Father Chupin, the false witness and the crafty spy, had refrained from
sleeping and almost from drinking ever since that unfortunate morning
when the Duke de Sairmeuse affixed to the walls of Montaignac the decree
in which he promised twenty thousand francs to the person who delivered
up Lacheneur, dead or alive. “Twenty thousand francs,” muttered the old
rascal gloomily; “twenty sacks with a hundred golden pistoles in each!
Ah! if I could only discover this Lacheneur, even if he were dead and
buried a hundred feet under ground, I should gain the reward.”
He cared nothing for the shame which such a feat would entail. His sole
thought was the reward--the blood-money. Unfortunately for his greed he
had nothing whatever to guide him in his researches; no clue, however
vague. All that was known in Montaignac was that Lacheneur’s horse had
been killed at the Croix-d’Arcy. But no one could say whether Lacheneur
himself had been wounded, or whether he had escaped from the fray
uninjured. Had he gained the frontier? or had he found an asylum in some
friend’s house. Chupin was thus hungering for the price of blood, when,
on the day of the baron’s trial, as he was returning from the citadel,
after giving his evidence, he chanced to enter a wine-shop. He was
indulging in a strong potation when he suddenly heard a peasant near him
mention Lacheneur’s name in a low voice. This peasant was an old man who
sat at an adjoining table, emptying a bottle of wine in a friend’s
company, and he was telling the latter that he had come to Montaignac on
purpose to give Mademoiselle Lacheneur some news of her father. He said
that his son-in-law had met the chief conspirator in the mountains which
separate the arrondissement of Montaignac from Savoy, and he even
mentioned the exact place of meeting, which was near Saint
Pavin-des-Grottes, a tiny village of only a few houses. Certainly the
worthy fellow did not think he was committing a dangerous indiscretion,
for in his opinion Lacheneur had already crossed the frontier, and put
himself out of danger. But in this surmise he was grievously mistaken.
The frontier bordering on Savoy was guarded by soldiers, who had
received orders to prevent any of the conspirators passing into Italian
territory. And even if Piedmont was gained it seemed likely that the
Italian authorities would themselves arrest the fugitive rebels, and
hand them over to their judges. Chupin was aware of all this, and
resolved to act at once. He threw a coin on the counter, and without
waiting for his change, rushed back to the citadel, and asked a sergeant
at the gate for pen and paper. Writing was for him usually a most
laborious task, but to-day it only took him a moment to pen these lines:
“I know Lacheneur’s retreat, and beg monseigneur to order some mounted
soldiers to accompany me, so that we may capture him.
“CHUPIN.”
* * * * *
This letter was given to one of the guards, with a request to take it to
the Duke de Sairmeuse, who was then presiding over the military
commission. Five minutes later the soldier returned with the same note,
on the margin of which the duke had written an order, placing a
lieutenant and eight men of the Montaignac chasseurs, who could be
relied upon, at Chupin’s disposal. The old spy also asked the loan of a
horse for his own use, and this was granted him: and the party then
started off at once in the direction of St. Pavin.
When, at the finish of the final stand made by the insurgents at the
Croix-d’Arcy, Lacheneur’s horse received a bayonet wound in the chest,
and reared and fell, burying its rider underneath; the latter lost
consciousness, and it was not till some hours later that, restored by
the fresh morning air, he regained his senses and was able to look about
him. All he perceived was a couple of dead bodies lying some little
distance off. It was a terrible moment, and in his soul he cursed the
fate which had left him still alive. Had he been armed, he would no
doubt have put an end to the mental tortures he was suffering by
suicide--but then he had no weapon. So he must resign himself to life.
