On being left alone in his cell after Marie-Anne’s departure,
Chanlouineau gave himself up to despair. He loved Marie-Anne most
passionately, and the idea that he would never see her again on earth
proved heart-rending. Some little comfort he certainly derived from the
thought that he had done his duty, that he had sacrificed his own life
to secure her happiness, but then this result had only been obtained by
simulating the most abject cowardice, which must disgrace him for ever
in the eyes of his fellow prisoners, and the guards. Had he not offered
to sell Lacheneur’s life for his own moreover. True it was but a ruse,
and yet those who knew nothing of his secret would always brand him as a
traitor and a coward. To a man of his true valiant heart such a prospect
was particularly distressing, and he was still brooding over the idea
when the Marquis de Courtornieu entered his cell to ascertain the result
of Marie-Anne’s visit. “Well, my good fellow----” began the old
nobleman, in his most condescending manner; but Chanlouineau did not
allow him time to finish. “Leave,” he cried, in a fit of rage. “Leave
or----”
Without waiting to hear the end of the sentence the marquis made his
escape, greatly surprised and not a little dismayed by this sudden
change in the prisoner’s manner. “What a dangerous bloodthirsty rascal!”
he remarked to the guard. “It would, perhaps, be advisable to put him
into a strait-jacket!”
But there was no necessity for that; for scarcely had the marquis left,
than the young farmer threw himself on to his pallet, oppressed with
feverish anxiety. Would Marie-Anne know how to make the best use of the
weapon he had placed in her hands? He hoped so, for she would have the
Abbe Midon’s assistance, and besides he considered that the possession
of this letter would frighten the Marquis de Sairmeuse into any
concessions. In this last surmise Chanlouineau was entirely mistaken.
The fear which Martial seemingly evinced during the interview with
Marie-Anne and his father was all affected. He pretended to be alarmed,
in order to frighten the duke, for he really wished to assist the girl
he so passionately loved, and besides the idea of saving an enemy’s
life, of wresting him from the executioner on the very steps of the
scaffold, was very pleasing to his mind which at times took a decidedly
chivalrous turn. Poor Chanlouineau, however, was ignorant of all this,
and consequently his anxiety was perfectly natural. Throughout the
afternoon he remained in anxious suspense, and when the night fell,
stationed himself at the window of his cell gazing on to the plain
below, and trusting that if the baron succeeded in escaping, some sign
would warn him of the fact. Marie-Anne had visited him, she knew the
cell he occupied and surely she would find some means of letting him
know that his sacrifice had not been in vain. Shortly after two o’clock
in the morning he was alarmed by a great bustle in the corridor outside.
Doors were thrown open, and then slammed to; there was a loud rattle of
keys; guards hurried to and fro, calling each other; the passage was
lighted up, and then as Chanlouineau peered through the grating in the
door of his cell he suddenly perceived Lacheneur as pale as a ghost walk
by conducted by some soldiers. The young farmer almost doubted his
eyesight; for he really believed his former leader had escaped. Another
hour, and another hour passed by and yet did he prolong his anxious
vigil. Not a sound, save the tramp of the guards in the corridor, and
the faint echo of some distant challenge as sentinels were relieved
outside. At last, however, there abruptly came a despairing cry. What
was it? He listened; but it was not repeated. After all the occurrence
was not so surprising. There were twenty men in that citadel under
sentence of death, and the agony of that their last night, might well
call forth a lamentation. At length the grey light of dawn stole through
the window bars, the sun rose rapidly and Chanlouineau, hopeful for some
sign, till then murmured in despair, that the letter must have been
useless. Poor generous peasant! His heart would have leapt with joy if
as he spoke those words he could only have cast a glance on the
court-yard of the citadel.
