Chapter IV: Part 4

Thus did the dispute continue, ostensibly for motives of public policy, though, in reality, both the duke and the marquis had a secret reason for their obstinacy. Blanche de Courtornieu had reached Montaignac that morning and had confided her anxiety and her sufferings to her father, with the result that she had made him swear to profit of this opportunity to rid her of Marie-Anne. On his side, the duke was convinced that Marie-Anne was his son’s mistress, and wished, at any cost, to prevent her appearance at the tribunal. Finding that words had no influence whatever on his coadjutor, his grace at last finished the dispute by a skillful stratagem. “As we are of different opinions we can’t possibly work together,” quoth he; “we are one too many.” And speaking in this fashion he glanced so meaningly at a pair of pistols that the noble marquis felt a disagreeable chilliness creep up his spine. He had never been noted for bravery, and did not in the least relish the idea of having a bullet lodged in his brains. Accordingly he waived his proposal, and eventually agreed to go to the citadel with the duke to inspect the prisoners.

The whole day passed by without M. de Sairmeuse consenting to give a single audience, and Maurice spent his time in watching the moving arms of the semaphore perched on the tall keep-tower. “What orders are travelling through space?” he said to the abbe. “Are these messages of life, or death?”

The messenger despatched from the Hotel de France had been instructed to make haste, and yet he did not reach Escorval until night-fall. Beset by a thousand fears, he had taken the longest but less frequented roads, and had made numerous circuits to avoid the people he had seen approaching in the distance. Scarcely had the baroness read the letter, written to her by Maurice, than turning to Marie-Anne, she exclaimed, “We must go to Montaignac at once!”

But this was easier said than done; for they only kept three horses at Escorval. The one which had been harnessed to the cabriolet the preceding night was lame--indeed, nearly dead: while the other two had been taken to Montaignac that morning by Maurice and the priest. What were the ladies to do? They appealed to some neighbours for assistance, but the latter, having heard of the baron’s arrest, firmly refused to lend a horse, believing they should gravely compromise themselves if they in any way helped the wife of a man charged with such grievous offences as high treason and revolt. Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne were talking of making the journey on foot, when Corporal Bavois, still left on guard at the chateau, swore by the sacred name of thunder that this should not be. He hurried off with his two men, and, after a brief absence, returned leading an old plough-horse by the mane. He had, more or less forcibly, requisitioned this clumsy steed, which he harnessed to the cabriolet as best he could. This was not his only demonstration of good will. His duties at the chateau were over, now that M. d’Escorval had been arrested, and nothing remained for him but to rejoin his regiment. Accordingly he declared that he would not allow these ladies to travel unattended at night-time, along a road where they might be exposed to many disagreeable encounters, but should escort them to their journey’s end with his two subordinates. “And it will go hard with soldier or civilian who ventures to molest them, will it not, comrades?” he exclaimed.

As usual, his companions assented with an oath; and as Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne journeyed onward, they could perceive the three men preceding or following the vehicle, or oftener walking beside it. Not until they reached the gates of Montaignac did the old soldier forsake his protegees, and then, not without bidding them a respectful farewell, in his own name and that of his subordinates, adding that if they had need of his services, they had only to call upon Bavois, corporal of grenadiers in company No. 1., stationed at the citadel.

The clocks were striking half-past ten when Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne alighted at the Hotel de France. They found Maurice in despair, and even the abbe disheartened, for since the morning events had progressed with fearful rapidity. The semaphore signals were now explained; orders had come from Paris; and there they could be read in black and white, affixed to the walls of the town. “Montaignac must be regarded as in a state of siege. The military authorities have been granted discretionary powers. A military commission will exercise jurisdiction in lieu of all other courts. Let peaceable citizens take courage; let the evil disposed tremble! As for the rabble, the sword of the law is about to strike!” Only six lines in all--but each word fraught with menace!

The abbe most regretted that trial before a military commission had been substituted for the customary court-martial. Indeed this upset all the plans he had devised in the hope of saving his friend. A court-martial is, of course, hasty and often unjust in its decisions; but still, it observes some of the forms of procedure practiced in judicial tribunals. It still retains some of the impartiality of legal justice, which asks to be enlightened before condemning. But the military commission now to be appointed would naturally neglect all legal forms; and the prisoners would be summarily condemned and punished after the fashion in which spies are treated in time of war.

