Part 4

It was the 4th of March, and half-past four in the evening when M. d’Escorval and the cure started from Sairmeuse bound for the cottage at La Reche. They were both anxious as to the result of the step they were taking, and scarcely exchanged a dozen words as they walked towards the banks of the Oiselle. They had crossed the river and traversed the familiar pine grove, when on reaching the outskirts of the waste they witnessed a strange sight well calculated to increase their anxiety and alarm.

Night was swiftly approaching, but yet it was still sufficiently light to distinguish objects at a short distance, and on the summit of the slope they could perceive in front of Lacheneur’s cottage a group of twenty persons who, judging by their frequent gesticulations, were engaged in animated conversation. Lacheneur himself was there, and his manner plainly indicated that he was in a state of great excitement. Suddenly he waved his hand, the others clustered round him, and he began to speak. What was he saying? The baron and the priest were still too far off to distinguish his words, but when he ceased they were startled by a loud acclamation which literally rent the air. Suddenly the former lord of Sairmeuse struck a match, and setting fire to a bundle of straw lying before him he tossed it on to the roof of the cottage, shouting as he did so, “Yes, the die is cast! and this will prove to you that I shall not draw back!”

Five minutes later the house was in flames and in the distance the baron and his companion could perceive a ruddy glare illuminating the windows of the citadel at Montaignac, while on every hillside round about glowed the light of other incendiary fires. The whole district was answering Lacheneur’s signal.

XII.

Ah! ambition is a fine thing! The Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu were considerably past middle-age; they had weathered many storms and vicissitudes; they possessed millions in hard cash, and owned the finest estates in the province. Under these circumstances it might have been supposed that their only desire was to end their days in peace and quietness. It would have been easy for them to lead a happy and useful life by seeking to promote the welfare of the district, and they might have gone down to their graves amid a chorus of benedictions and regrets.

But no. They longed to have a hand in managing the state vessel; they were not content with remaining simple passengers. The duke, appointed to the command of the military forces, and the marquis, invested with high judicial functions at Montaignac, were both obliged to leave their beautiful chateaux and install themselves in somewhat dingy quarters in the town. And yet they did not murmur at the change, for their vanity was satisfied. Louis XVIII. was on the throne; their prejudices were triumphant; and they felt supremely happy. It is true that sedition was already rife on every side, but had they not hundreds and thousands of allies at hand to assist them in suppressing it? And when thoughtful politicians spoke of “discontent,” the duke and his associates looked at them with the thorough contempt of the sceptic who does not believe in ghosts.

On the 4th of March, 1816, the duke was just sitting down to dinner at his house in Montaignac when he heard a loud noise in the hall. He rose to go and see what was the matter when the door was suddenly flung open and a man entered the room panting and breathless. This man was Chupin, once a poacher, but now enjoying the position of head gamekeeper on the Sairmeuse estates. It was evident, from his manner and appearance, that something very extraordinary had happened.

“What is the matter?” inquired the duke.

“They are coming!” cried Chupin; “they are already on the way!”

“Who are coming? who?”

Chupin made no verbal reply, but handed the duke a copy of the letter written by Martial under Chanlouineau’s dictation. “My dear friend,” so M. de Sairmeuse read. “We are at last agreed, and the marriage is decided on. We are now busy preparing for the wedding, which will take place on the fourth of March.” The date was no longer blank: but still the duke had naturally failed to understand the purport of the missive. “Well, what of it?” he asked.

Chupin tore his hair. “They are on the way,” he repeated. “The peasants--all the peasants of the district, they intend to take possession of Montaignac, dethrone Louis XVIII., bring back the emperor, or at least, the emperor’s son, and crown him as Napoleon II. Ah, the wretches! they have deceived me. I suspected this outbreak, but I did not think it was so near at hand.”

This unexpected intelligence well-nigh stupefied the duke. “How many are there?” he asked.

“Ah! how do I know, your grace? Two thousand, perhaps--perhaps ten thousand.”

“All the town’s people are with us.”

“No, your grace, no. The rebels have accomplices here. All the retired officers of the imperial army are waiting to assist them.”

“Who are the leaders of the movement?”

