“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.