“What!” exclaimed Maurice, “would they dare to condemn without investigating, without listening to testimony, without allowing the prisoners time to prepare their defence?” The abbe remained silent. The turn events had taken exceeded his worst apprehensions. Now, indeed, he believed that anything was possible.

Maurice had spoken of investigation. Investigation, if such it could be called, had indeed begun that very day, and was still continuing by the light of a jailor’s lantern. That is to say, the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu were passing the prisoners in review. They now numbered three hundred, and the duke and his companion had decided to begin by summoning before the commission thirty of the most dangerous conspirators. How were they to select them? By what method could they hope to discover the extent of each prisoner’s guilt? It would have been difficult for them to explain the course they took. They simply went from one man to another, asking any question that entered their minds, and when the terrified captive had answered them they either said to the head jailor, “Keep this one until another time,” or, “This one for to-morrow,” their decision being guided by the impression the man’s language and demeanour had created. By daylight, they had thirty names upon their list, at the head of which figured those of the Baron d’Escorval and Chanlouineau.

Although the unhappy party at the Hotel de France were not aware of this circumstance, they passed a sleepless, anxious night; and it was relief, indeed, when the daylight peered through the windows and the _reveille_ could be heard beating at the citadel; for now at least they might renew their efforts. The abbe intimated his intention of going alone to the duke’s house, declaring that he would find a way to force an entrance. He had just bathed his red and swollen eyes in fresh water, and was preparing to start, when a rap was heard at the door. Directly afterwards M. Laugeron, the landlord, entered the room. His face betokened some dreadful misfortune; and indeed he had just been made acquainted with the composition of the military commission. In defiance of all equity and justice, the presidency of this tribunal of vengeance had been offered to the Duke de Sairmeuse who had unblushingly accepted it--he who was at the same time both witness and executioner. Moreover, he was to be assisted by other officers hitherto placed under his immediate orders.

“And when does the commission enter upon its functions?” inquired the abbe.

“To-day,” replied the host, hesitatingly; “this morning--in an hour--perhaps sooner!”

The priest understood well enough what M. Laugeron meant, but what he dared not say: “The commission is assembling, make haste.” “Come!” said the abbe Midon turning to Maurice, “I wish to be present when your father is examined.”

The baroness would have given anything to accompany the priest and her son; but this could not be; she understood it, and submitted. As Maurice and his companion stepped into the street they saw a soldier a short distance off who made a friendly gesture. Recognizing Corporal Bavois, they paused instinctively. But he now passing them by with an air of the utmost indifference, and apparently without observing them, hastily exclaimed: “I have seen Chanlouineau. Be of good cheer: he promises to save the baron!”

XVII.

Within the limits of the citadel of Montaignac stands an old building known as the chapel. Originally consecrated to purposes of worship, this structure had, at the time of which we write, fallen into disuse. It was so damp that it could not even be utilized for storage purposes, and yet this was the place selected by the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu for the assembling of the military commission. When Maurice and the abbe entered this gloomy building they found that the proceedings had not yet commenced. The little trouble taken to transform the old chapel into a hall of justice impressed them sadly, for it testified beyond power of mistake to the precipitation of the judges, and revealed their determination to carry out the work of vengeance without either delay or mercy. Three large tables taken from a soldier’s mess-room, and covered with horse blankets instead of baize, stood on a raised platform formerly occupied by the chief altar. Behind these tables were ranged a few rush-seated chairs, waiting the president’s assessors, and in their midst glittered a richly-carved and gilt arm chair which his grace had had sent from his own house for his personal accommodation. In front of the tables three or four long wooden benches had been placed in readiness for the prisoners, while several strong ropes were stretched from one wall to the other, so as to divide the chapel into two parts and allow considerable room for the public. This last precaution had proved quite superfluous, for, contrary to expectation, there were not twenty persons in the building. Prominent among these were ten or twelve men of martial mien, but clad in civilian attire. Their scarred and weather beaten features testified to many an arduous campaign fought in imperial times; and indeed they had all served Napoleon--this one as a lieutenant, that other as a captain--but the Restoration had dismissed them with scanty pensions and given their well-earned commissions to cadets of the old nobility. Their pale faces and the sullen fire gleaming in their eyes showed plainly enough what they thought of the Duke de Sairmeuse’s proceedings. In addition to these retired officers there were three men dressed in professional black who stood conversing in low tones near the chapel door; while in a corner one could perceive several peasant women with their aprons thrown over their faces; they were the mothers, wives, and daughters of some of the imprisoned rebels. Save for their constant sobs the silence would have been well-nigh undisturbed.