An hour after the _reveille_ had sounded, two country-women, carrying
butter and eggs to market, presented themselves at the fortress gate,
and declared that while passing through the fields below the cliff on
which the citadel was built, they had perceived a rope dangling from the
side of the rock. A rope! Then one of the condemned prisoners must have
escaped. The guards hastened from cell to cell and soon discovered that
the Baron d’Escorval’s room was empty. And not merely had the baron
fled, but he had taken with him the man who had been left to guard
him--Corporal Bavois, of the grenadiers. Everyone’s amazement was
intense, but their fright was still greater. There was not a single
officer who did not tremble on thinking of his responsibility; not one
who did not see his hopes of advancement forever blighted. What should
be said to the formidable Duke de Sairmeuse and to the Marquis de
Courtornieu, who in spite of his calm polished manners, was almost as
much to be feared? It was necessary to warn them, however, and so a
sergeant was despatched with the news. Soon they made their appearance,
accompanied by Martial; and to look at all three it would have been said
that they were boiling over with anger and indignation. The Duke de
Sairmeuse’s rage was especially conspicuous. He swore at everybody,
accused everybody, and threatened everybody. He began by consigning all
the keepers and guards to prison, and even talked of demanding the
dismissal of all the officers. “As for that miserable Bavois,” he
exclaimed--”as for that cowardly deserter, he shall be shot as soon as
we capture him, and we will capture him, you may depend upon it!”
The officials had hoped to appease the duke’s wrath a little, by
informing him of Lacheneur’s arrest; but he knew of this already, for
Chupin had ventured to wake him up in the middle of the night to tell
him the great news. The baron’s escape afforded his grace an opportunity
to exalt Chupin’s merits. “The man who discovered Lacheneur will know
how to find this traitor D’Escorval,” he remarked.
As for M. de Courtornieu, he took what he called “measures for restoring
this great culprit to the hands of justice.” That is to say, he
despatched couriers in every direction, with orders to make close
inquiries throughout the neighbourhood. His commands were brief, but to
the point; they were to watch the frontier, to submit all travellers to
a rigorous examination, to search the houses and sow the description of
D’Escorval’s appearance broadcast through the land. But first of all he
issued instructions for the arrest of the Abbe Midon and Maurice
d’Escorval.
Among the officers present there was an old lieutenant, who had felt
deeply wounded by some of the imputations which the Duke de Sairmeuse
had cast right and left in his affected wrath. This lieutenant heard the
Marquis de Courtornieu give his orders, and then stepped forward with a
gloomy air, remarking that these measures were doubtless all very well,
but at the same time it was urgent that an investigation should take
place at once, so as to learn for certain how the baron had escaped and
who were his accomplices if he had any. At the mention of this word
“investigation,” both the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de
Courtornieu shuddered. They could not ignore the fact that their
reputations were at stake, and that the merest trifle might disclose the
truth. A neglected precaution, any insignificant detail, an imprudent
word or gesture might ruin their ambitious hopes forever. They trembled
to think that this officer might be a man of unusual shrewdness, who had
suspected their simplicity, and was impatient to verify his
presumptions. In point of fact, they were unnecessarily alarmed, for the
old lieutenant had not the slightest suspicion of the truth. He had
spoken on the impulse of the moment, merely to give vent to his
displeasure. He was not even keen enough to remark a rapid glance which
the duke and the marquis exchanged. Martial noticed this look, however,
and with studied politeness, remarked: “Yes we must institute an
investigation; that suggestion is as shrewd as it is opportune.”
The old lieutenant turned away with a muttered oath. “That coxcomb is
poking fun at me,” he thought; “and he and his father and that prig the
marquis deserve a box on the ears.”
In reality, however, Martial was not poking fun at him. Bold as was his
remark it was made advisedly. To silence all future suspicions it was
absolutely necessary that an investigation should take place
immediately. But then it would, by reason of their position and
functions, naturally devolve on the duke and the marquis, who would know
just how much to conceal, and how much to disclose. They began their
task immediately, with a haste which could not fail to dispel all
doubts, if indeed any existed in the minds of their subordinates.
Martial thought he knew the details of the escape as well as the
fugitives themselves, for even if they had been the actors, he was at
any rate the author of the drama played that night. However, he was soon
obliged to admit that he was mistaken in his opinion; for the
investigation revealed several incomprehensible particulars. It had been
determined beforehand that the baron and the corporal would have to make
two successive descents. Hence the necessity of having two ropes. These
ropes had been provided, and the prisoners must have used them. And yet
only one rope could be found--the one which the peasant woman had
perceived hanging from the rocky platform at the base of the citadel
where it was made fast to an iron crowbar. From the window of the cell,
to the platform, there was no rope, however. “This is most
extraordinary!” murmured Martial, thoughtfully.
