Part 14

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.

XXIII.

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.”