Part 10

“It’s a great crime to charge a man falsely,” murmured Marie-Anne, with simple honesty. “No doubt,” rejoined Chanlouineau, “but I wish to save the baron, and I cannot choose my means. As I knew that the marquis had been wounded, I declared that he was fighting against the troops by my side and asked that he should be summoned before the tribunal; swearing that I had in my possession unquestionable proofs of his complicity.”

“Did you say that the Marquis de Sairmeuse had been wounded?” inquired Marie-Anne.

Chanlouineau’s face wore a look of intense astonishment. “What!” he exclaimed, “don’t you know----?” Then after an instant’s reflection: “Fool that I am!” he resumed. “After all who could have told you what happened? However, you remember that while we were on our way to the Croix-d’Arcy, after your father had rode on in advance, Maurice placed himself at the head of one division, and you walked beside him, while your brother Jean and myself stayed behind to urge the laggards forward. We were performing our duty conscientiously enough, when suddenly we heard the gallop of a horse behind us. ‘We must know who is coming,’ said Jean to me. So we paused. The horse soon reached us; we caught the bridle and held him. Can you guess who the rider was? Why, Martial de Sairmeuse. It would be impossible to describe your brother’s fury when he recognized the marquis. ‘At last I find you, you wretched noble!’ he exclaimed, ‘and now we will settle our account! After reducing my father, who had just given you a fortune, to despair and penury, you tried to degrade my sister. I will have my revenge! Down, we must fight!’”

Marie-Anne could scarcely tell whether she was awake or dreaming. “What, my brother challenged the marquis!” she murmured, “Is it possible?”

“Brave as the marquis may be,” pursued Chanlouineau, “he did not seem inclined to accept the invitation. He stammered out something like this: ‘You are mad--you are jesting--haven’t we always been friends? What does all this mean?’ Jean ground his teeth in rage. ‘This means that we have endured your insulting familiarity long enough,’ he replied, ‘and if you don’t dismount and fight me fairly, I will blow your brains out!’ Your brother, as he spoke, manipulated his pistol in so threatening a manner that the marquis jumped off his horse and addressing me: ‘You see, Chanlouineau,’ he said, ‘I must fight a duel or submit to murder. If Jean kills me there is no more to be said--but if I kill him, what is to be done?’ I told him he would be free to go off unmolested on condition he gave me his word not to proceed to Montaignac before two o’clock. ‘Then I accept the challenge,’ said he, ‘give me a weapon.’ I gave him my sword, your brother drew his, and they took their places in the middle of the highway.”

The young farmer paused to take breath, and then more slowly he resumed: “Marie-Anne, your father and I misjudged your brother. Poor Jean’s appearance is terribly against him. His face indicates a treacherous, cowardly nature, his smile is cunning, and his eyes always shun yours. We distrusted him, but we should ask his forgiveness for having done so. A man who fights as I saw him fight, deserves all our confidence. For this combat in the road, and in the darkness, was terrible. They attacked each other furiously, and at last Jean fell.”

“Ah! my brother is dead!” exclaimed Marie Anne.

“No,” promptly replied Chanlouineau; “at least I have reason to hope not; and I know he has been well cared for. The duel had another witness, a man named Poignot, whom you must remember as he was one of your father’s tenants. He took Jean away with him, and promised me that he would conceal him and care for him. As for the marquis, he showed me that he was wounded as well, and then he remounted his horse, saying: ‘What could I do? He would have it so.’”

Marie-Anne now understood everything. “Give me the letter,” she said to Chanlouineau, “I will go to the duke. I will find some way of reaching him, and then God will guide me in the right course to pursue.”

The noble-hearted young farmer calmly handed her the scrap of paper which might have been the means of his own salvation. “You must on no account allow the duke to suppose that you have the proof with which you threaten him about your person. He might be capable of any infamy under such circumstances. He will probably say, at first, that he can do nothing--that he sees no way to save the baron; but you must tell him that he must find a means, if he does not wish this letter sent to Paris, to one of his enemies----”

He paused, for the bolt outside was being withdrawn. A moment later Corporal Bavois re-appeared. “The half-hour expired ten minutes ago,” said the old soldier sadly, “and I must obey my orders.”

“Coming,” replied Chanlouineau; “we have finished.” And then handing Marie-Anne the second letter he had taken from his sleeve, “This is for you,” he added. “You will read it when I am no more. Pray, pray, do not cry so! Be brave! You will soon be Maurice’s wife. And when you are happy, think sometimes of the poor peasant who loved you so.”

Marie-Anne could not utter a word, but she raised her face to his. “Ah! I dare not ask it!” he exclaimed. And for the first and only time in life he clasped her in his arms, and pressed his lips to her pallid cheek. “Now, good-bye,” he said once more. “Do not lose a moment. Good-bye, for ever!”

XIX.

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?”