“Lacheneur, the Abbe Midon, Chanlouineau, the Baron d’Escorval----”

“Enough!” cried the duke.

Now that the danger was certain, his coolness returned, and his herculean form, a trifle bowed by the weight of years, rose to its full height. He gave the bell-rope a violent pull; and directly his valet entered, he bade him bring his uniform and pistols at once. The servant was about to obey, when the duke added: “Wait! Let some one take a horse, and go and tell my son to come here without a moment’s delay. Take one of the swiftest horses. The messenger ought to go to Sairmeuse and back in two hours.” On hearing these words, Chupin pulled at the duke’s coat tail to attract his attention.

“Well, what is it now?” asked M. de Sairmeuse impatiently.

The old poacher raised his finger to his lips, as if recommending silence, and as soon as the valet had left the room, he exclaimed: “It is useless to send for the marquis!”

“And why, you fool?”

“Because, because--excuse me--I----”

“Zounds! will you speak, or not?”

Chupin regretted that he had gone so far. “Because the marquis----”

“Well?”

“He is engaged in it.”

The duke overturned the dinner-table with a terrible blow of his clenched fist. “You lie, you wretch!” he thundered with terrible oaths.

His anger was so threatening, that the old poacher sprang to the door and turned the knob, ready for flight. “May I lose my head if I do not speak the truth,” he insisted. “Ah! Lacheneur’s daughter is a regular sorceress. All the gallants of the neighbourhood are in the ranks; Chanlouineau, young D’ Escorval, your son----”

M. de Sairmeuse was pouring forth a torrent of curses upon Marie-Anne when his valet re-entered the room. He suddenly checked himself, put on his uniform, and ordering Chupin to follow him, he hastened from the house. He was still hoping that Chupin had exaggerated the danger; but when he reached the Place d’Armes commanding an extensive view of the surrounding country, whatever illusions he may have retained immediately vanished. Signal lights gleamed on every side, and Montaignac seemed surrounded by a circle of flame.

“There are the signals,” murmured Chupin. “The rebels will be here before two o’clock in the morning.”

The duke made no reply, but hastened towards M. de Courtornieu’s house. He was striding onward, when on turning a corner, he espied two men talking in a doorway; they also had perceived him, and at sight of his glittering epaulettes they both took flight. The duke instinctively started in pursuit, overtook one of the men, and seizing him by the collar, sternly asked: “Who are you? What is your name?”

The man was silent, and his captor shook him so roughly that two pistols concealed under his over-coat, fell to the ground. “Ah, brigand!” exclaimed M. de Sairmeuse, “so you are one of the conspirators against the king!”

Then without another word, he dragged the man to the citadel, gave him in charge of the astonished soldiers, and again hastened after M. de Courtornieu. He expected to find the marquis terrified; but on the contrary he seemed perfectly delighted.

“At last,” he said, “there comes an opportunity for us to display our devotion and our zeal--and without danger! We have good walls, strong gates, and three thousand soldiers at our command. These peasants are fools! But be grateful for their folly, my dear duke, and run and order out the Montaignac chasseurs----” He suddenly paused, and then with a gesture of annoyance, he resumed: “The deuce! I am expecting Blanche this evening. She was to leave Courtornieu after dinner. Heaven grant she may meet with no misfortune on the way!”

The Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu had more time before them than they supposed. The rebels were advancing, but not so rapidly as Chupin had stated, for Lacheneur’s plans had been disarranged by two unforeseen circumstances.

When standing beside his burning cottage, he had counted the signal fires that blazed out in answer to his own, and found their number corresponded with his expectations; he joyfully exclaimed: “See all our friends keep their word! They are ready; and are now on their way to the meeting place. Let us start at once, for we must be there first!”

His horse was brought him, and one foot was already in the stirrup when two men sprang from the neighbouring grove and darted towards him. One of them seized the horse by the bridle.

“The Abbe Midon!” exclaimed Lacheneur, in amazement; “M. d’Escorval!” And foreseeing, perhaps, what was to come, he added, in a tone of concentrated fury: “What do you two want with me?”

