“How many men are there at the rendezvous?”
“At least two thousand.”
“And what is their mood?”
“They are burning to begin the struggle. They are cursing our slowness, and told me to entreat you to make haste.”
“In that case our cause is not lost,” said Lacheneur, with a threatening gesture. “Wait here until the peasants come up, and say to 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.”
He said this, then putting spurs to his horse, galloped away. He had deceived the men. He had no other resources. He did not have the slightest hope of success. It was an abominable falsehood. But, if this edifice, which he had erected with such care and labor, was to totter and fall, he desired to be buried beneath its ruins. They would be defeated; he was sure of it, but what did that matter? In the conflict he would seek death and find it.
Bitter discontent pervaded the crowd at the Croix d’Arcy; and after the passing of the officers, who had hastened to warn Lacheneur of the disaster at Montaignac, the murmurs of dissatisfaction were changed to curses.
These peasants, nearly two thousand in number, were indignant at not finding their leader awaiting them at the rendezvous.
“Where is he?” they asked. “Who knows but he is afraid at the last moment? Perhaps he is concealing himself while we are risking our lives and the bread of our children here.”
And already the epithets of mischief-maker and traitor were flying from lip to lip, and increasing the anger in every breast.