He was only too correct; and Lacheneur knew it even better than he did. But, blinded by hatred and anger, he would not acknowledge that the disaster was irreparable. He affected a calmness which he was far from feeling. “You are easily discouraged, gentlemen,” he said, bitterly. “There is, at least, one more chance.”
“The deuce! Then you have resources of which we are ignorant?”
“Perhaps—that depends. You have just passed the Croix d’Arcy; did you tell any of those people what you have just told me?”
“Not a word.”
“How many men are assembled there?”
“At least two thousand.”
“And what is their mood?”
“They are all eagerness to begin the fight. They are cursing your slowness, and told me to entreat you to make haste.”
“In that case our cause is not lost,” said Lacheneur, with a determined gesture. “Wait here until the peasants come up, and impress upon them that you were sent to tell them to make haste. Bring them on as quickly as possible, and have confidence in me; I will be responsible for the success of the enterprise.”
So speaking he put spurs to his horse and galloped away. In point of fact, he had deceived the men he had just spoken with. He had no other resources, nor even the slightest hope that the enterprise might now prove successful. He had told an abominable falsehood. But if this edifice, which he had raised with such infinite care and labour was to totter and fall, he wished to be buried beneath its ruins. They would be defeated; he felt sure of it, but what did that matter? In the conflict he would seek death and find it.