Nine o’clock had just struck when a rolling of drums shook the window panes; a loud voice was heard outside exclaiming, “Present arms!” and then the members of the commission entered, followed by the Marquis de Courtornieu and various civil functionaries. The Duke de Sairmeuse was in full uniform, his face rather more flushed, and his air a trifle more haughty than usual. “The sitting is open!” he announced, and adding in a rough voice, “Bring in the culprits.”

They came in, one by one, to the number of thirty, and sat themselves down on the benches at the foot of the platform. Chanlouineau held his head proudly erect, and looked about him with an air of great composure. The Baron d’Escorval was calm and grave; but not more so than when, in days gone by, he had been called upon to express his opinion in the councils of the empire. Both of them perceived Maurice, who was so overcome that he had to lean upon the abbe for support. But while the baron greeted his son with a simple bend of the head, Chanlouineau made a gesture that clearly signified: “Have confidence in me--fear nothing.” The attitude of the other prisoners indicated surprise rather than fear. Perhaps they were unconscious of the peril they had braved, and the extent of the danger that now threatened them.

When the prisoners had taken their places, a colonel who filled the office of commissary for the prosecution rose to his feet. His presentation of the case was violent but brief. He narrated a few leading facts, exalted the merits of the government of his majesty King Louis XVIIIth, and concluded by demanding that sentence of death should be pronounced upon the culprits. When he had ceased speaking, the duke rudely bade the first prisoner on the nearest bench to stand up and give his name, age, and profession.

“Eugene Michel Chanlouineau,” was the reply, “aged twenty nine, a farmer by occupation.”

“An owner of national lands, probably?”

“The owner of lands which, having been paid for with good money and made fertile by my own labour, are rightfully mine.”

The duke did not wish to waste time in useless discussion. “You took part in this rebellion?” he asked; and receiving an affirmative reply, pursued, “You are right in confessing, for witnesses will be introduced who will prove this fact conclusively.”

Five grenadiers entered--the same that Chanlouineau held at bay while Maurice, the abbe, and Marie-Anne were getting into the cabriolet near the cross roads. They all of them declared upon oath that they recognized the prisoner; and one of them even went so far as to say he was a solid fellow of remarkable courage. During this evidence Chanlouineau’s eyes betrayed an agony of anxiety. Would the soldiers allude to the circumstance of the cabriolet and Marie-Anne’s escape? Perhaps they might have done so had not the Duke de Sairmeuse abruptly stated that as the prisoner confessed he had heard quite enough.

“What were your motives in fomenting this outbreak?” asked his grace, turning to Chanlouineau.

“We hoped to free ourselves from a government brought back by foreign bayonets; to free ourselves from the insolence of the nobility, and to retain the lands that are justly ours.”

“Enough! You were one of the leaders of the revolt?”

“One of the leaders--yes.”

“Who were the others?”

A faint smile flitted over the young farmer’s lips as he replied: “The others were M. Lacheneur, his son Jean, and the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”

The duke bounded from his carved arm-chair. “You wretch! you rascal! you vile scoundrel!” he exclaimed, catching up a heavy inkstand that stood on the table before him. Every one supposed that he was about to hurl it at the prisoner’s head.

But Chanlouineau stood perfectly unmoved in the midst of the assembly, which had been excited to the highest pitch by his startling declaration. “You questioned me,” he resumed, “and I replied. You may gag me if my answers don’t please you. If there were witnesses _for_ me as there are against me, I could prove the truth of what I say. As it is, all the prisoners here will tell you that I am speaking the truth. Is it not so, you others?”

With the exception of the Baron d’Escorval, there was not one of the other prisoners who was capable of understanding the real bearing of these audacious allegations; nevertheless, they all nodded assent.

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse was so truly our leader,” exclaimed the daring peasant, “that he was wounded by a sabre-thrust while fighting by my side.”

The duke’s face was as purple as if he had been struck with apoplexy; and his fury almost deprived him of the power of speech. “You lie, scoundrel! you lie!” he gasped.

“Send for the marquis,” said Chanlouineau, quietly, “and see whether he’s wounded or not.”

