his generosity by charging him with a complicity of
which, as she well knew, he was innocent. Indeed, she would have by far
preferred to find him angry and revengeful.
Just then a valet opened the door, and the Duke de Sairmeuse entered.
“Upon my word!” he exclaimed, as he crossed the threshold, “I must
confess that Chupin is an admirable hunter. Thanks to him--” He paused
abruptly: he had not perceived Marie-Anne until now. “What! Lacheneur’s
daughter!” said he, with an air of intense surprise. “What does she want
here?”
The decisive moment had come--the baron’s life depended upon
Marie-Anne’s courage and address. Impressed by this weighty
responsibility she at once recovered all her presence of mind. “I have a
revelation to sell to you, sir,” she said, with a resolute air.
The duke looked at her with mingled wonder and curiosity; then, laughing
heartily, he threw himself on to the sofa, exclaiming: “Sell it, my
pretty one--sell it! I can’t speak of that until I am alone with you.”
At a sign from his father, Martial left the room. “Now tell me what it
is,” said the duke.
She did not lose a moment. “You must have read the circular convening
the conspirators,” she began.
“Certainly; I have a dozen copies of it in my pocket.”
“Who do you suppose wrote it?”
“Why, the elder d’Escorval, or your father.”
“You are mistaken, sir; that letter was prepared by the Marquis de
Sairmeuse, your son.”
The duke sprang to his feet, his face purple with anger. “Zounds! girl!
I advise you to bridle your tongue!” cried he.
“There is proof of what I assert; and the lady who sends me here,”
interrupted Marie-Anne, quite unabashed, “has the original of this
circular in safe keeping. It is in the handwriting of Monsieur le
Marquis, and I am obliged to tell you--”
She did not have time to complete her sentence, for the duke sprang to
the door, and, in a voice of thunder, called his son. As soon as Martial
entered the room his grace turned to Marie-Anne, “Now, repeat,” said he,
“repeat before my son what you have just said to me.”
Boldly, with head erect, and in a clear, firm voice, Marie-Anne repeated
her charge. She expected an indignant denial, a stinging taunt, or, at
least, an angry interruption from the marquis; but he listened with a
nonchalant air, and she almost believed she could read in his eyes an
encouragement to proceed, coupled with a promise of protection.
“Well! what do you say to that?” imperiously asked the duke, when
Marie-Anne had finished.
“First of all,” replied Martial, lightly, “I should like to see this
famous circular.”
The duke handed him a copy. “Here--read it,” said he.
Martial glanced over the paper, laughed heartily, and exclaimed: “A
clever trick.”
“What do you say?”
“I say that this Chanlouineau is a sly rascal. Who the devil would have
thought the fellow so cunning to see his honest face. Another lesson to
teach one not to trust in appearances.”
In all his life the Duke de Sairmeuse had never received so severe a
shock. “So Chanlouineau was not lying, then,” he ejaculated, in a
choked, unnatural voice, “you _were_ one of the instigators of this
rebellion?”
Martial’s brow bent as, in a tone of marked disdain, he slowly replied:
“This is the fourth time that you have addressed that question to me,
and for the fourth time I answer: ‘No.’ That should suffice for you. If
the fancy had seized me to take part in this movement, I should frankly
confess it. What possible reason could I have for concealing anything
from you?”
“The facts!” interrupted the duke, in a frenzy of passion; “the facts!”
“Very well,” rejoined Martial, in his usual indifferent tone; “the fact
is that the original of this circular does exist, that it was written in
my best hand on a very large sheet of very poor paper. I recollect that
in trying to find appropriate expressions I erased and re-wrote several
words. Did I date this writing? I think I did, but I could not swear to
it.”
“How do you reconcile this with your denials?” exclaimed M. de
Sairmeuse.
“I can do this easily. Did I not tell you just now that Chanlouineau had
made a tool of me?”
The duke no longer knew what to believe; but what exasperated him more
than everything else was his son’s imperturbable coolness. “You had much
better confess that you were led into this by your mistress,” he
retorted, pointing at Marie-Anne.
“Mademoiselle Lacheneur is not my mistress,” replied Martial, in an
almost threatening tone. “Though it only rests with her to become the
Marchioness de Sairmeuse if she chooses to-morrow. But let us leave
recriminations on one side, they cannot further the progress of our
business.”
It was with difficulty that the duke checked another insulting
rejoinder. However, he had not quite lost all reason. Trembling with
suppressed rage, he walked round the room several times, and at last
paused in front of Marie-Anne, who had remained standing in the same
place, as motionless as a statue. “Come, my good girl,” said he, “give
me the writing.”
