Part 9

“In the second place,” resumed Chupin, “M. d’Escorval was always prowling round about Lacheneur’s house.”

“That’s false,” interrupted the baron. “I never visited the house but once, and on that occasion I implored him to renounce--” He paused, understanding only when it was too late the terrible significance of these few words. However, having begun, he would not retract, but calmly added: “I implored him to renounce all idea of provoking an insurrection.”

“Ah! then you knew of his infamous intentions?”

“I suspected them.”

“At all events you must be perfectly well aware that the fact of not revealing this conspiracy made you an accomplice, which implies the guillotine.”

The Baron d’Escorval had just signed his death-warrant. How strange is destiny! He was innocent, and yet he was the only one among all the prisoners, whom a regular tribunal could have legally condemned. Maurice and the abbe were overcome with grief; but Chanlouineau, who turned towards them, had still the same smile of confidence on his lips. How could he hope when all hope seemed absolutely lost?

The commissioners made no attempt to conceal their satisfaction, and M. de Sairmeuse, especially, evinced an indecent joy. “Ah, well! gentlemen, what do you say to that?” he remarked to the lawyers, in a sneering tone.

The counsel for the defence were unable to conceal their discouragement; though they still endeavoured to question the validity of their client’s declaration. He had said that he _suspected_ the conspiracy, not that he _knew_ of it, which was a very different thing.

“Say at once that you wish for still more overwhelming testimony,” interrupted the duke. “Very well! You shall have it. Continue your evidence, witness.”

“The prisoner,” continued Chupin, “was present at all the conferences held at Lacheneur’s house; and having to cross the Oiselle each time, and fearing lest the ferryman might speak about his frequent nocturnal journeys, he had an old boat repaired, which he had not used for years.”

“Ah! that’s a remarkable circumstance, prisoner; do you recollect having your boat repaired?”

“Yes; but not for the purpose this man mentions.”

“For what purpose, then?”

The baron made no reply. Was it not in compliance with Maurice’s request, that this boat had been put in order?

“And finally,” continued Chupin, “when Lacheneur set fire to his house as a signal for the insurrection, the prisoner was with him.”

“That,” exclaimed the duke, “is conclusive evidence.”

“Yes, I was at La Reche,” interrupted the baron; “but as I have already told you, it was with the firm determination of preventing this outbreak.”

M. de Sairmeuse laughed disdainfully. “Ah, gentlemen!” he said, addressing his fellow commissioners, “you see that the prisoner’s courage does not equal his depravity. But I will confound him. What did you do, prisoner, when the insurgents left La Reche?”

“I returned home with all possible speed, took a horse and hastened to the Croix-d’Arcy.”

“Then you knew that this was to be the general meeting place?”

“Lacheneur had just informed me of it.”

“Even if I believed your story,” retorted the duke, “I should have to remind you, that your duty was to have hastened to Montaignac and informed the authorities. But what you say is untrue. You did not leave Lacheneur, you accompanied him.”

“No, sir, no!”

“And what if I could prove that you did so, beyond all question?”

“Impossible, since such was not the case.”

By the malicious satisfaction that sparkled in M. de Sairmeuse’s eyes, the Abbe Midon divined that he had some terrible weapon in reserve, and that he was about to overwhelm the Baron d’Escorval with false evidence, or fatal coincidence, which would place Maurice’s father beyond all possibility of being saved. At a sign from the commissary for the prosecution the Marquis de Courtornieu now left his seat and advanced to the front of the platform. “I must request you, Monsieur le Marquis,” said the duke, “to be kind enough to read us the statement your daughter has prepared and signed.”

This scene had evidently been prepared beforehand. M. de Courtornieu cleared his glasses, produced a paper which he slowly unfolded, and then amid a death-like silence, emphatically read as follows: “I, Blanche de Courtornieu, do declare upon oath that, on the evening of the fourth of March, between ten and eleven o’clock on the public road leading from Sairmeuse to Montaignac, I was assailed by a band of armed brigands. While they were deliberating as to whether they should take possession of my person and pillage my carriage, I overheard one of them say to another, speaking of me: ‘She must get out, must she not, M. d’Escorval?’ I believe that the brigand who uttered these words was a peasant named Chanlouineau, but I can not assert this, on oath.”

