Time gradually heals all wounds; and its effacing fingers spare but few
traces of events; which in their season may have absorbed the attention
of many thousand minds. What remained to attest the reality of that
fierce whirlwind of passion which had swept over the peaceful valley of
the Oiselle? Only a charred ruin on La Reche, and a grave in the
cemetery, on which was inscribed: “Marie-Anne Lacheneur, died at the age
of twenty. Pray for her!” Recent as were the events of which that ruin
and that grave stone seemed as it were the prologue and the epilogue,
they were already relegated to the legendary past. The peasantry of
Sairmeuse had other things to think about--the harvest, the weather,
their sheep and cattle, and it was only a few old men, the politicians
of the village, who at times turned their attention from agricultural
incidents to remember the rising of Montaignac. Sometimes, during the
long winter evenings, when they were gathered together at the local
hostelry of the Boeuf Couronne, they would lay down their greasy cards
and gravely discuss the events of the past year. And they never failed
to remark that almost all the actors in that bloody drama at Montaignac
had in common parlance, “come to a bad end.” The victors and the
vanquished seemed to encounter the same fate. Lacheneur had been
beheaded; Chanlouineau, shot; Marie-Anne, poisoned, and Chupin, the
traitor, the Duke de Sairmeuse’s spy, stabbed to death. It was true that
the Marquis de Courtornieu lived, or rather survived, but death would
have seemed a mercy in comparison with such a total annihilation of
intelligence. He had fallen below the level of a brute beast, which at
least is endowed with instinct. Since his daughter’s departure he had
been ostensibly cared for by two servants, who did not allow him to give
them much trouble, for whenever they wished to go out they complacently
confined him, not in his room, but in the back cellar, so as to prevent
his shrieks and ravings from being heard outside. If some folks supposed
for awhile that the Sairmeuses would escape the fate of the others, they
were grievously mistaken, for it was not long before the curse fell upon
them as well.
One fine December morning, the Duke left the chateau to take part in a
wolf-hunt in the neighbourhood. At nightfall, his horse returned,
panting, covered with foam, and riderless. What had become of his
master? A search was instituted at once, and all night long a score of
men, carrying torches, wandered through the woods, shouting and calling
at the top of their voices. Five days went by, and the search for the
missing man was almost abandoned, when a shepherd lad, pale with fear,
came to the chateau to tell the steward that he had discovered the Duke
de Sairmeuse’s body--lying all bloody and mangled at the foot of a
precipice. It seemed strange that so excellent a rider should have met
with such a fate; and there might have been some doubt as to its being
an accident, had it not been for the explanation given by several of his
grace’s grooms. “The duke was riding an exceedingly vicious beast,”
these men remarked. “She was always taking fright and shying at
everything.”
A few days after this occurrence Jean Lacheneur left the neighbourhood.
This singular fellow’s conduct had caused considerable comment. When
Marie-Anne died, although he was her natural heir, he at first refused
to have anything to do with her property. “I don’t want to take anything
that came to her through Chanlouineau,” he said to every one right and
left, thus slandering his sister’s memory, as he had slandered her when
alive. Then, after a short absence from the district, and without any
apparent reason, he suddenly changed his mind. He not only accepted the
property, but made all possible haste to obtain possession of it. He
excused his past conduct as best he could; but if he was to be believed,
instead of acting in his own interest, he was merely carrying his
sister’s wishes into effect, for he over and over again declared that
whatever price her property might fetch not a sou of its value would go
into his own pockets. This much is certain, as soon as he obtained legal
possession of the estate, he sold it, troubling himself but little as to
the price he received, provided the purchasers paid cash. However, he
reserved the sumptuous furniture of the room on the upper floor of the
Borderie and burnt it--from the bed-stead to the curtains and the
carpet--one evening in the little garden in front of the house. This
singular act became the talk of the neighbourhood, and the villagers
universally opined that Jean had lost his head. Those who hesitated to
agree with this opinion, expressed it a short time afterwards, when it
became known that Jean Lacheneur had engaged himself with a company of
strolling players who stopped at Montaignac for a few days. The young
fellow had both good advice and kind friends. M. d’Escorval and the abbe
had exerted all their eloquence to induce him to return to Paris, and
complete his studies; but in vain.