A refusal on the duke’s part was bound to arouse suspicion. But what could he do? Martial had concealed his wound on the previous day, and it was now impossible to confess that he had been wounded. Fortunately for his grace, one of the commissioners relieved him of his embarrassment. “I hope, sir,” he said, “that you will not give this arrogant rebel the satisfaction he desires. The commission opposes his demand.”

“Very naturally,” retorted Chanlouineau. “To-morrow my head will be off, and you think nothing will then remain to prove what I say. But, fortunately, I have other proof--material and indestructible proof--which it is beyond your power to destroy, and which will speak when my body is six feet under ground.”

“What is this proof?” asked another commissioner, on whom the duke looked askance.

The prisoner shook his head. “You shall have it,” he said, “when you promise me my life in exchange for it. It is now in the hands of a trusty person, who knows its value. It will go to the king if necessary. We should like to understand the part which the Marquis de Sairmeuse played in this affair--whether he was truly with us, or whether he was only an instigating agent.”

A tribunal regardful of the simplest rules of justice, or even of its own honour, would have instantly required the Marquis de Sairmeuse’s attendance. But the military commission considered such a course quite beneath its dignity. These men arrayed in glittering uniforms were not judges charged with the vindication of the law; but simply agents selected by the conquerors to strike the conquered in virtue of that savage saying, “Woe to the vanquished!” The president, the noble Duke de Sairmeuse, would not have consented to summon Martial on any consideration. Nor did his associate judges wish him to do so. Had Chanlouineau foreseen this result? Probably he had; and yet, why had he ventured on so hazardous a course? The tribunal, after a short deliberation, decided that it would not admit this “unjustifiable” denunciation which, while exciting the whole audience, had quite stupefied Maurice and the Abbe Midon.

The examination was continued, therefore, with increased bitterness. “Instead of designating imaginary leaders,” resumed the duke, “you would do well to name the real instigator of this revolt--not Lacheneur, but an individual seated at the other end of the bench, the elder D’Escorval--”

“Monsieur le Baron d’Escorval was entirely ignorant of the conspiracy, I swear it by all that I hold most sacred--”

“Hold your tongue!” interrupted the emmissary for the prosecution. “Instead of trying the patience of the commission with such ridiculous stories, you should endeavour to merit its indulgence.”

Chanlouineau’s glance and gesture expressed such disdain that his interrupter was abashed. “I wish for no indulgence,” said the young farmer. “I have played my game and lost it; here is my head. But if you are not wild beasts you will take pity on the poor wretches who surround me. I see at least ten among them who were not our accomplices, and who certainly did not take up arms. Even the others did not know what they were doing.”

With these words he resumed his seat, proud, indifferent, and apparently oblivious of the murmur which ran through the audience, the soldiers of the guard, and even to the platform, at the sound of his ringing voice. His appeal for clemency towards his fellow prisoners had reawakened the grief of the poor peasant women, whose sobs and moans now filled the hall. The retired officers had grown paler than before, and as they nervously pulled at their long moustaches they murmured among themselves, “That’s a man, and no mistake!” Just then, moreover, the abbe leant towards Maurice and whispered in his ear: “Chanlouineau evidently has some plan. He intends to save your father, though I don’t at all understand how.”

The judges were conversing with considerable animation, although in an undertone. A difficulty had presented itself. The prisoners, ignorant of the charges which would be brought against them, and not expecting instant trial, had not thought of procuring defenders. And this circumstance, bitter mockery! caused great annoyance to this iniquitous tribunal, despite the complacency with which it was prepared to trample justice under foot. The commissioners had made up their minds, they had already determined on their verdict, and yet they wished to hear a voice raised in defence of those who were already doomed. It chanced that three lawyers, retained by the friends of a few prisoners, were in the hall. They were the three men whom Maurice had noticed conversing near the door when he entered the chapel. The duke was informed of their presence. He turned to them, and motioned them to approach; then, pointing to Chanlouineau, asked, “Will you undertake this culprit’s defence?”

For a moment the lawyers hesitated. They were disgusted with these monstrous proceedings, and looked inquiringly at one another. “We are all disposed to undertake the prisoner’s defence,” at last replied the eldest of the three; “but we see him for the first time; we do not know what defence he can present. He must ask for a delay; it is indispensable, in order to confer with him.”

“The court can grant you no delay,” interrupted M. de Sairmeuse; “will you undertake his defence, yes or no?”