“Very strange!” approved M. de Courtornieu.
“How the devil could they have reached the base of the tower?”
“That is what I can’t understand.”
But Martial soon found other causes for surprise. On examining the rope
that remained--the one which had been used in making the descent of the
cliff--he discovered that it was not of a single piece. Two pieces had
been knotted together. The longest piece had evidently been too short.
How did this happen? Could the duke have made a mistake in the height of
the cliff? or had the abbe measured the rope incorrectly? But Martial
had also measured it with his eye, while it was wound round him, and it
had then seemed to him that the rope was much longer, fully a third
longer, than it now appeared.
“There must have been some accident,” he remarked to his father and the
marquis; “what I can’t say.”
“Well, what does it matter?” replied M. de Courtornieu, “you have the
compromising letter, haven’t you?”
But Martial’s mind was one of these that never rest, until they have
solved the problem before them. Accordingly, he insisted on going to
inspect the rocks at the foot of the precipice. Here they discovered
several stains, formed of coagulated blood. “One of the fugitives must
have fallen,” said Martial, quickly, “and been dangerously wounded!”
“Upon my word!” exclaimed the Duke de Sairmeuse, “if it is the Baron
d’Escorval, who has broken his neck, I shall be delighted!”
Martial turned crimson, and looked searchingly at his father. “I
suppose, sir, that you do not mean one word of what you are saying,” he
observed, coldly. “We pledged ourselves upon the honour of our name, to
save the baron. If he has been killed it will be a great misfortune for
us, a very great misfortune.”
When his son addressed him in this haughty freezing tone of his, the
duke never knew how to reply. He was indignant, but his son’s was the
stronger nature.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed M. de Courtornieu; “if the rascal had merely been
wounded we should have known it.”
Such also was Chupin’s opinion. He had been sent for by the duke, and
had just made his appearance. But the old scoundrel, usually so
loquacious and officious, now replied in the briefest fashion; and,
strange to say, he did not offer his services. His habitual assurance
and impudence, and his customary cunning smile, had quite forsaken him;
and in lieu thereof his brow was overcast, and his manners strangely
perturbed. So marked was the change that even the Duke de Sairmeuse
observed it. “What misfortune have you had Master Chupin?” he asked.
“Why, while I was coming here,” replied the old knave in a sullen tone,
“a band of ragamuffins pelted me with mud and stones, and ran after me,
shouting, ‘Traitor! traitor!’ as loud as they could.” He clenched his
fists, as he spoke, as if he were meditating vengeance; then suddenly he
added: “The people of Montaignac are quite pleased this morning. They
know that the baron has escaped, and they are rejoicing.”
Alas! the joy which Chupin spoke of, was destined to be of short
duration, for the execution of the conspirators sentenced on the
preceding afternoon was to take place that very day. At noon the gate of
the citadel was closed, and the drums rolled loudly as a preface to the
coming tragedy. Consternation spread through the town. Doors were
carefully secured, shutters closed, and window-blinds pulled down. The
streets became deserted, and a death-like silence prevailed. At last,
just as three o’clock was striking, the gate of the fortress was
re-opened, and under the lofty archway came fourteen doomed men, each
with a priest by his side. One and twenty had been condemned to death,
but the Baron d’Escorval had eluded the executioner, and remorse or fear
had tempered the Duke de Sairmeuse’s thirst for blood. He and M. de
Courtornieu had granted reprieves to six of the prisoners, and at that
very moment a courier was starting for Paris with six petitions for
pardon, signed by the military commission.
Chanlouineau was not among those for whom royal clemency was solicited.
When he left his cell, without knowing whether his plan for saving the
Baron d’Escorval, had proved of any use or not, he counted and examined
his thirteen comrades with keen anxiety. His eyes betrayed such an agony
of anguish that the priest who accompanied him asked him in a whisper.