“We wish to prevent the accomplishment of an act of madness!” exclaimed M. d’Escorval. “Hatred has crazed you, Lacheneur!”

“You know nothing of my projects!”

“Do you think that I don’t suspect them? You hope to capture Montaignac----”

“What does that matter to you?” interrupted Lacheneur, angrily.

But M. d’Escorval would not be silenced. He seized his former friend by the arm, and in a voice loud enough to be heard distinctly by every one present, he continued: “You foolish fellow! You have forgotten that Montaignac is a fortified city, surrounded by deep moats and high walls! You have forgotten that behind these fortifications there is a garrison commanded by a man whose energy and bravery are beyond all question--the Duke de Sairmeuse.”

Lacheneur struggled to free himself from the baron’s grasp. “Everything has been arranged,” he replied, “and they are expecting us at Montaignac. You would be as sure of this as I am myself, if you had only seen the lights gleaming in the windows of the citadel. And look, you can see them yet. These lights tell me that two or three hundred of Napoleon’s old officers will come and open the gates of the town as soon as we make our appearance.”

“And after that! If you take Montaignac, what will you do then? Do you imagine the English will give you back your emperor? Isn’t Napoleon II. an Austrian prisoner. Have you forgotten that the allied sovereigns have left a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers within a day’s march of Paris?”

Sullen murmurs were heard among Lacheneur’s followers.

“But all this is nothing,” continued the baron. “The chief danger lies in the fact that there are generally as many traitors as dupes in an undertaking of this sort.”

“Whom do you call dupes?”

“All those who mistake their illusions for realities, as you have done; all those who wishing something to happen, are convinced that it _will_ happen--simply because they wish it so. And besides do you really suppose that neither the Duke de Sairmeuse nor the Marquis de Courtornieu has been warned of your attempt?”

Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders. “Who could have warned them?” he asked complacently. But his tranquility was feigned; as the glance he cast on Jean only too plainly proved. Frigid indeed was the tone in which he added: “It is probable that the duke and the marquis are at this very moment in the power of our friends.”

The cure now attempted to second the baron’s efforts. “You will not go, Lacheneur,” he said. “You cannot remain deaf to the voice of reason. You are an honest man; think of the frightful responsibility you assume! Upon these frail hopes you are imperilling hundreds of brave lives? I tell you that you will not succeed; you will be betrayed; I am sure you will be betrayed!”

An expression of horrible agony contracted Lacheneur’s features. It was evident to every one that he was deeply moved; and, perhaps, matters might have taken a very different course, had it not been for Chanlouineau’s intervention. “We are wasting too much time in foolish prattle,” he exclaimed, stepping forward and brandishing his gun.

Lacheneur started as if he had been struck by a whip. He rudely freed himself from his friend’s grasp, and leaped into the saddle. “Forward!” he ordered.

But the baron and the priest did not yet despair; they sprang to the horse’s head. “Lacheneur,” cried the priest, “beware! The blood you are about to spill will fall on your own head, and on the heads of your children!”

Arrested by these prophetic words, the little band paused, and at the same moment a figure clad in the costume of a peasant issued from the ranks.

“Marie-Anne!” exclaimed the abbe and the baron in the same breath.

“Yes it is I,” replied the young girl, doffing the large hat which had partially concealed her face; “I wish to share the dangers of those who are dear to me--share in their victory or their defeat. Your advice comes too late, gentlemen. Do you see those lights on the horizon? They tell us that the people of the province are repairing to the cross-roads at the Croix d’Arcy, our general meeting place. Before two o’clock fifteen hundred men will be gathered there awaiting my father’s commands. Would you have him leave these men, whom he has called from their peaceful firesides, without a leader? No, it is impossible!”

She evidently shared her lover’s and her father’s madness, even if she did not share all their hopes. “No, there must be no more hesitation, no more parleying,” she continued. “Prudence now would be the height of folly. There is no more danger in a retreat than in an advance. Do not try to detain my father, gentlemen; each moment of delay may, perhaps, cost a man’s life. And now, my friends, forward!”

A loud cheer answered her, and the little band descended the hill.

But M. d’Escorval could not allow his own son, whom he now perceived in the ranks, to depart in this fashion: “Maurice!” he cried.