“It is not in my possession, sir.”
“Where is it?”
“In the hands of a person who will only give it to you under certain
conditions.”
“Who is this person?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you.”
There was both admiration and jealousy in the look that Martial fixed
upon Marie-Anne. He was amazed by her coolness and presence of mind. Ah!
indeed powerful must be the passion that imparted such a ringing
clearness to her voice, such brilliancy to her eyes, and such precision
to her words!
“And if I should not accept the--the conditions, what then?” asked M. de
Sairmeuse.
“In that case the writing will be utilized.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, sir, that early to-morrow morning a trusty messenger will start
for Paris, with the view of submitting this document to certain persons
who are not exactly friends of yours. He will show it to M. Laine, for
example--or to the Duke de Richelieu; and he will, of course, explain to
them its significance and value. Will this writing prove the Marquis de
Sairmeuse’s complicity? Yes, or no? Have you, or have you not, dared to
condemn to death the unfortunate men who were only your son’s tools?”
“Ah, you little wretch, you hussy, you little viper!” interrupted the
duke in a passionate rage. “You want to drive me mad! Yes, you know that
I have enemies and rivals who would gladly give anything for this
execrable letter. And if they obtain it they will demand an
investigation, and then farewell to the rewards due to my services. It
will be shouted from the housetops that Chanlouineau, in the presence of
the tribunal, declared that you, marquis, were his leader and his
accomplice. You will be obliged to submit to the scrutiny of physicians,
who, finding a freshly-healed wound, will require you to state how and
where you received it, and why you concealed it. And then, of course, I
shall be accused! It will be said I expedited matters in order to
silence the voices raised against my son. Perhaps my enemies will even
say that I secretly favoured the insurrection. I shall be vilified in
the newspapers. And remember that it is you, you alone, marquis, who
have ruined the fortunes of our house, our brilliant prospects, in this
foolish fashion. You pretend to believe in nothing, to doubt
everything--you are cold, sceptical, disdainful. But only let a pretty
woman make her appearance on the scene, and you grow as wild as a
school-boy, and you are ready to commit any act of folly. It is you that
I am speaking to, marquis. Don’t you hear me? Speak! what have you to
say?”
Martial had listened to this tirade with unconcealed scorn, and without
even attempting to interrupt it. But now he slowly replied, “I think,
sir, that if Mademoiselle Lacheneur _had_ any doubts of the value of the
document she possesses, she certainly can have them no longer.”
This answer fell upon the duke’s wrath like a bucket of iced water. He
instantly realised his folly; and frightened by his own words, stood
literally stupefied with astonishment.
Without deigning to speak any further to his father, the marquis turned
to Marie-Anne. “Will you be kind enough to explain what is required in
exchange for this letter?” he said.
“The life and liberty of M. d’Escorval.”
The duke started as if he had received an electric shock. “Ah!” he
exclaimed. “I knew they would ask for something that was impossible!” He
sank back into an arm chair; and his despair now seemed as deep as his
frenzy had been violent. He hid his face in his hands, evidently seeking
for some expedient. “Why didn’t you come to me before judgment was
pronounced?” he murmured. “Then, I could of done anything--now, my hands
are bound. The commission has spoken, and the sentence must be
executed--” He rose, and added in the tone of a man who is utterly
resigned: “Decidedly, I should risk more in attempting to save the
baron”--in his anxiety he gave M. d’Escorval his title--”a thousand
times more than I have to fear from my enemies. So, mademoiselle”--he no
longer said, “my good girl”--”you can utilize your document.”
Having spoken, he was about to leave the room, when Martial detained
him, “Think again before you decide,” said the marquis. “Our situation
is not without a precedent. Don’t you remember that a few months ago the
Count de Lavalette was condemned to death. Now the king wished to pardon
him, but the ministers had contrary views. No doubt his majesty was the
master; still what did he do? He effected to remain deaf to all the
supplications made on the prisoner’s behalf. The scaffold was even
erected, and yet Lavalette was saved! And no one was compromised--yes, a
jailer lost his position; but he is living on his pension now.”
Marie-Anne caught eagerly at the idea which Martial had so cleverly
presented. “Yes,” she exclaimed, “the Count de Lavalette was favoured by
royal connivance, and succeeded in making his escape.”
The simplicity of the expedient, and the authority of the example,
seemed to make a vivid impression on the duke. He remained silent for a
moment, but Marie-Anne fancied she could detect an expression of relief
steal over his face. “Such an attempt would be very hazardous,” he
murmured; “yet, with care, and if one were sure that it would remain a
secret--”
“Oh! the secret will be religiously kept, sir,” interrupted Marie-Anne.