Perhaps, too, the voice of honour whispered that it was cowardice to
strive to escape responsibility by self-inflicted death. At last, he
endeavoured to draw himself from under his horse, which proved no easy
task, as his foot was still in the stirrup, and his limbs were so
cramped that he could scarcely move them. Finally, however, he succeeded
in freeing himself, and, on examination, discovered that he had only one
wound, inflicted by a bayonet thrust, in the left leg. It caused him
considerable pain, and he was trying to bandage it with his
handkerchief, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He had
no time for reflection; but at once darted into the forest that lies to
the left of the Croix-d’Arcy. The troops were returning to Montaignac
after pursuing the rebels for more than three miles. There were some two
hundred soldiers, who were bringing back a score of peasants as
prisoners. Crouching behind an oak tree scarcely fifteen paces from the
road, Lacheneur recognized several of the captives in the grey light of
dawn. It was only by the merest chance that he escaped discovery; and he
fully realized how difficult it would be for him to gain the frontier
without falling into the hands of the many detachments of soldiery, who
were doubtless scouring the country in every direction.
Still he did not despair. The mountains lay only two leagues away; and
he firmly believed that he would be able to successfully elude his
pursuers could he only gain the shelter of the hills. He began his
journey courageously, but soon he was obliged to admit that he had
greatly over estimated his strength, which was well nigh quite exhausted
by the excessive labour and excitement of the past few days, coupled
with the loss of blood occasioned by his wound. He tore up a stake in an
adjacent vineyard, and using it as a staff, slowly dragged himself
along, keeping in the shelter of the woods as much as possible, and
creeping beside the hedges and in the ditches whenever he was obliged to
cross an open space. Physical suffering and mental anguish, were soon
supplemented by the agony of hunger. He had eaten nothing for thirty
hours, and felt terribly weak from lack of nourishment. Soon the craving
for food became so intolerable that he was willing to brave anything to
appease it. At last he perceived the thatched roofs of a little hamlet.
He was going forward, decided to enter the first house and ask for food;
the outskirts of the village were reached, and a cottage stood within a
few yards--when suddenly he heard the rolling of a drum. Surmising that
a party of troops was near at hand, he instinctively hid himself behind
a wall. But the drum proved to be that of a public crier summoning the
village folk together; and soon he could hear a clear, penetrating voice
reciting the following words: “This is to give notice that the
authorities of Montaignac promise a reward of twenty thousand francs to
whosoever delivers up the man known as Lacheneur, dead or alive. Dead or
alive! Understand, that if he be dead, the compensation will be the
same; twenty thousand francs! to be paid in gold. God save the king.”
Then came another roll of the drum. But with a bound, Lacheneur had
already risen; and though he had believed himself utterly exhausted, he
now found superhuman strength to fly. A price had been set upon his
head; and the circumstance awakened in his breast the frenzy that
renders a hunted beast so dangerous. In all the villages around him he
fancied he could hear the rolling of drums, and the voices of criers
proclaiming him an outlaw. Go where he would now, he was a tempting bait
offered to treason and cupidity. Whom could he dare confide in? Whom
could he ask for shelter? And even if he were dead, he would still be
worth a fortune. Though he might die from lack of nourishment and
exhaustion under a bush by the way side, yet his emaciated body would
still be worth twenty thousand francs. And the man who found his corpse
would not give it burial. He would place it on his cart and convey it to
Montaignac, present it to the authorities and say: “Here is Lacheneur’s
body--give me the reward.”
How long and by what paths he pursued his flight, he could not tell. But
several hours afterwards, while he was wandering through the wooded
hills of Charves, he espied two men, who sprang up and fled at his
approach. In a terrible voice, he called after them: “Eh! you fellows!
do you each want to earn a thousand pistoles? I am Lacheneur.”
They paused when they recognized him, and Lacheneur saw that they were
two of his former followers, both of them well-to-do farmers, whom it
had been difficult to induce to join in the revolt. They happened to
have with them some bread and a little brandy, and they gave both to the
famished man. They sat down beside him on the grass, and while he was
eating they related their misfortunes. Their connection with the
conspiracy had been discovered, and soldiers were hunting for them, but
they hoped to reach Italy with the help of a guide who was waiting for
them at an appointed place.
Lacheneur held out his hand. “Then I am saved,” said he. “Weak and
wounded as I am, I should have perished, all alone.”
But the two farmers did not take the hand he offered. “We ought to leave
you,” said the younger man gloomily, “for you are the cause of our
misfortunes. You deceived us, Monsieur Lacheneur.”