The young fellow hesitated, but finally stepped forward.

“You will not follow these madmen, Maurice?” said the baron.

“I must follow them, father.”

“I forbid it.”

“Alas! father, I can’t obey you. I have promised--I have sworn. I am second in command.” If his voice had a mournful ring, plainly enough he was at all events determined.

“My son!” exclaimed M. d’Escorval; “unfortunate boy! Don’t you know that you are marching to certain death?”

“Then all the more reason, father, why I shouldn’t break my word.”

“And your mother, Maurice, your mother whom you forget!”

A tear glistened in the young fellow’s eye. “I am sure,” he replied, “that my mother would rather weep for her dead son than keep him near her dishonoured, and branded as a coward and a traitor. Farewell! father.”

M. d’Escorval appreciated the nobility of mind which Maurice’s conduct implied. He opened his arms, and pressed his son convulsively to his heart, feeling that it might be for the last time in life. “Farewell!” he faltered, “Farewell!”

A minute later Maurice had rejoined his comrades, now on the plain below, leaving the baron standing motionless and overwhelmed with sorrow.

Suddenly M. d’Escorval started from his reverie. “A single hope remains, abbe!” he cried.

“Alas!” murmured the priest.

“Oh--I am not mistaken. Marie-Anne just told us the place of rendezvous. By running to Escorval and harnessing the cabriolet, we might be able to reach the Croix d’Arcy before this party arrives there. Your voice, which touched Lacheneur, will touch the hearts of his accomplices. We will persuade these poor, misguided men to return home. Come, abbe; come quickly!”

They tarried no longer, but swiftly descended towards the ferry.

XIII.

The clock in the church tower of Sairmeuse was just striking eight when Lacheneur and his little band of followers left La Reche. An hour later, Blanche de Courtornieu, after dining alone with Aunt Medea at the chateau, ordered the carriage to take her to Montaignac. Since her father’s duties had compelled him to reside in the town they only met on Sundays, when it either happened that Blanche went to Montaignac, or the marquis paid a visit to his estate.

Now this was Thursday evening, and the servants were consequently somewhat surprised when they heard that their young mistress was going to “the town.” Her journey was prompted, however, by somewhat singular circumstances.

Six days had elapsed since Martial’s last visit to Courtornieu, six days of suspense and anguish for the jealous Blanche. What Aunt Medea had to endure during this interval, only poor dependents in rich families can understand. For the first three days Blanche succeeded in preserving a semblance of self-control; but on the fourth she could endure the suspense no longer, and in spite of the breach of etiquette the step involved, she despatched a messenger to Sairmeuse to inquire if Martial were ill, or if he had been summoned away?

The messenger learnt that the young marquis was in very good health, and that he spent the entire day, from early morn to dewy eve, shooting in the neighbouring preserves; going to bed every evening as soon as dinner was over.

What a horrible insult this conduct implied for Blanche! However, it did not so much distress her as she felt certain that directly Martial heard of her enquiries he would hasten to her with a full apology. Her hope was vain; he did not come; nor even condescend to give a sign of life.

“Ah! no doubt he is with that wretch,” said Blanche to Aunt Medea. “He is on his knees before that miserable Marie-Anne--his mistress.” For she had finished by believing--as is not unfrequently the case--the very calumnies which she herself had invented.

Scarcely knowing how to act she at last decided to make her father her confidant; and accordingly wrote him a note to the effect that she was coming to Montaignac for his advice. In reality, she wished her father to compel Lacheneur to leave the country. This would be an easy matter for the marquis, since he was armed with discretionary judicial authority at an epoch when lukewarm devotion furnished an ample excuse for sending a man into exile.

Fully decided upon executing this plan, Mademoiselle Courtornieu grew calmer on leaving the chateau; and her hopes overflowed in incoherent phrases, which poor Aunt Medea listened to with all her accustomed resignation. “At last,” exclaimed the revengeful Blanche, “I shall be rid of this shameless creature. We will see if he has the audacity to follow her. Ah, no; he cannot dare to do that!”