“Who are you looking for, my son?”
“For the Baron d’Escorval.”
“He escaped last night.”
“Ah! now I shall die content!” exclaimed the heroic peasant. And he died
as he had sworn he would--without even changing colour--calm and proud,
the name of Marie-Anne upon his lips.
There was one woman, a fair young girl, who was not in the least degree
affected by the tragic incidents attending the repression of the
Montaignac revolt. This was Blanche de Courtornieu, who smiled as
brightly as ever, and who, although her father exercised almost
dictatorial power in conjunction with the Duke de Sairmeuse, did not
raise as much as her little finger to save any one of the condemned
prisoners from execution. These rebels had dared to stop her carriage on
the public road, and this was an offence which she could neither forgive
nor forget. She also knew that she had only owed her liberty to
Marie-Anne’s intercession, and to a woman of such jealous pride this
knowledge was galling in the extreme. Hence, it was with bitter
resentment that, on the morning following her arrival in Montaignac, she
denounced to her father what she styled that Lacheneur girl’s
inconceivable arrogance, and the peasantry’s frightful brutality. And
when the Marquis de Courtornieu asked her if she would consent to give
evidence against the Baron d’Escorval, she coldly replied that she
considered it was her duty to do so. She was fully aware that her
testimony would send the baron to the scaffold, and yet she did not
hesitate a moment. True, she carefully concealed her personal spite, and
declared she was only influenced by the interests of justice.
Impartiality compells us to add, moreover, that she really believed the
Baron d’Escorval to be a leader of the rebels. Chanlouineau had
pronounced the name in her presence, and her error was all the more
excusable as Maurice was usually known in the neighbourhood by his
Christian name. Had the young farmer called to “Monsieur Maurice” for
instructions, Blanche would have understood the situation, but he had
exclaimed, “M. d’Escorval,” and hence her mistake.
After she had delivered to her father her written statement of what
occurred on the highroad on the night of the revolt, the heiress assumed
an attitude of seeming indifference, and when any of her friends chanced
to speak of the rising, she alluded to the plebian conspirators in tones
of proud disdain. In her heart, however, she blessed this timely
outbreak, which had removed her rival from her path. “For now,” thought
she, “the marquis will return to me, and I will make him forget the bold
creature who bewitched him!” In this she was somewhat mistaken. True,
Martial returned and paid his court, but he no longer loved her. He had
detected the calculating ambition she had sought to hide under a mask of
seeming simplicity. He had realised how vain and selfish she was, and
his former admiration was now well nigh transformed into repugnance; for
he could but contrast her character with the noble nature of Marie-Anne,
now lost to him for ever. It was mainly the knowledge that Lacheneur’s
daughter could never be his which prompted him to a seeming
reconciliation with Blanche. He said to himself that the duke, his
father, and the Marquis de Courtornieu had exchanged a solemn pledge,
that he, too, had given his word, and that after all Blanche was his
promised wife. Was it worth while to break off the engagement? Would he
not be compelled to marry some day or another? His rank and name
required him to do so, and such being the case what did it matter who he
married, since the only woman he had ever truly loved--the only woman he
ever could love--was never to be his? To a man of Martial’s education it
was no very difficult task to pay proper court to the jealous Blanche,
to surround her with every attention, and to affect a love he did not
really feel; and, indeed, so perfectly did he play his part, that
Mademoiselle de Courtornieu might well flatter herself with the thought
that she reigned supreme in his affections.
While Martial seemed wholly occupied with thoughts of his approaching
marriage, he was really tortured with anxiety as to the fate which had
overtaken the Baron d’Escorval and the other fugitives. The three
members of the D’Escorval family, the abbe, Marie-Anne, Corporal Bavois,
and four half-pay officers, had all disappeared, leaving no trace
behind them. This was very remarkable, as the search prescribed by MM.
de Sairmeuse and Courtornieu had been conducted with feverish activity,
greatly to the terror of its promoters. Still what could they do? They
had imprudently excited the zeal of their subordinates, and now they
were unable to allay it. Fortunately, however, all the efforts to
discover the fugitives proved unsuccessful; and the only information
that could be obtained came from a peasant, who declared that on the
morning of the escape, just before day-break, he had met a party of a
dozen persons, men and women, who seemed to be carrying a dead body.
