After Lacheneur had been executed, the co-dictators, regretting, as we
have already said, the precipitation with which they had sentenced many
of the minor partisans of the revolt, sought to propitiate public
opinion by treating the remaining prisoners with unexpected clemency.
Out of a hundred peasants still confined in the citadel, only eighteen
or twenty were tried, and the sentences pronounced upon them were light
in the extreme; all the others were released. Major Carini, the leader
of the military conspirators in Montaignac, had expected to lose his
head, but to his own astonishment he was only sentenced to two years’
imprisonment. This tardy indulgence did not, however, efface popular
recollections of previous severity, and the townsfolk of Montaignac
openly declared that if MM. de Sairmeuse and de Courtornieu were
clement, it was only because they were afraid of the consequences that
might await continued tyranny. So thus it came to pass that people
execrated them for their past cruelty, and despised them for their
subsequent cowardice. However, both the duke and the marquis were
ignorant of the true current of public opinion, and hurried on with
their preparations for their children’s wedding. It was arranged that
the ceremony should take place on the 17th of April, at the village
church of Sairmeuse, and that a grand entertainment should be given to
the guests in the duke’s chateau, which was indeed transformed into a
fairy palace for the occasion.
A new priest, who had taken the Abbe Midon’s place, celebrated the
nuptial mass, and then addressed the newly-wedded pair in congratulatory
terms. “You will be, you _must_ be happy!” he exclaimed in conclusion,
fully believing for the moment that he spoke the words of prophecy. And
who would not have believed as he did? Where could two young people be
found more richly dowered with all the attributes of worldly
happiness--youth, health, opulence, and rank. And yet although the new
marchioness’s eyes sparkled joyfully, the bridegroom seemed strangely
preoccupied. Blanche was before him radiant with beauty, proud with
success; but his mind, despite all efforts, wandered back to
Marie-Anne--to the Marie-Anne he had lost, who had disappeared, whom he
might never behold again. “Ah! if she had but loved him,” thought
Martial, “what happiness would have been his. But now he was bound for
life to a woman whom he did not love.”
At dinner, however, he succeeded in shaking off his sadness, thanks,
perhaps, to the exhilarating influence of several glasses of champagne,
and when the guests rose from table he had almost forgotten his
forebodings. He was rising in his turn, when a servant approached him
and whispered: “There is a young peasant in the hall who wishes to speak
with Monsieur le Marquis. He would not give me his name.”
“Wouldn’t give his name?” ejaculated Martial. “Ah, well, on one’s
wedding-day one must grant an audience to everybody.” And with a smile
he descended the staircase. Beside the fragrant flowering plants with
which the vestibule was lined, he found a young a man with a pale face,
whose eyes glittered with feverish brilliancy. On recognising him
Martial could not restrain an exclamation of surprise. “Jean Lacheneur!”
he exclaimed; “you imprudent fellow!”
Young Lacheneur stepped forward. “You thought you were rid of me,” he
said, bitterly. “But you see you were mistaken. However, you can order
your people to arrest me if you choose.”
Martial’s brow lowered on hearing these insulting words. “What do you
want?” he asked coldly.
“I am to give you this on behalf of Maurice d’Escorval,” replied Jean,
drawing a letter from his pocket.
With an eager hand, Martial broke the seal; but scarcely had he glanced
at the contents than he turned as pale as death and staggered back,
exclaiming, “Infamous!”
“What am I to say to Maurice,” insisted Jean. “What do you intend to
do?”
“Come--you shall see,” replied the young marquis, seizing Jean by the
arm and dragging him up the staircase. The expression of Martial’s
features had so changed during his brief absence that the wedding guests
looked at him with astonishment when he re-entered the grand saloon
holding an open letter in one hand, and leading with the other a young
peasant whom no one recognised. “Where is my father?” he asked, in a
husky voice; “where is the Marquis de Courtornieu?”
The duke and the marquis were with Blanche in a little drawing-room
leading out of the main hall. Martial hastened there, followed by a
crowd of wondering guests, who, foreseeing a stormy scene, were
determined to witness it. He walked straight towards M. de Courtornieu,
who was standing by the fire-place, and handing him the letter: “Read!”
said he, in a threatening voice.
M. de Courtornieu mechanically obeyed the injunction; but suddenly he
turned livid; the paper trembled in his hands: he averted his glance,
and was obliged to lean against the mantelpiece for support. “I don’t
understand,” he stammered: “no, I don’t understand.”
The duke and Blanche had both sprung forward. “What is the matter?” they
both asked in one breath; “what has happened?”
Martial’s reply was to tear the letter from the Marquis de Courtornieu’s
hands, and to turn to his father with these words: “Listen to this note
I have just received.”
Three hundred people were assembled in the room, or clustering round the
doorway, but the silence was so perfect that Martial’s voice reached the
farthest extremity of the grand hall as he read: “Monsieur le
Marquis--Upon the honour of your name, and in exchange for a dozen lines
that threatened you with ruin, you promised us the Baron d’Escorval’s
life. You did, indeed, bring the ropes by which he was to make his
escape, but they had been previously cut, and my father was precipitated
on to the rocks below. You have forfeited your honour, sir. You have
soiled your name with opprobrium, and while a drop of blood remains in
my veins, I will leave no means untried to punish you for your cowardice
and treason. By killing me you would, it is true, escape the
chastisement I am reserving for you. I challenge you to fight with me.
Shall I wait for you to-morrow on La Reche? At what hour? With what
weapons? If you are the vilest of men, you can appoint a meeting, and
then send your gendarmes to arrest me. That would be an act worthy of
you.
“MAURICE D’ESCORVAL.”
* * * * *
On hearing these words the Duke de Sairmeuse was seized with despair. He
saw the secret of the baron’s flight made public, and his own political
prospects ruined. “Hush!” he hurriedly exclaimed in a low voice; “hush,
wretched fellow, you will ruin us!”
But Martial did not even seem to hear him. He finished his perusal, and
then looking the Marquis de Courtornieu full in the face: “_Now_, what
do you think?” he asked.
“I am still unable to comprehend,” replied the old nobleman, coldly.
Martial raised his hand; and every one present believed that he was
about to strike his father-in-law. “You don’t comprehend,” he exclaimed
sarcastically. “Ah, well, if _you_ don’t, _I_ do. I know who that
officer was who entered the room where I deposited the ropes--and I know
what took him there.” He paused, crumpled the letter between his hands,
and threw it in M. de Courtornieu’s face, with these last words: “Here,
take your reward, you cowardly traitor!”
Overwhelmed by this denouement the marquis sank back into an arm-chair,
and Martial, still holding Jean Lacheneur by the arm, was on the point
of leaving the room, when his young wife, wild with despair, tried to
detain him. “You shall not go!” she exclaimed, “you cannot! Where are
you going? That young fellow with you is Jean Lacheneur. I recognize
him. You want to join his sister--your mistress!”
Martial indignantly pushed his wife aside. “How dare you insult the
noblest and purest of women,” he exclaimed. “Ah, well--yes--I am going
to find Marie-Anne. Farewell!” And with these words he left the
chateau.