Chupin had found the secret of kindling to a white heat the enthusiasm of the cold and calculating peasants who were his neighbors.
He was a dangerous rascal, the old robber, shrewd and cautious; bold, as those who possess nothing can afford to be; as patient as a savage; in short, one of the most consummate scoundrels that ever existed.
The peasants feared him, and yet they had no conception of his real character.
All his resources of mind had, until now, been expended in evading the precipice of the rural code.
To save himself from falling into the hands of the gendarmes, and to steal a few sacks of wheat, he had expended treasures of intrigue which would have made the fortunes of twenty diplomats.
Circumstances, as he always said, had been against him.
So he desperately caught at the first and only opportunity worthy of his talent, which had ever presented itself.
Of course, the wily rustic had said nothing of the true circumstances which attended the restoration of Sairmeuse to its former owner.
From him, the peasants learned only the bare fact; and the news spread rapidly from group to group.
“Monsieur Lacheneur has given up Sairmeuse,” said he. “Chateau, forests, vineyards, fields—he surrenders everything.”