The advocate hesitated, not that he was afraid, for he was a brave man: but he was endeavouring to find some argument strong enough to turn these mock judges from the course on which they seemed bent. “I will speak on his behalf,” said the advocate, at last, “but not without first protesting with all my strength against these unheard of modes of trial.”

“Oh! spare us your homilies, and be brief.”

After Chanlouineau’s examination, it was difficult to improvise any plea for him, and especially so on the spur of the moment. Still, in his indignation, the courageous advocate managed to present a score of arguments which would have made any other tribunal reflect. But all the while he was speaking the Duke de Sairmeuse fidgeted in his arm-chair with every sign of angry impatience. “Your speech was very long,” he remarked, when the lawyer had finished, “terribly long. We shall never get through with this business if each prisoner takes up as much time!”

He turned to his colleagues and proposed that they should unite all the cases, in fact try all the culprits in a body, with the exception of the elder d’Escorval. “This will shorten our task,” said he, “and there will then be but two judgments to be pronounced. This will not, of course, prevent each individual from defending himself.”

The lawyers protested against such a course; for a general judgment such as the duke suggested would destroy all hope of saving any one of these unfortunate men. “How can we defend them,” pleaded one advocate, “when we know nothing of their precise situations; why, we do not even know their names. We shall be obliged to designate them by the cut of their coats or by the colour of their hair.”

They implored the tribunal to grant a week for preparation, four days, even twenty-four hours; but all their efforts were futile, for the president’s proposition was adopted by his colleagues. Consequently, each prisoner was called to the table, according to the place which he occupied on the different benches. Each man gave his name, age, dwelling place, and profession, and received an order to return to his seat. Six or seven of the prisoners were actually granted time to say that they were absolutely ignorant of the conspiracy, and that they had been arrested while conversing quietly on the public highway. They begged to be allowed to furnish proof of the truth of their assertions, and they invoked the testimony of the soldiers who had arrested them. M. d’Escorval, whose case had been separated from the others, was not summoned to the table. He would be examined last of all.

“Now the counsel for the defence will be heard,” said the duke; “but make haste; lose no time for it is already twelve o’clock.”

Then began a shameful and revolting scene. The duke interrupted the lawyers every other moment, bidding them be silent, questioning them, or jeering at their arguments. “It seems incredible,” said he, “that any one can think of defending such wretches!” Or again: “Silence! You should blush with shame for having constituted yourself the defender of such rascals!”

However, the advocates courageously persevered, even although they realized the utter futility of their efforts. But what could they do under such circumstances? The defence of these twenty-nine prisoners lasted only one hour and a half.

Before the last word was fairly uttered, the Duke de Sairmeuse gave a sigh of relief, and in a tone which betrayed his inward delight, exclaimed: “Prisoner d’Escorval, stand up.”

Thus called upon, the baron rose to his feet, calm and dignified. Terrible as his sufferings must have been, there was no trace of them on his noble face. He had even repressed the smile of disdain which the duke’s paltry spite in not giving him the title he had a right to almost brought to his lips. But Chanlouineau sprang up at the same time, trembling with indignation, and his face all aglow with anger.

“Remain seated,” ordered the duke, “or you shall be removed from the court-room.”

Despite this order the young farmer declared that he would speak: that he had some remarks to add to the plea made by the defending counsel. At a sign from the duke, two gendarmes approached him and placed their hands on his shoulders. He allowed them to force him back into his seat, though he could easily have crushed them with one blow of his brawny arm. An observer might have supposed that he was furious; but in reality he was delighted. He had attained the end he had in view. Whilst standing he had been able to glance at the Abbe Midon, and the latter had plainly read in his eyes: “Whatever happens, watch over Maurice; restrain him. Do not allow him to defeat my plans by any outburst.”

This caution was not unnecessary, for Maurice was terribly agitated; his sight failed him, his head swam, he felt that he was suffocating, that he was losing his reason. “Where is the self-control you promised me?” murmured the priest.

