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.