With a glance Martial recommended her to remain silent then turning to
his father, he said: “We can always consider this expedient, and
calculate the consequences--that won’t bind us. When is this sentence to
be carried into effect?”
“To-morrow,” replied the duke. Terrible as this curt answer seemed, it
did not alarm Marie-Anne. She had perceived by the duke’s acute anxiety
that she had good grounds for hope, and she was now aware that Martial
would favour her designs.
“We have, then, only the night before us,” resumed the marquis.
“Fortunately, it is only half-past seven, and until ten o’clock my
father can visit the citadel without exciting suspicion.” He paused, and
seemed embarrassed. The fact was, he had just realised the existence of
a difficulty which might thwart all his plans. “Have we any intelligent
men in the citadel?” he murmured. “A jailer or a soldier’s assistance is
indispensable.” Turning to his father, he abruptly asked him: “Have you
any man whom one can trust?”
“I have three or four spies--they can be bought--”
“No! the wretch who betrays his comrade for a few sous would betray you
for a few louis. We must have an honest man who sympathizes with Baron
d’Escorval’s opinions--an old soldier who fought under Napoleon, if
possible.”
“I know the man you require!” exclaimed Marie-Anne with sudden
inspiration, and noticing Martial’s surprise. “Yes, a man at the
citadel.”
“Take care,” observed the marquis. “Remember he will have a great deal
to risk, for should this be discovered the accomplices must be
sacrificed.”
“The man I speak of is the one you need. I will be responsible for him.
His name is Bavois, and he is a corporal in the first company of
grenadiers.”
“Bavois,” repeated Martial, as if to fix the name in his memory;
“Bavois. Very well, I will confer with him. My father will find some
pretext for having him summoned here.”
“It is easy to find a pretext,” rejoined Marie-Anne. “He was left on
guard at Escorval after the searching party left the house.”
“That’s capital,” said Martial, walking towards his father’s chair. “I
suppose,” he continued, addressing the duke, “that the baron has been
separated from the other prisoners.”
“Yes, he is alone, in a large, comfortable room, on the second floor of
the corner tower.”
“The corner tower!” said Martial, “is that the very tall one, built on
the edge of the cliff, where the rock rises almost perpendicularly?”
“Precisely,” answered M. de Sairmeuse, whose promptness plainly implied
that he was ready to risk a good deal to enable the prisoner to escape.
“What kind of a window is there in the baron’s room?” inquired Martial.
“Oh, a tolerably large one, with a double row of iron bars, securely
riveted into the stone walls. It overlooks the precipice.”
“The deuce! The bars can easily be cut through, but that precipice is a
serious difficulty, and yet, in one respect, it is an advantage, for no
sentinels are stationed there, are they?”
“No, never. Between the walls and the citadel and the edge of the rock
there is barely standing room. The soldiers don’t venture there even in
the day time.”
“There is one more important question. What is the distance from M.
d’Escorval’s window to the ground?”
“I should say it is about forty feet from the base of the tower.”
“Good! And from the base of the tower to the foot of the cliff--how far
is that?”
“I really scarcely know. However, I should think fully sixty feet.”
“Ah, that’s terribly high; but fortunately the baron is still pretty
vigorous.”
The duke was growing impatient. “Now,” said he to his son, “will you be
so kind as to explain your plan?”
“My plan is simplicity itself,” replied Martial. “Sixty and forty are
one hundred; so it is necessary to procure a hundred feet of strong
rope. It will make a very large bundle; but no matter. I will twist it
round me, wrap myself up in a large cloak, and accompany you to the
citadel. You will send for Corporal Bavois, leave me alone with him in a
quiet place; and I will explain our wishes to him.”
The Duke de Sairmeuse shrugged his shoulders. “And how will you procure
a hundred feet of rope at this hour in Montaignac? Will you go about
from shop to shop? You might as well trumpet your project all over
France at once.”
“I shall attempt nothing of the kind. What I can’t do, the friends of
the D’Escorval family will do.” Then seeing that the duke was about to
offer some fresh objections, Martial earnestly added: “Pray don’t forget
the danger that threatens us, nor the little time that is left us. I
have made a blunder, let me repair it.” And turning to Marie-Anne: “You
may consider the baron saved,” he pursued; “but it is necessary for me
to confer with one of his friends. Return at once to the Hotel de France
and tell the cure to meet me on the Place d’Armes, where I shall go at
once and wait for him.”