But no one observed the young man’s condition. The attention of the audience was elsewhere, and the silence was so perfect that one could distinctly hear the measured tread of the sentinels pacing to and fro in the courtyard outside. It was plain to every one that the decisive moment for which the tribunal had reserved all its attention and efforts had now arrived. The conviction and condemnation of the poor peasants were, after all, mere trifles; otherwise, indeed, was the task of humbling a prominent statesman, who had been the emperor’s faithful friend and counsellor. Seldom could circumstances offer so splendid an opportunity to satisfy the cravings of royalist prejudice and ambition; and the Duke de Sairmeuse and his colleagues had fully determined not to allow it to slip by. If they had acted informally in the case of the obscure conspirators, they had carefully prepared their suit against the baron. Thanks to the activity of the Marquis de Courtornieu, the prosecution had found no fewer than seven charges against him, the least notable of which was alone punishable with death. “Which of you,” asked the president, turning to the lawyers, “will consent to defend this great culprit?”

“I!” exclaimed the three advocates all in one breath.

“Take care,” said the duke, with a malicious smile; “the task may prove a difficult one.”

“Difficult, indeed!” It would have been better to have said dangerous, for the defender risked his career, his peace, his liberty, and very probably--his life.

“Our profession has its exigencies,” nobly replied the oldest of the advocates. And then the two courageously took their places beside the baron, thus avenging the honour of their robe.

“Prisoner,” resumed M. de Sairmeuse, “state your name and profession.”

“Louis Guillaume, Baron d’Escorval, Commander of the order of the Legion of Honour, formerly Councillor of State under the Empire.”

“So you avow these shameful services? You confess----”

“Excuse me; I am proud of having had the honour of serving my country, and of being useful to her in proportion to my abilities----”

“Ah ha! very good indeed!” interrupted the duke with a furious gesture. “These gentlemen, my fellow commissioners, will appreciate those words of yours. No doubt it was in the hope of regaining your former position that you entered into this shameful conspiracy against a magnanimous prince.”

“You know as well as I do myself, sir, that I have had no hand in this conspiracy.”

“Why, you were arrested in the ranks of the conspirators with weapons in your hands!”

“I was unarmed, as you are well aware; and if I was among the peasantry, it was only because I hoped to induce them to relinquish their senseless enterprise.”

“You lie!”

The baron paled beneath the insult, but he made no response. There was, however, one man in the assemblage who could no longer endure such abominable injustice, and this was the Abbe Midon, who, only a moment before, had advised Maurice to remain calm. Abruptly leaving his place, he advanced to the foot of the platform.

“The Baron d’Escorval speaks the truth,” he cried, in a ringing voice: “as each of the three hundred prisoners in the citadel will swear. Those who are here would say the same, even if they stood upon the guillotine; and I, who accompanied him, who walked beside him, I, a priest, swear before the God who one day will judge us all, Monsieur de Sairmeuse, I swear we did everything that was humanly possible to do to arrest this movement!”

The duke listened with an ironical smile. “I was not deceived, then,” he answered, “when I was told that this army of rebels had a chaplain! Ah! sir, you should sink to the earth with shame. What! You, a priest, mingle with such scoundrels as these--with these enemies of our good king and of our holy religion! Do not deny it! Your haggard features, your swollen eyes, your disordered attire, plainly betray your guilt. Must I, a soldier, remind you of what is due to your sacred calling? Hold your peace, sir, and depart!”

But the prisoner’s advocates were on their feet. “We demand,” cried they, “we demand that this witness be heard. He must be heard! Military commissions are not above the laws that regulate ordinary tribunals.”

“If I do not speak the truth,” resumed the abbe, “I am a perjured witness--worse yet, an accomplice. It is your duty, in that case, to have me arrested.”

The duke’s face assumed a look of hypocritical compassion. “No, Monsieur le Cure,” said he, “I shall not arrest you. I wish to avert the scandal which you are trying to cause. We will show your priestly garb the respect the wearer does not deserve. Again, and for the last time, retire, or I shall be obliged to employ force.”

What would further resistance avail? Nothing. The abbe, with a face whiter than the plastered walls, and eyes filled with tears, returned to his place beside Maurice.

In the meanwhile, the advocates were protesting with increasing energy. But the duke, hammering on the table with both fists, at last succeeded in reducing them to silence. “Ah! you want evidence!” he exclaimed. “Very well then, you shall have it. Soldiers, bring in the first witness.”

There was some little movement among the guards, and then Father Chupin made his appearance. He advanced with a deliberate step, but his restless, shrinking eyes showed plainly enough that he was ill at ease. And there was a very perceptible tremor in his voice when, with hand uplifted, he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

“What do you know concerning the prisoner d’Escorval?” asked the duke.

“I know that he took part in the rising the other night.”

“Are you sure of this?”

“I can furnish proofs.”