At this moment a loud cry of anguish abruptly interrupted the marquis’s perusal. The trial was too great for Maurice’s reason, and if the Abbe Midon had not restrained him, he would have sprung forward, and exclaimed: “It was to me, not to my father that Chanlouineau addressed those words. I alone am guilty; my father is innocent!” But fortunately the abbe had sufficient presence of mind to hold the young fellow back, and place his hand before his mouth. One or two of the retired officers standing near, also tendered their help, and probably divining the truth, seized hold of Maurice, and despite all his attempts at resistance carried him from the room by main force. The whole incident scarcely occupied ten seconds.

“What is the cause of this disturbance!” asked the duke, looking angrily at the spectators, none of whom uttered a word. “At the least noise the hall shall be cleared,” added his grace. “And you, prisoner, what have you to say in self-justification, after Mademoiselle de Courtornieu’s crushing evidence?”

“Nothing,” murmured the baron.

But to return to Maurice. Once outside the court-room, the Abbe Midon confided him to the care of three officers, who promised to go with him, to carry him by main force, if need be, to the Hotel de France, and keep him there. Relieved on this score, the priest re-entered the hall just in time to see the baron re-seat himself without replying to M. de Sairmeuse’s final sneer, that by bearing Mademoiselle Blanche’s testimony unchallenged M. d’Escorval had virtually confessed his guilt. But then in truth, how could he have challenged it? How could he defend himself without betraying his son? Until this moment every one present had believed in the baron’s innocence. Could it be that he was guilty? His silence seemed to imply that such was the case; and this alone was a sufficient triumph for the Duke de Sairmeuse and his friends. His grace now turned to the lawyers, and with an air of weariness and disdain, remarked. “At present you may speak, since it is absolutely necessary; but no long phrases, mind! we ought to have finished here an hour ago.”

The eldest of the three advocates rose, trembling with indignation, and prepared to dare anything for the sake of giving free utterance to his thoughts, but before a word was spoken the baron hastily checked him. “Do not try to defend me,” he said calmly; “it would be labour wasted. I have only one word to say to my judges. Let them remember what noble Marshal Moncey wrote to the king: ‘The scaffold does not make friends.’”

But this reminder was not of a nature to soften the judges’ hearts. For that very phrase the marshal had been deprived of his office, and condemned to three months’ imprisonment. As the advocates made no further attempt to argue the case, the commission retired to deliberate. This gave M. d’Escorval an opportunity to speak with his defenders. He shook them warmly by the hand, and thanked them for their courage and devotion. Then drawing the eldest among them on one side, he quickly added, in a low voice: “I have a last favour to ask of you. When sentence of death has been pronounced upon me, go at once to my son. Say to him that his dying father commands him to live--he will understand you. Tell him that it is my last wish; that he live--live for his mother!”

He said no more; the judges were returning. Of the thirty prisoners, nine were declared not guilty, and released. The remaining twenty-one including both M. d’Escorval and Chanlouineau were then formally condemned to death. But Chanlouineau’s lips still retained their enigmatical smile.

XVIII.

The three military men to whose care the Abbe Midon had entrusted Maurice had considerable difficulty in getting him to the Hotel de France, for he made continual attempts to return to the court-room, having the fallacious idea that by telling the truth he might yet save his father. In point of fact, however, the only effect of his confession would have been to provide the Duke de Sairmeuse with another welcome victim. When he and his custodians at length entered the room where Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne were waiting in cruel suspense, the baroness eagerly asked whether the trial was over.

“Nothing is decided yet,” replied one of the retired officers. “The cure will come here as soon as the verdict is given.”

Then as the three military men had promised not to lose sight of Maurice, they sat themselves down in gloomy silence. Not the slightest stir could be heard in the hotel, which seemed indeed as if it were deserted. At last, a little before four o’clock, the abbe came in, followed by the lawyer, to whom the baron had confided his last wishes.