The leader of the revolt dared not protest; the reproach was so well
deserved. However, the other farmer gave his companion a peculiar glance
and suggested that they might let Lacheneur accompany them all the same.
So they walked on all three together, and that same evening, after nine
hours journey through the mountains, they crossed the frontier. But, in
the meanwhile, many and bitter had been the reproaches they had
exchanged. On being closely questioned by his companions, Lacheneur,
exhausted both in mind and body, finally admitted the insincerity of his
promises, by means of which he had inflamed his followers’ zeal. He
acknowledged that he had spread the report that Marie-Louise and the
young king of Rome were concealed in Montaignac, and that it was a gross
falsehood. He confessed that he had given the signal for the revolt
without any chance of success, and without any precise means of action,
leaving everything to chance. In short he confessed that nothing was
real except the hatred, the bitter hatred he felt against the Sairmeuse
family. A dozen times, at least, during this terrible confession, the
peasants who accompanied him were on the point of hurling him over the
precipice by the banks of which they walked. “So it was to gratify his
own spite,” they thought, quivering with rage, “that he set every one
fighting and killing each other--that he has ruined us and driven us
into exile. We’ll see if he is to escape unpunished.”
After crossing the frontier the fugitives repaired to the first hostelry
they could find, a lonely inn, a league or so from the little village of
Saint-Jean-de-Coche, and kept by a man named Balstain. It was past
midnight when they rapped, but, despite the lateness of the hour, they
were admitted, and ordered supper. Lacheneur, weak from loss of blood,
and exhausted by his long tramp, went off to bed, however, without
eating. He threw himself on to a pallet in an adjoining room and soon
fell asleep. For the first time since meeting him, the two farmers now
found an opportunity to talk in private. The same idea had occurred to
both of them. They believed that by delivering Lacheneur up to the
authorities, they might secure pardon for themselves. Neither of them
would have consented to receive a single sou of the blood-money; but
they did not consider there would be any disgrace in exchanging their
own lives and liberty for Lacheneur’s, especially as he had so deceived
them. Eventually they decided to go to Saint-Jean-de-Coche directly
supper was over, and inform the Piedmontese guards.
But they reckoned without their host. They had spoken loud enough to be
overheard by Balstain, the inn-keeper, who, during the day, had been
told of the magnificent reward promised for Lacheneur’s capture. On
learning that the exhausted man, now quietly sleeping under his roof,
was the famous conspirator, he was seized with a sudden thirst for gold,
and whispering a word to his wife he darted through the window of a back
room to run and fetch the carabineers, as the Italian gendarmes are
termed. He had been gone half-an-hour or so when the two peasants left
the house; for they had drunk heavily with the view of mustering
sufficient courage to carry their purpose into effect. They closed the
door so violently on going out that Lacheneur woke up. He rose from his
bed and came into the front room, where he found the innkeeper’s wife
alone. “Where are my friends?” he asked, anxiously. “And where is your
husband?”
Moved by sympathy, the woman tried to falter some excuse, but finding
none, she threw herself at his feet, exclaiming: “Fly, save
yourself--you are betrayed!”
Lacheneur rushed back into his bedroom, trying to find a weapon with
which to defend himself, or a mode of egress by which he could escape
unperceived. He had thought they might abandon him, but betray him--no
never! “Who has sold me?” he asked, in an agitated voice.
“Your friends--the two men who supped at that table.”
“That’s impossible!” he retorted: for he ignored his comrades’ designs
and hopes; and could not, would not believe them capable of betraying
him for lucre.
“But,” pleaded the innkeeper’s wife, still on her knees before him,
“they have just started for Saint-Jean-de-Coche, where they mean to
denounce you. I heard them say that your life would purchase theirs.
They certainly mean to fetch the carabineers; and, alas, must I also say
that my own husband has gone to betray you.”
Lacheneur understood everything now! And this supreme misfortune, after
all the misery he had endured, quite prostrated him. Tears gushed from
his eyes, and sinking on to a chair, he murmured: “Let them come; I am
ready for them. No, I will not stir from here! My miserable life is not
worth such a struggle.”
But the landlady rose, and grasping at his clothing, shook and dragged
him to the door--she would have carried him had she possessed sufficient
strength. “You shall not be taken here; it will bring misfortune on our
house!”