“Submit them to the consideration of the commission.”

The old scoundrel began to grow more confident. “First of all,” he replied, “directly Lacheneur had given up your grace’s family estates, much against his will, he hastened to M. d’Escorval’s house, where he met Chanlouineau. It was then that they plotted this insurrection between them.”

“I was Lacheneur’s friend,” observed the baron, “and it was perfectly natural that he should come to me for consolation after a great misfortune.”

M. de Sairmeuse turned to his colleagues. “Do you hear that!” said he. “This D’Escorval calls the restitution of a deposit a great misfortune! Proceed, witness.”

“In the second place,” resumed Chupin, “M. d’Escorval was always prowling round about Lacheneur’s house.”

“That’s false,” interrupted the baron. “I never visited the house but once, and on that occasion I implored him to renounce--” He paused, understanding only when it was too late the terrible significance of these few words. However, having begun, he would not retract, but calmly added: “I implored him to renounce all idea of provoking an insurrection.”

“Ah! then you knew of his infamous intentions?”

“I suspected them.”

“At all events you must be perfectly well aware that the fact of not revealing this conspiracy made you an accomplice, which implies the guillotine.”

The Baron d’Escorval had just signed his death-warrant. How strange is destiny! He was innocent, and yet he was the only one among all the prisoners, whom a regular tribunal could have legally condemned. Maurice and the abbe were overcome with grief; but Chanlouineau, who turned towards them, had still the same smile of confidence on his lips. How could he hope when all hope seemed absolutely lost?

The commissioners made no attempt to conceal their satisfaction, and M. de Sairmeuse, especially, evinced an indecent joy. “Ah, well! gentlemen, what do you say to that?” he remarked to the lawyers, in a sneering tone.

The counsel for the defence were unable to conceal their discouragement; though they still endeavoured to question the validity of their client’s declaration. He had said that he _suspected_ the conspiracy, not that he _knew_ of it, which was a very different thing.

“Say at once that you wish for still more overwhelming testimony,” interrupted the duke. “Very well! You shall have it. Continue your evidence, witness.”

“The prisoner,” continued Chupin, “was present at all the conferences held at Lacheneur’s house; and having to cross the Oiselle each time, and fearing lest the ferryman might speak about his frequent nocturnal journeys, he had an old boat repaired, which he had not used for years.”

“Ah! that’s a remarkable circumstance, prisoner; do you recollect having your boat repaired?”

“Yes; but not for the purpose this man mentions.”

“For what purpose, then?”

The baron made no reply. Was it not in compliance with Maurice’s request, that this boat had been put in order?

“And finally,” continued Chupin, “when Lacheneur set fire to his house as a signal for the insurrection, the prisoner was with him.”

“That,” exclaimed the duke, “is conclusive evidence.”

“Yes, I was at La Reche,” interrupted the baron; “but as I have already told you, it was with the firm determination of preventing this outbreak.”

M. de Sairmeuse laughed disdainfully. “Ah, gentlemen!” he said, addressing his fellow commissioners, “you see that the prisoner’s courage does not equal his depravity. But I will confound him. What did you do, prisoner, when the insurgents left La Reche?”

“I returned home with all possible speed, took a horse and hastened to the Croix-d’Arcy.”

“Then you knew that this was to be the general meeting place?”

“Lacheneur had just informed me of it.”

“Even if I believed your story,” retorted the duke, “I should have to remind you, that your duty was to have hastened to Montaignac and informed the authorities. But what you say is untrue. You did not leave Lacheneur, you accompanied him.”

“No, sir, no!”

“And what if I could prove that you did so, beyond all question?”

“Impossible, since such was not the case.”

By the malicious satisfaction that sparkled in M. de Sairmeuse’s eyes, the Abbe Midon divined that he had some terrible weapon in reserve, and that he was about to overwhelm the Baron d’Escorval with false evidence, or fatal coincidence, which would place Maurice’s father beyond all possibility of being saved. At a sign from the commissary for the prosecution the Marquis de Courtornieu now left his seat and advanced to the front of the platform. “I must request you, Monsieur le Marquis,” said the duke, “to be kind enough to read us the statement your daughter has prepared and signed.”

