“I have a daughter, young and beautiful like yourself, as generous and proud. Poor Marie-Anne! And I have pitilessly sacrificed her to my hatred! I should not complain; come what may, I have deserved it.”
The sound of approaching footsteps became more and more distinct. Lacheneur straightened himself up, and seemed to be gathering all his energy for the decisive moment.
“Remain inside,” he said, imperiously, to Antoine and his wife. “I am going out; they must not arrest me in your house.”
As he spoke, he stepped outside the door, with a firm tread, a dauntless brow, a calm and assured mien.
The soldiers were but a few feet from him.
“Halt!” he exclaimed, in a strong, ringing voice. “It is Lacheneur you are seeking, is it not? I am he! I surrender myself.”
An unbroken stillness reigned. Not a sound, not a word replied.
The spectre of death that hovered above his head imparted such an imposing majesty to his person that the soldiers paused, silent and awed.
But there was one man who was terrified by this resonant voice, and that was Chupin.
Remorse filled his cowardly heart, and pale and trembling, he tried to hide behind the soldiers.