Bewildered by this violent appeal, and urged on by the instinct of
self-preservation, so powerful in every human heart, Lacheneur advanced
to the threshold. The night was very dark, and chilly fog intensified
the gloom.
“See, madame,” said he, in a gentle voice, “how can I find my way
through these mountains, which I do not know, where there are no
roads--where the foot-paths are scarcely traced.”
But Balstain’s wife would not argue; pushing him forward and turning him
as one does a blind man to set him on the right track. “Walk straight
before you,” said she, “always against the wind. God will protect you.
Farewell!”
He turned to ask further directions, but she had re-entered the house
and closed the door. Upheld by a feverish excitement, he walked on
during long hours. Soon he lost his way, and wandered among the
mountains, benumbed with cold, stumbling over the rocks, at times
falling to the ground. It was a wonder that he was not precipitated over
the brink of some precipice. He had lost all idea of his whereabouts,
and the sun was already high in the heavens when at last he met some one
of whom he could ask his way. This was a little shepherd boy, who was
looking for some stray goats, but the lad frightened by the stranger’s
wild and haggard aspect, at first refused to approach. At last the offer
of a piece of money induced him to come a little nearer. “You are just
on the frontier line,” said he. “Here is France; and there is Savoy.”
“And which is the nearest village?”
“On the Savoy side, Saint-Jean-de-Coche; on the French side,
Saint-Pavin.”
So after all his terrible exertions, Lacheneur was not a league from the
inn. Appalled by this discovery, he remained for a moment undecided
which course to pursue. Still, after all what did it matter? Was he not
doomed, and would not every road lead him to death? However, at last he
remembered the carabineers, the innkeeper’s wife had warned him against,
and slowly crawled down the steep mountain-side leading back into
France. He was near Saint-Pavin, when he espied a cottage standing alone
and in front of it a young peasant-woman spinning in the sunshine. He
dragged himself towards her, and in a weak voice begged her hospitality.
The woman rose, surprised and somewhat alarmed by the aspect of this
stranger, whose face was ghastly pale, and whose clothes were torn and
soiled with dust and blood. She looked at him more closely, and then
perceived that his age, stature, and features correspond with the
descriptions of Lacheneur, which had been distributed round about the
frontier. “Why you are the conspirator they are hunting for, and for
whom they promise a reward of twenty thousand francs,” she said.
Lacheneur trembled. “Yes,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation; “I
am Lacheneur. Betray me if you will, but in charity’s name give me a
morsel of bread, and allow me to rest a little.”
“We betray you, sir!” said she. “Ah! you don’t know the Antoines! Come
into our house, and lie down on the bed while I prepare some refreshment
for you. When my husband comes home, we will see what can be done.”
It was nearly sunset when the master of the house, a sturdy mountaineer,
with a frank face, entered the cottage. On perceiving the stranger
seated at his fireside he turned frightfully pale. “Unfortunate woman!”
he murmured to his wife, “don’t you know that anyone who shelters this
fugitive will be shot, and his house levelled to the ground?”
Lacheneur overheard these words; he rose with a shudder. He knew that a
price had been set upon his head, but until now he had not realised the
danger to which his presence exposed these worthy people. “I will go at
once,” said he, gently.
But the peasant laid his broad hand kindly on the outlaw’s shoulder and
forced him to resume his seat. “It was not to drive you away that I said
that,” he remarked. “You are at home, and you shall remain here until I
can find some means of ensuring your safety.”
The woman flung her arms round her husband’s neck, and in a loving
voice, exclaimed: “Ah! you are a noble man Antoine.”
He smiled, tenderly kissed her, then, pointing to the open door:
“Watch!” said he, and turning to Lacheneur: “It won’t be easy to save
you, for the promise of that big reward has set a number of evil-minded
people on the alert. They know that you are in the neighbourhood, and a
rascally innkeeper has crossed the frontier for the express purpose of
betraying your whereabouts to the French gendarmes.”
“Balstain?”