She was talking in this strain, or reflecting how she should lay the matter before her father, while the carriage which she and Aunt Medea occupied rolled over the highway and through the village of Sairmeuse.

There were lights in every house, the wine-shops seemed full of tipplers, and groups of people could be seen in every direction. All this animation was no doubt most unusual, but what did it matter to Mademoiselle de Courtornieu! It was not until they were a mile or so from Sairmeuse that she was startled from her reverie.

“Listen, Aunt Medea,” she suddenly exclaimed. “What is that noise?”

The poor dependent listened as she was bid, and both occupants of the carriage could distinguish a confused babel of shouts and singing, which grew nearer and more distinct as the vehicle rolled onward.

“Let us find out the meaning of all this hubbub,” said Blanche. And lowering one of the carriage windows, she asked the coachman if he knew what the disturbance was about.

“I can see a great crowd of peasants on the hill,” he replied; “they have torches and--”

“Blessed Jesus!” interrupted Aunt Medea in alarm.

“It must be a wedding,” added the coachman, whipping up his horses.

It was not a wedding, however, but Lacheneur’s little band, which had now swollen to five hundred men.

The Bonapartist ringleader should have been at the Croix d’Arcy two hours earlier. But he had shared the fate of most popular chieftains. He had given an impetus to the movement, and now it was beyond his control. The Baron d’Escorval had made him lose twenty minutes at La Reche, and he was delayed four times as long in Sairmeuse. When he reached that village, a little behind time, he found the peasants scattered through the wine-shops, drinking to the success of the enterprise; and it proved a long and difficult talk to wrest them from their merry-making. To crown everything, when the insurgents were finally induced to resume their line of march, they could not possibly be persuaded to extinguish the torches they had lighted. Prayers and threats were alike unavailing. They declared that they wished to see their way, and their leader had to submit to this foolish fancy. Poor deluded beings! They had not the slightest conception of the difficulties and the perils of the enterprise they had undertaken. They had set out to capture a fortified town, defended by a numerous garrison, just as if they had been bound on a pleasure-jaunt. Gay, thoughtless, and animated with childlike confidence, they marched along, arm in arm, singing some patriotic refrain. Lacheneur, who was on horseback in the center of the band, suffered the most intolerable anguish. Would not this delay ruin everything? What would the others, who were waiting at Croix d’Arcy, think of him! What were they doing at this very moment? Maurice, Chanlouineau, Jean, Marie-Anne, and some twenty old soldiers of the Empire who accompanied the party, understood and shared Lacheneur’s despair. They knew the terrible danger they were incurring, and like their captain they constantly repeated: “Faster! Let us march faster!”

Vain was the exhortation! The peasantry openly declared that they preferred walking slowly. Soon, indeed they did not walk at all, but came to an abrupt halt. Still it was not hesitation that induced them to pause. The fact was that some of the band, chancing to look back, had perceived the lamps of Mademoiselle de Courtornieu’s carriage gleaming in the darkness. The vehicle came rapidly onward, and soon overtook them. The peasants at once recognized the coachman’s livery, and greeted the carriage with derisive shouts.

M. de Courtornieu’s avarice had made him even more enemies than the Duke de Sairmeuse’s pride, and all the peasants who thought they had more or less to complain of his extortions were delighted at this opportunity to frighten him; for as this was his carriage, no doubt he was inside. Hence, their disappointment was great indeed when, on opening the carriage-door, they perceived that the vehicle only contained Blanche and her elderly aunt. The latter shrieked with terror, but her niece, who was certainly a brave girl, haughtily asked: “Who are you? and what do you want?”

“You shall know to-morrow,” replied Chanlouineau. “Until then, you are our prisoners.”

“I see that you do not know who I am, boy.”

“Excuse me. I do know who you are, and, for this very reason, I must request you to alight from your carriage. She must leave the carriage, must she not, M. d’Escorval?”

“I won’t leave my carriage,” retorted the infuriated heiress. “Tear me from it if you dare!”

They would certainly have dared to do so had it not been for Marie-Anne, who checked several peasants as they were springing towards the vehicle. “Let Mademoiselle de Courtornieu pass without hindrance,” said she.