All the inhabitants of Sairmeuse were congregated on the market-place when Martial rode through the village. They have just heard of the murder at the Borderie, and the abbe was now closeted with the magistrate, relating as far as he could the circumstances of the crime. After a prolonged enquiry, it was eventually reported that a man known as Chupin, a notoriously bad character, had entered the house of Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and taken advantage of her absence to mingle poison with her food; and the said Chupin had been himself assassinated soon after his crime, by a certain Balstain, whose whereabouts were unknown.
However, this affair soon interested the district far less than the constant visits which Martial was paying to Madame Blanche. Shortly afterwards it was rumoured that the Marquis and the Marchioness de Sairmeuse were reconciled; and indeed a few weeks later, they left for Paris with an intention of residing there permanently. A day or two after their departure, the eldest of the Chupins also announced his determination of taking up his abode in the same great city. Some of his friends endeavoured to dissuade him, assuring him that he would certainly die of starvation; but with singular assurance, he replied: “On the contrary, I have an idea that I shan’t want for anything so long as I live there.”
XXXV.
TIME gradually heals all wounds; and its effacing fingers spare but few traces of events; which in their season may have absorbed the attention of many thousand minds. What remained to attest the reality of that fierce whirlwind of passion which had swept over the peaceful valley of the Oiselle? Only a charred ruin on La Reche, and a grave in the cemetery, on which was inscribed: “Marie-Anne Lacheneur, died at the age of twenty. Pray for her!” Recent as were the events of which that ruin and that grave stone seemed as it were the prologue and the epilogue, they were already relegated to the legendary past. The peasantry of Sairmeuse had other things to think about—the harvest, the weather, their sheep and cattle, and it was only a few old men, the politicians of the village, who at times turned their attention from agricultural incidents to remember the rising of Montaignac. Sometimes, during the long winter evenings, when they were gathered together at the local hostelry of the Boeuf Couronne, they would lay down their greasy cards and gravely discuss the events of the past year. And they never failed to remark that almost all the actors in that bloody drama at Montaignac had in common parlance, “come to a bad end.” The victors and the vanquished seemed to encounter the same fate. Lacheneur had been beheaded; Chanlouineau, shot; Marie-Anne, poisoned, and Chupin, the traitor, the Duke de Sairmeuse’s spy, stabbed to death. It was true that the Marquis de Courtornieu lived, or rather survived, but death would have seemed a mercy in comparison with such a total annihilation of intelligence. He had fallen below the level of a brute beast, which at least is endowed with instinct. Since his daughter’s departure he had been ostensibly cared for by two servants, who did not allow him to give them much trouble, for whenever they wished to go out they complacently confined him, not in his room, but in the back cellar, so as to prevent his shrieks and ravings from being heard outside. If some folks supposed for awhile that the Sairmeuses would escape the fate of the others, they were grievously mistaken, for it was not long before the curse fell upon them as well.
One fine December morning, the Duke left the chateau to take part in a wolf-hunt in the neighbourhood. At nightfall, his horse returned, panting, covered with foam, and riderless. What had become of his master? A search was instituted at once, and all night long a score of men, carrying torches, wandered through the woods, shouting and calling at the top of their voices. Five days went by, and the search for the missing man was almost abandoned, when a shepherd lad, pale with fear, came to the chateau to tell the steward that he had discovered the Duke de Sairmeuse’s body—lying all bloody and mangled at the foot of a precipice. It seemed strange that so excellent a rider should have met with such a fate; and there might have been some doubt as to its being an accident, had it not been for the explanation given by several of his grace’s grooms. “The duke was riding an exceedingly vicious beast,” these men remarked. “She was always taking fright and shying at everything.”
A few days after this occurrence Jean Lacheneur left the neighbourhood. This singular fellow’s conduct had caused considerable comment. When Marie-Anne died, although he was her natural heir, he at first refused to have anything to do with her property. “I don’t want to take anything that came to her through Chanlouineau,” he said to every one right and left, thus slandering his sister’s memory, as he had slandered her when alive. Then, after a short absence from the district, and without any apparent reason, he suddenly changed his mind. He not only accepted the property, but made all possible haste to obtain possession of it. He excused his past conduct as best he could; but if he was to be believed, instead of acting in his own interest, he was merely carrying his sister’s wishes into effect, for he over and over again declared that whatever price her property might fetch not a sou of its value would go into his own pockets. This much is certain, as soon as he obtained legal possession of the estate, he sold it, troubling himself but little as to the price he received, provided the purchasers paid cash. However, he reserved the sumptuous furniture of the room on the upper floor of the Borderie and burnt it—from the bed-stead to the curtains and the carpet—one evening in the little garden in front of the house. This singular act became the talk of the neighbourhood, and the villagers universally opined that Jean had lost his head. Those who hesitated to agree with this opinion, expressed it a short time afterwards, when it became known that Jean Lacheneur had engaged himself with a company of strolling players who stopped at Montaignac for a few days. The young fellow had both good advice and kind friends. M. d’Escorval and the abbe had exerted all their eloquence to induce him to return to Paris, and complete his studies; but in vain.
The priest and the baron no longer had to conceal themselves. Thanks to Martial de Sairmeuse they were now installed, the former at the parsonage and the latter at Escorval, as in days gone by. Acquitted at his new trial, re-installed in possession of his property, reminded of his frightful fall only by a slight limp, the baron would have deemed himself a fortunate man had it not been for his great anxiety on his son’s account. Poor Maurice! The nails that secured Marie-Anne’s coffin ere it was lowered into the sod seemed to have pierced his heart; and his very life now seemed dependent on the hope of finding his child. Relying already on the Abbe Midon’s protection and assistance, he had confessed everything to his father, and had even confided his secret to Corporal Bavois, who was now an honoured guest at Escorval; and all three had promised him their best assistance. But the task was a difficult one and such chances of success as might have existed were greatly diminished by Maurice’s determination that Marie-Anne’s name should not be mentioned in prosecuting the search. In this he acted very differently to Jean. The latter slandered his murdered sister right and left, while Maurice sedulously sought to prevent her memory being tarnished.
The Abbe Midon did not seek to turn Maurice from his idea. “We shall succeed all the same,” he said kindly, “with time and patience any mystery can be solved.” He divided the department into a certain number of districts; and one of the little band went day by day from house to house questioning the inmates, in the most cautious manner, for fear of arousing suspicion; for a peasant becomes intractable if his suspicions are but once aroused. However, weeks went by, and still the quest was fruitless. Maurice was losing all hope. “My child must have died on coming into the world,” he said, again and again.
But the abbe re-assured him. “I am morally certain that such was not the case,” he replied. “By Marie-Anne’s absence I can tell pretty nearly the date of her child’s birth. I saw her after her recovery; she was comparatively gay and smiling. Draw your own conclusions.”
“And yet there isn’t a nook or corner for miles round which we haven’t explored.”