“Yes, Balstain; and he is hunting for you now. But that’s not
everything, as I passed through Saint-Pavin, coming back a little while
ago I saw eight mounted soldiers, with a peasant guide who was also on
horseback. They declared that they knew you were concealed in the
village, and were going to search each house in turn.”
These soldiers were the Montaignac chasseurs, placed at Chupin’s
disposal by the Duke de Sairmeuse. The task was certainly not at all to
their taste, but they were closely watched by the lieutenant in command,
who hoped to receive some substantial reward if the expedition was
crowned with success.
But to return to Lacheneur. “Wounded and exhausted as you are,”
continued Antoine, “you can’t possibly make a long march for a fortnight
hence, and till then you must conceal yourself. Fortunately, I know a
safe retreat in the mountain, not far from here. I will take you there
to-night, with provisions enough to last you for a week.”
Just then he was interrupted by a stifled cry from his wife. He turned,
and saw her fall almost fainting against the door, her face white as her
linen cap, her finger pointing to the path that led from Saint-Pavin to
the cottage. “The soldiers--they are coming!” she gasped.
Quicker than thought, Lacheneur and the peasant sprang to the door to
see for themselves. The young woman had spoken the truth; for here came
the Montaignac chasseurs, slowly climbing the steep foot-path. Chupin
walked in advance, urging them on with voice, gesture, and example. An
imprudent word from the little shepherd-boy, had decided the fugitive’s
fate; for on returning to Saint-Pavin, and hearing that the soldiers
were searching for the chief conspirator, the lad had chanced to say: “I
met a man just now on the mountain who asked me where he was; and I saw
him go down the foot-path leading to Antoine’s cottage.” And in proof of
his words, he proudly displayed the piece of silver which Lacheneur had
given him.
“One more bold stroke and we have our man!” exclaimed Chupin. “Come,
comrades!” And now the party were not more than two hundred feet from
the house in which the outlaw had found an asylum.
Antoine and his wife looked at each other with anguish in their eyes.
They saw that their visitor was lost.
“We must save him! we must save him!” cried the woman.
“Yes, we must save him!” repeated the husband gloomily. “They shall kill
me before I betray a man in my own house.”
“If he could hide in the stable behind the bundles of straw--”
“Oh, they would find him! These soldiers are worse than tigers, and the
wretch who leads them on must have a bloodhound’s scent.” He turned
quickly to Lacheneur. “Come, sir,” said he, “let us leap from the back
window and fly to the mountains. They will see us, but no matter! These
horsemen are always clumsy runners. If you can’t run, I’ll carry you.
They will probably fire at us, but miss their aim.”
“And your wife?” asked Lacheneur.
The honest mountaineer shuddered; still he simply said: “She will join
us.”
Lacheneur grasped his protector’s hand. “Ah! you are a noble people,” he
exclaimed, “and God will reward you for your kindness to a poor
fugitive. But you have done too much already. I should be the basest of
men if I exposed you to useless danger. I can bear this life no longer;
I have no wish to escape.” Then drawing the sobbing woman to him and
kissing her on the forehead. “I have a daughter, young and beautiful
like yourself,” he added. “Poor Marie-Anne! And I pitilessly sacrificed
her to my hatred! I must not complain; come what may, I have deserved my
fate.”
The sound of the approaching footsteps became more and more distinct.
Lacheneur straightened himself up, and seemed to be gathering all his
energy for the decisive moment. “Remain inside,” he said imperiously, to
Antoine and his wife. “I am going out; they must not arrest me in your
house.” And as he spoke, he crossed the threshold with a firm tread. The
soldiers were but a few paces off. “Halt!” he exclaimed, in a loud
ringing voice. “Are you not seeking for Lacheneur? I am he! I surrender
myself.”
His manner was so dignified, his tone so impressive, that the soldiers
involuntarily paused. This man before them was doomed; they knew the
fate awaiting him, and seemed as awed as if they had been in the
presence of death itself. One there was among the search party, whom
Lacheneur’s ringing words had literally terrified, and this was Chupin.
Remorse filled his cowardly heart, and pale and trembling, he sought to
hide himself behind the soldiers.