This circumstance, taken in connection with the broken rope and the
stains of blood at the bottom of the cliff, made Martial tremble. He was
also strongly impressed by another circumstance, which came to light
when the soldiers on guard the night of the escape were questioned as to
what transpired. “I was on guard in the corridor communicating with the
prisoner’s quarters in the tower,” said one of these soldiers, “when at
about half-past two o’clock, just after Lacheneur had been placed in his
cell, I saw an officer approaching me. I challenged him; he gave me the
countersign, and, naturally, I let him pass. He went down the passage,
and entered the empty room next to M. d’Escorval’s. He remained there
about five minutes.”
“Did you recognize this officer?” asked Martial eagerly.
“No,” answered the soldier. “He wore a large cloak, the collar of which
was turned up so high that it hid his face to the very eyes.”
“Who could this mysterious officer have been?” thought Martial, racking
his brains. “What was he doing in the room where I left the ropes?”
The Marquis de Courtornieu, present at the examination, seemed much
disturbed. Turning to the witness he asked him angrily, “How could you
be ignorant that there were so many sympathizers with this movement
among the garrison? You might have known that this visitor, who
concealed his face so carefully, was an accomplice warned by Bavois, who
had come to see if he needed a helping hand.”
This seemed a plausible explanation, but it did not satisfy Martial. “It
is very strange,” he thought, “that M. d’Escorval has not even deigned
to let me know he is in safety. The service I rendered him deserves
that acknowledgment, at least.”
Such was the young marquis’s anxiety, that despite his repugnance for
Chupin the spy, he resolved to seek that archtraitor’s assistance, with
the view of discovering what had become of the fugitives. It was no
longer easy, however, to secure the old rascal’s services, for since he
had received the price of Lacheneur’s blood--these twenty thousand
francs which had so fascinated him--he had deserted the Duke of
Sairmeuse’s house, and taken up his quarters in a small inn at the
outskirts of the town; where he spent his days alone in a large room on
the second floor. At night-time he barricaded the door, and drank,
drank, drank; and till daybreak he might be heard cursing and singing,
or struggling against imaginary enemies. Still he dared not disobey the
summons which a soldier brought him to hasten to the Hotel de Sairmeuse
at once.
“I wish to discover what has become of the Baron d’Escorval,” said
Martial when the old spy arrived.
Chupin trembled, and a fleeting colour dyed his cheeks. “The Montaignac
police are at your disposal,” he answered sulkily. “They, perhaps, can
satisfy your curiosity, Monsieur le Marquis, but I don’t belong to the
police.”
Was he in earnest, or was he merely simulating a refusal with the view
of obtaining a high price for his services? Martial inclined to the
latter opinion. “You shall have no reason to complain of my generosity,”
said he. “I will pay you well.”
That word “pay” would have made Chupin’s eyes gleam with delight a week
before, but on hearing it now he at once flew into a furious passion.
“So it was to tempt me again that you summoned me here!” he exclaimed.
“You would do much better to leave me quietly at my inn.”
“What do you mean, you fool?”
But Chupin did not even hear the interruption. “People told me,” quoth
he, with increasing fury, “that, by betraying Lacheneur, I should be
doing my duty and serving the king. I betrayed him, and now I am treated
as if I had committed the worst of crimes. Formerly, when I lived by
stealing and poaching, folks despised me, perhaps; but they didn’t shun
me as they did the pestilence. They called me rascal, robber, and the
like; but they would drink with me all the same. To-day, I’ve twenty
thousand francs in my pocket, and yet I’m treated as if I were a
venomous beast. If I approach any one he draws back, and if I enter a
room, those who are there hasten out of it.” At the recollection of the
insults heaped upon him since Lacheneur’s capture, the old rascal’s rage
reached a climax. “Was what I did so abominable?” he pursued. “Then why
did your father propose it? The shame should fall on him. He shouldn’t
have tempted a poor man with wealth like that. If, on the contrary, I
did my duty, let them make laws to protect me.”