The priest and the baron no longer had to conceal themselves. Thanks to
Martial de Sairmeuse they were now installed, the former at the
parsonage and the latter at Escorval, as in days gone by. Acquitted at
his new trial, re-installed in possession of his property, reminded of
his frightful fall only by a slight limp, the baron would have deemed
himself a fortunate man had it not been for his great anxiety on his
son’s account. Poor Maurice! The nails that secured Marie-Anne’s coffin
ere it was lowered into the sod seemed to have pierced his heart; and
his very life now seemed dependent on the hope of finding his child.
Relying already on the Abbe Midon’s protection and assistance, he had
confessed everything to his father, and had even confided his secret to
Corporal Bavois, who was now an honoured guest at Escorval; and all
three had promised him their best assistance. But the task was a
difficult one and such chances of success as might have existed were
greatly diminished by Maurice’s determination that Marie-Anne’s name
should not be mentioned in prosecuting the search. In this he acted very
differently to Jean. The latter slandered his murdered sister right and
left, while Maurice sedulously sought to prevent her memory being
tarnished.
The Abbe Midon did not seek to turn Maurice from his idea. “We shall
succeed all the same,” he said kindly, “with time and patience any
mystery can be solved.” He divided the department into a certain number
of districts; and one of the little band went day by day from house to
house questioning the inmates, in the most cautious manner, for fear of
arousing suspicion; for a peasant becomes intractable if his suspicions
are but once aroused. However, weeks went by, and still the quest was
fruitless. Maurice was losing all hope. “My child must have died on
coming into the world,” he said, again and again.
But the abbe re-assured him. “I am morally certain that such was not the
case,” he replied. “By Marie-Anne’s absence I can tell pretty nearly the
date of her child’s birth. I saw her after her recovery; she was
comparatively gay and smiling. Draw your own conclusions.”
“And yet there isn’t a nook or corner for miles round which we haven’t
explored.”
“True; but we must extend the circle of our investigations.”
The priest was now only striving to gain time, which as he knew full
well is the sovereign balm for sorrow. His confidence had been very
great at first, but it had sensibly diminished since he had questioned
an old woman, who had the reputation of being one of the greatest
gossips of the community. On being skilfully catechised by the abbe,
this worthy dame replied that she knew nothing of such a child, but that
there must be one in the neighbourhood, as this was the third time she
had been questioned on the subject. Intense as was his surprise, the
abbe succeeded in concealing it. He set the old gossip talking, and
after two hours’ conversation, he arrived at the conclusion that two
persons in addition to Maurice were searching for Marie-Anne’s child.
Who these persons were and what their aim was, were points which the
abbe failed to elucidate. “Ah” thought he, “after all, rascals have
their use on earth. If we only had a man like Chupin to set on the
trail!”
The old poacher was dead, however, and his eldest son--the one who knew
Blanche’s secret--was in Paris. Only the widow and the second son
remained at Sairmeuse. They had not, as yet, succeeded in discovering
the twenty thousand francs, but the fever for gold was still burning in
their veins, and they persisted in their search. From morn till night
the mother and son toiled on, until the earth round their hut had been
fully explored to the depth of six feet. However, a peasant passed by
one day and made a remark which suddenly caused them to abandon their
search. “Really, my boy,” he said, addressing young Chupin, “I didn’t
think you were such a fool as to persist in bird’s nesting after the
chick was hatched and had flown. Your brother in Paris can no doubt tell
you where the treasure was concealed.”
“Holy Virgin! you’re right!” cried the younger Chupin. “Wait till I get
money enough to take me to Paris, and we’ll see.”