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.