“My husband!” exclaimed Madame d’Escorval, springing wildly from her chair. The priest bowed his head. “Death!” she faltered, fully understanding the significance of this impressive gesture. “What? they have condemned him!” And overcome with the terrible blow, she sank back, with hanging arms. But this weakness did not last long. “We must save him!” she exclaimed, abruptly springing to her feet again, her eyes bright with some sudden resolution, “we must wrest him from the scaffold. Up, Maurice! up, Marie-Anne! No more lamentations. To work! You also, gentlemen, will assist me; and I can count on your help, Monsieur le Cure. I do not quite know how to begin, but something must be done. The murder of so good, so noble a man as he would be too great a crime. God will not permit it.” She paused, with clasped hands, as if seeking for inspiration. “And the king,” she resumed--”can the king consent to such a crime? No. A king can refuse mercy, but he cannot refuse justice. I will go to him. I will tell him everything. Ah! why didn’t this thought occur to me sooner? We must start for Paris without losing an instant. Maurice you must accompany me; and one of you gentlemen go at once and order post-horses.” Then, thinking they would obey her, she hastened into the next room to make preparations for her journey.

“Poor woman!” whispered the lawyer to the abbe, “she does not know that the sentence of a military commission is executed in twenty-four hours, and that it requires four days to make the journey to Paris.” He reflected a moment, and then added: “But, after all, to let her go would be an act of mercy. Did not Ney, on the morning of his execution, implore the king to order the removal of his wife who was sobbing and moaning in his cell?”

The abbe shook his head. “No,” said he; “Madame d’Escorval would never forgive us if we prevented her from receiving her husband’s last farewell.”

At that very moment, the baroness re-entered the room, and the priest was trying to gather sufficient courage to tell her the cruel truth, when a loud knock was heard at the door. One of the retired officers went to open it, and our old friend Bavois, the corporal of grenadiers, entered, raising his right hand to his cap, as if he were in his captain’s presence. “Is Mademoiselle Lacheneur here?” he asked.

Marie-Anne stepped forward. “I am she, sir,” she replied; “what do you want with me?”

“I am ordered to conduct you to the citadel, mademoiselle.”

“What?” exclaimed Maurice, in a tone of anger; “so they imprison women as well?”

The worthy corporal struck his forehead with his open hand. “I am an old fool!” he exclaimed, “and don’t know how to express myself. I meant to say that I came to fetch mademoiselle at the request of one of the prisoners, a man named Chanlouineau, who wishes to speak with her.”

“Impossible, my good fellow,” said one of the officers; “they would not allow this lady to visit one of the prisoners without special permission----”

“Well, she has this permission,” said the old soldier. And then persuaded he had nothing to fear from any one present, he added, in lower tones: “This Chanlouineau told me that the cure would understand his reasons.”

Had the brave peasant really found some means of salvation. The abbe almost began to believe that such was the case. “You must go with this worthy fellow, Marie-Anne,” said he.

The poor girl shuddered at the thought of seeing Chanlouineau again, but the idea of refusing never once occurred to her. “Let me go,” she said quietly.

But the corporal did not budge. Winking in a desperate fashion, as was his wont whenever he wished to attract attention, he exclaimed: “Wait a bit. I’ve something else to tell you. This Chanlouineau, who seems to be a shrewd fellow, told me to say that all was going well. May I be hung if I can see how! Still such is his opinion. He also told me to tell you not to stir from this place, and not to attempt anything until mademoiselle comes back again, which will be in less than an hour. He swears that he will keep his promise, and only asks you to pledge your word that you will obey him----”

“We will wait for an hour,” replied the abbe. “I can promise that----”

“Then that’ll do,” rejoined Bavois. “Salute company. And now, mademoiselle, on the double, quick march! The poor devil over there must be on coals of fire.”

That a condemned conspirator should be allowed to receive a visit from his leader’s daughter--from the daughter of that Lacheneur who had succeeded in making his escape--was indeed surprising. But Chanlouineau had been ingenious enough to discover a means of procuring this special permission; and with this aim in view, he had feigned the most abject terror on hearing the sentence of death passed upon him. He even contrived to weep in a bellowing fashion, and the guards could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw this robust young fellow, so insolent and defiant a few hours before, now utterly overcome, and even unable to walk back to his cell. They had to carry him there, and then his lamentations became still more boisterous, concluding with an urgent prayer that one of the guard should go to the Duke de Sairmeuse, or the Marquis de Courtornieu, and tell them he had revelations of the greatest importance to make.