But Lacheneur walked straight towards him. “So it is you who have sold
my life, Chupin?” he said scornfully. “You have not forgotten, I
perceive, how often my daughter filled your empty larder--so now you
take your revenge.”
The old scoundrel seemed crushed by these words. Now that he had done
this foul deed, he knew what betrayal really was. “So be it,” resumed
Lacheneur. “You will receive the price of my blood; but it will not
bring you good fortune--traitor!”
Chupin, however, indignant with his own weakness, was already making a
vigorous effort to recover a semblance of self composure. “You have
conspired against the king,” he stammered. “I only did my duty in
denouncing you.” And turning to the soldiers, he added: “As for you,
comrades, you may be sure the Duke de Sairmeuse will remember your
services.”
Lacheneur’s hands were bound, and the party was about to descend the
slope, when a man, roughly clad, bare-headed, covered with perspiration,
and panting for breath, suddenly made his appearance. The twilight was
falling, but Lacheneur recognized Balstain. “Ah! you have him!”
exclaimed the innkeeper, pointing to the prisoner, as soon as he was
within speaking distance. “The reward belongs to me--I denounced him
first on the other side of the frontier, as the carabineers at
Saint-Jean-de-Coche will testify. He would have been captured last night
in my house if he hadn’t managed to run away in my absence. I’ve been
following the bandit for sixteen hours.” He spoke with extraordinary
vehemence, being full of fear lest he might lose his reward, and only
reap disgrace and obliquy in recompense for his treason.
“If you have any right to the money, you must prove it before the proper
authorities,” said the officer in command.
“If I have any right!” interrupted Balstain; “who contests my right,
then?” He looked threateningly around him, and casting his eyes on
Chupin, “Is it you?” he asked. “Do you dare to assert that you
discovered the brigand?”
“Yes, it was I who discovered his hiding place.”
“You lie, you impostor!” vociferated the innkeeper; “you lie!” The
soldiers did not budge. This scene repaid them for the disgust they had
experienced during the afternoon. “But,” continued Balstain, “what else
could one expect from such a knave as Chupin? Every one knows that he’s
been obliged to fly from France over and over again on account of his
crimes. Where did you take refuge when you crossed the frontier, Chupin?
In my house, in Balstain’s inn. You were fed and protected there. How
many times haven’t I saved you from the gendarmes and the galleys? More
times than I can count. And to reward me you steal my property; you
steal this man who was mine----”
“The fellow’s insane!” ejaculated the terrified Chupin, “he’s mad!”
“At least you will be reasonable,” exclaimed the inn keeper, suddenly
changing his tactics. “Let’s see, Chupin, what you’ll do for an old
friend? Divide, won’t you? No, you say no? How much will you give me,
comrade? A third? Is that too much? A quarter, then----”
Chupin felt that the soldiers were enjoying his humiliation. They were
indeed, sneering at him, and only an instant before they had, with
instinctive loathing, avoided coming in contact with him. The old
knave’s blood was boiling, and pushing Balstain aside, he cried to the
chasseurs:--”Come--are we going to spend the night here?”
On hearing these words, Balstain’s eyes sparkled with revengeful fury,
and suddenly drawing his knife from his pocket and making the sign of
the cross in the air: “Saint-Jean-de-Coche,” he exclaimed, in a ringing
voice, “and you, Holy Virgin, hear my vow. May my soul burn in hell if I
ever use a knife at meals until I have plunged the one I now hold, into
the heart of the scoundrel who has defrauded me!” With these words he
hurried away into the woods, and the soldiers took up their line of
march.
But Chupin was no longer the same. His impudence had left him and he
walked along with hanging head, his mind full of sinister presentiments.
He felt sure that such an oath as Balstain’s, and uttered by such a man,
was equivalent to a death warrant, or at least to a speedy prospect of
assassination. The thought tormented him so much indeed, that he would
not allow the detachment to spend the night at Saint-Pavin, as had been
agreed upon. He was impatient to leave the neighbourhood. So after
supper he procured a cart; the prisoner was placed in it, securely
bound, and the party started for Montaignac. The great bell was tolling
two in the morning when Lacheneur was conducted into the citadel; and at
that very moment M. d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois were making their
final preparations for escape.