Martial perceived the necessity of reassuring this troubled mind.
“Chupin, my boy,” said he, “I don’t ask you to discover M. d’Escorval in
order to denounce him; far from it--I only want you to ascertain if any
one at Saint-Pavin, or at Saint-Jean-de-Coche, knows of his having
crossed the frontier.”
The mention of Saint-Jean-de-Coche made Chupin shudder. “Do you want me
to be murdered?” he exclaimed, remembering Balstain’s vow. “I must let
you know that I value my life now that I’m rich.” And seized with a sort
of panic he fled precipitately.
Martial was stupefied with astonishment. “One might really suppose that
the rascal was sorry for what he had done,” thought he.
If that were really the case, Chupin was not the only person afflicted
with qualms of conscience, for both M. de Courtornieu and the Duke de
Sairmeuse were secretly blaming themselves for the exaggeration of their
first reports, and the manner in which they had magnified the
proportions of the rebellion. They accused each other of undue haste, of
neglecting the proper forms of process, and had to admit in their hearts
that the sentences were most unjust. They each tried to make the other
responsible for the blood which had been spilt; and were certainly doing
all that they could to obtain a pardon for the six prisoners who had
been reprieved. But their efforts did not succeed; for one night a
courier arrived at Montaignac, bearing the following laconic despatch:
“The twenty-one convicted prisoners must all be executed.” That is to
say, the Duke de Richelieu, and M. Decazes, with their colleagues of the
council of ministers, had decided that the petitions for clemency must
be refused.
This despatch was a terrible blow for the Duke de Sairmeuse and M. de
Courtornieu. They knew, better than any one else, how little these poor
fellows were deserving of death. They knew it would soon be publicly
proved that two of these six men had taken no part whatever in the
conspiracy. What was to be done? Martial wished his father to resign his
authority; but the duke had not the strength of mind to do so. Besides,
M. de Courtornieu encouraged him to retain his functions, remarking,
that no doubt all this was very unfortunate, but, since the wine was
drawn, it was necessary to drink it; indeed, his grace could not now
draw back without causing a terrible scandal.
Accordingly, the next day a dismal roll of drums was heard again, and
the six doomed men, two of whom were known to be innocent, were led
outside the walls of the citadel and shot, on the same spot where, only
a week before, fourteen of their comrades had fallen.
The prime mover in the conspiracy had not, however, yet been tried. He
had fallen into a state of gloomy despondency, which lasted during his
whole term of imprisonment. He was terribly broken, both in body and
mind. Once only did the blood mount to his pallid cheeks, and that was
on the morning when the Duke de Sairmeuse entered the cell to examine
him. “It was you who drove me to do what I did,” exclaimed Lacheneur.
“God sees us and judges us both!”
Unhappy man! his faults had been great: his chastisement was terrible.
He had sacrificed his children on the altar of his wounded pride; and
did not even have the consolation of pressing them to his heart and of
asking their forgiveness before he died. Alone in his cell, he could not
turn his mind from his son and daughter; but such was the terrible
situation in which he had placed himself that he dared not ask what had
become of them. Through a compassionate keeper, however, he learned that
nothing had been heard of Jean, and that it was supposed Marie-Anne had
escaped to some foreign country with the D’Escorval family. When
summoned before the court for trial, Lacheneur was calm and dignified in
manner. He made no attempt at defence, but answered every question with
perfect frankness. He took all the blame upon himself, and would not
give the name of any one accomplice. Condemned to be beheaded, he was
executed on the following day, walking to the scaffold and mounting to
the platform with a firm step. A few seconds later the blade of the
guillotine fell with a loud whirr, and the rebellion of the fourth of
March counted its twenty-first victim.
That same evening the townsfolk of Montaignac were busy talking of the
magnificent rewards which were to be bestowed on the Duke de Sairmeuse
and the Marquis de Courtornieu, for their services to the royal cause,
and a report was flying abroad to the effect that Martial and
Mademoiselle Blanche were now to be married with great pomp, and with as
little delay as possible.