That potent word “revelations” made M. de Courtornieu hasten to the prisoner’s cell. He found Chanlouineau on his knees, his features distorted by what appeared to be an agony of fear. The crafty fellow dragged himself towards the marquis, took hold of his hands and kissed them, imploring mercy and forgiveness, and swearing that to save his own life, he was ready to do anything, yes, anything, even to deliver Lacheneur up to the authorities. Such a prospect had powerful attractions for the Marquis de Courtornieu. “Do you know, then, where this brigand is concealed?” he asked.

Chanlouineau admitted that he did not know, but declared that Marie-Anne, Lacheneur’s daughter, was well acquainted with her father’s hiding-place. She had, he said, perfect confidence in him, Chanlouineau; and if they would only send for her, and allow him ten minutes private conversation with her, he was positive he could ascertain where the leader of the insurrection was concealed. So the bargain was quickly concluded; and Chanlouineau’s life was promised him in exchange for Lacheneur’s. A soldier, who fortunately chanced to be Corporal Bavois, was then sent to summon Marie-Anne; and the young farmer awaited her coming with feelings of poignant anxiety. He loved her, remember, and the thought of seeing her once more--for the last time on earth--made his heart throb wildly with mingled passion and despair. At last, at the end of the corridor, he could hear footsteps approaching. The heavy bolts securing the entrance to his cell were drawn back, the door opened, and Marie-Anne appeared, accompanied by Corporal Bavois. “M. de Courtornieu promised me that we should be left alone!” exclaimed Chanlouineau.

“Yes, I know he did, and I am going,” replied the old soldier. “But I have orders to return for mademoiselle in half-an-hour.”

When the door closed behind the worthy corporal, Chanlouineau took hold of Marie-Anne’s hand and drew her to the tiny grated window. “Thank you for coming,” said he, “thank you. I can see you and speak to you once more. Now that my hours are numbered, I may reveal the secret of my soul and of my life. Now, I can venture to tell you how ardently I have loved you--how much I still love you.”

Involuntarily Marie-Anne drew away her hand and stepped back; for this outburst of passion, at such a moment and in such a place, seemed at once unspeakably sad and shocking.

“Have I, then, offended you?” asked Chanlouineau, sadly. “Forgive me--for I am about to die! You cannot refuse to listen to the voice of one, who, to-morrow, will vanish from earth forever. I have loved you for a long time, Marie-Anne, for more than six years. Before I saw you, I only cared for my belongings, and to raise fine crops and gather money together seemed to me the greatest possible happiness here below. And when at first I did meet you--you were so high, and I so low, that in my wildest dreams I did not dare to aspire to you. I went to the church each Sunday only that I might worship you as peasant women worship the Virgin; I went home with my eyes and heart full of you--and that was all. But then came your father’s misfortunes, which brought us nearer to each other; and your father made me as insane, yes, as insane as himself. After the insults he received from the Duke de Sairmeuse, M. Lacheneur resolved to revenge himself upon all these arrogant nobles, and selected me for his accomplice. He had read my heart as easily as if it had been an open book; and when we left the baron’s house that Sunday evening we both have such good reason to remember, he said to me: ‘You love my daughter, my boy. Very well, assist me, and I promise you, that if we succeed, she shall be your wife. Only,’ he added, ‘I must warn you that you risk your life.’ But what was life in comparison with the hopes that dazzled me? From that night, I gave body, soul, and fortune to his cause. Others were influenced by hatred, or ambition; but I was actuated by neither of these motives. What did the quarrels of these great folks matter to me--a simple labourer? I knew that the greatest were powerless to give my crops a drop of rain in seasons of drought, or a ray of sunshine during long spells of rain. I took part in the conspiracy, it was because I loved you----”

It seemed to Marie-Anne that he was reproaching her for the deception she had been forced to practise, and for the cruel fate to which Lacheneur’s wild designs had brought him. “Ah, you are cruel,” she cried, “you are pitiless!”

