Had he been questioned, the duke would probably have allowed the truth to escape him, and M. Lacheneur might have been saved.
But Lacheneur was one of those unfortunate beings who seem to be pursued by an evil destiny which they can never escape.
Buried beneath his horse, M. Lacheneur had lost consciousness.
When he regained his senses, restored by the fresh morning air, the place was silent and deserted. Not far from him, he saw two dead bodies which had not yet been removed.
It was a terrible moment, and in the depth of his soul he cursed death, which had refused to heed his entreaties. Had he been armed, doubtless, he would have ended by suicide, the most cruel mental torture which man was ever forced to endure—but he had no weapon.
He was obliged to accept the chastisement of life.
Perhaps, too, the voice of honor whispered that it was cowardice to strive to escape the responsibility of one’s acts by death.
At last, he endeavored to draw himself out from beneath the body of his horse.
This proved to be no easy matter, as his foot was still in the stirrup, and his limbs were so badly cramped that he could scarcely move them. He finally succeeded in freeing himself, however, and, on examination, discovered that he, who it would seem ought to have been killed ten times over, had only one hurt—a bayonet-wound in the leg, extending from the ankle almost to the knee.
Such a wound, of course, caused him not a little suffering, and he was trying to bandage it with his handkerchief, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.