But Chanlouineau scarcely heard her words. All the bitterness of the past was rising to his brain like fumes of alcohol; and he was scarcely conscious of what he said himself. “However, the day soon came,” he continued, “when my foolish illusions were destroyed. You could not be mine since you belonged to another. I might have broken my compact! I thought of doing so, but I did not have the courage. To see you, to hear your voice, to spend my time under the same roof as you, was happiness enough. I longed to see you happy and honoured; I fought for the triumph of another, for him you had chosen----” A sob rose in his throat and choked his utterance; he buried his face in his hands to hide his tears, and, for a moment, seemed completely overcome. But he mastered his weakness after a brief interval, and in a firm voice, exclaimed: “We must not linger any longer over the past. Time flies, and the future is ominous.”

As he spoke, he went to the door and applied first his eyes and then his ear to the grating, to see that there were no spies outside. But he could perceive no one, nor could he hear a sound. He came back to Marie-Anne’s side, and tearing the sleeve of his jacket open with his teeth, he drew from the lining two letters, wrapped carefully in a piece of cloth. “Here,” he said, in a low voice, “is a man’s life!”

Marie-Anne knew nothing of Chanlouineau’s promises and hopes, and she was moreover so distressed by what the young farmer had previously said that at first she did not understand his meaning. All she could do was to repeat mechanically, “This is a man’s life!”

“Hush speak lower!” interrupted Chanlouineau. “Yes, one of these letters might, perhaps, save the life of a prisoner now under sentence of death.”

“Unfortunate man! Why do you not make use of it and save yourself?”

The young farmer shook his head. “Would it ever be possible for you to love me?” he said. “No it wouldn’t be possible; and so what wish can I have to live? At least I shall be able to forget everything when I am underground. Moreover, I have been justly condemned. I knew what I was doing when I left La Reche with my gun over my shoulder, and my sword by my side; I have no right to complain. But these judges of ours have condemned an innocent man----”

“The Baron d’Escorval?”

“Yes--Maurice’s father!” His voice changed as he pronounced the name of his envied rival--envied, no doubt, and yet to assure this rival’s happiness and Marie-Anne’s he would have given ten lives had they been his to give. “I wish to save the baron,” he added, “and I can do so.”

“Oh! if what you said were true? But you undoubtedly deceive yourself.”

“I know what I am saying,” rejoined Chanlouineau; and still fearful lest some spy might be concealed outside; he now came close to Marie-Anne and in a low voice spoke rapidly as follows: “I never believed in the success of this conspiracy, and when I sought for a weapon of defence in case of failure, the Marquis de Sairmeuse furnished it. When it became necessary to send out a circular, warning our accomplices of the date decided upon for the rising, I persuaded M. Martial to write a model. He suspected nothing. I told him it was for a wedding, and he did what I asked. This letter, which is now in my possession, is the rough draft of the circular we sent; and it is in the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s handwriting. It is impossible for him to deny it. There is an erasure in every line, and every one would look at the letter as the handiwork of a man seeking to convey his real meaning in ambiguous phrases.”

With these words Chanlouineau opened the envelope and showed her the famous letter he had dictated, in which the space for the date of the insurrection was left blank. “My dear friend, we are at last agreed, and the marriage is decided on, etc.”

The light that had sparkled in Marie-Anne’s eyes was suddenly bedimmed. “And you think that this letter can be of any use?” she inquired, with evident discouragement.

“I don’t _think_ so!”

“But----”

With a gesture, he interrupted her. “We must not lose time in discussion--listen to me. Of itself, this letter might be unimportant, but I have arranged matters in such a way that it will produce a powerful effect. I declared before the commission that the Marquis de Sairmeuse was one of the leaders of the movement. They laughed; and I read incredulity on all the judges’ faces. But calumny is never without its effect. When the Duke de Sairmeuse is about to receive a reward for his services, there will be enemies in plenty to remember and repeat my words. He knew this so well that he was greatly agitated, even while his colleagues sneered at my accusation.”