This scene had evidently been prepared beforehand. M. de Courtornieu cleared his glasses, produced a paper which he slowly unfolded, and then amid a death-like silence, emphatically read as follows: “I, Blanche de Courtornieu, do declare upon oath that, on the evening of the fourth of March, between ten and eleven o’clock on the public road leading from Sairmeuse to Montaignac, I was assailed by a band of armed brigands. While they were deliberating as to whether they should take possession of my person and pillage my carriage, I overheard one of them say to another, speaking of me: ‘She must get out, must she not, M. d’Escorval?’ I believe that the brigand who uttered these words was a peasant named Chanlouineau, but I can not assert this, on oath.”

At this moment a loud cry of anguish abruptly interrupted the marquis’s perusal. The trial was too great for Maurice’s reason, and if the Abbe Midon had not restrained him, he would have sprung forward, and exclaimed: “It was to me, not to my father that Chanlouineau addressed those words. I alone am guilty; my father is innocent!” But fortunately the abbe had sufficient presence of mind to hold the young fellow back, and place his hand before his mouth. One or two of the retired officers standing near, also tendered their help, and probably divining the truth, seized hold of Maurice, and despite all his attempts at resistance carried him from the room by main force. The whole incident scarcely occupied ten seconds.

“What is the cause of this disturbance!” asked the duke, looking angrily at the spectators, none of whom uttered a word. “At the least noise the hall shall be cleared,” added his grace. “And you, prisoner, what have you to say in self-justification, after Mademoiselle de Courtornieu’s crushing evidence?”

“Nothing,” murmured the baron.

But to return to Maurice. Once outside the court-room, the Abbe Midon confided him to the care of three officers, who promised to go with him, to carry him by main force, if need be, to the Hotel de France, and keep him there. Relieved on this score, the priest re-entered the hall just in time to see the baron re-seat himself without replying to M. de Sairmeuse’s final sneer, that by bearing Mademoiselle Blanche’s testimony unchallenged M. d’Escorval had virtually confessed his guilt. But then in truth, how could he have challenged it? How could he defend himself without betraying his son? Until this moment every one present had believed in the baron’s innocence. Could it be that he was guilty? His silence seemed to imply that such was the case; and this alone was a sufficient triumph for the Duke de Sairmeuse and his friends. His grace now turned to the lawyers, and with an air of weariness and disdain, remarked. “At present you may speak, since it is absolutely necessary; but no long phrases, mind! we ought to have finished here an hour ago.”

The eldest of the three advocates rose, trembling with indignation, and prepared to dare anything for the sake of giving free utterance to his thoughts, but before a word was spoken the baron hastily checked him. “Do not try to defend me,” he said calmly; “it would be labour wasted. I have only one word to say to my judges. Let them remember what noble Marshal Moncey wrote to the king: ‘The scaffold does not make friends.’”

But this reminder was not of a nature to soften the judges’ hearts. For that very phrase the marshal had been deprived of his office, and condemned to three months’ imprisonment. As the advocates made no further attempt to argue the case, the commission retired to deliberate. This gave M. d’Escorval an opportunity to speak with his defenders. He shook them warmly by the hand, and thanked them for their courage and devotion. Then drawing the eldest among them on one side, he quickly added, in a low voice: “I have a last favour to ask of you. When sentence of death has been pronounced upon me, go at once to my son. Say to him that his dying father commands him to live--he will understand you. Tell him that it is my last wish; that he live--live for his mother!”

He said no more; the judges were returning. Of the thirty prisoners, nine were declared not guilty, and released. The remaining twenty-one including both M. d’Escorval and Chanlouineau were then formally condemned to death. But Chanlouineau’s lips still retained their enigmatical smile.

XVIII.

The three military men to whose care the Abbe Midon had entrusted Maurice had considerable difficulty in getting him to the Hotel de France, for he made continual attempts to return to the court-room, having the fallacious idea that by telling the truth he might yet save his father. In point of fact, however, the only effect of his confession would have been to provide the Duke de Sairmeuse with another welcome victim. When he and his custodians at length entered the room where Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne were waiting in cruel suspense, the baroness eagerly asked whether the trial was over.

“Nothing is decided yet,” replied one of the retired officers. “The cure will come here as soon as the verdict is given.”

Then as the three military men had promised not to lose sight of Maurice, they sat themselves down in gloomy silence. Not the slightest stir could be heard in the hotel, which seemed indeed as if it were deserted. At last, a little before four o’clock, the abbe came in, followed by the lawyer, to whom the baron had confided his last wishes.

“My husband!” exclaimed Madame d’Escorval, springing wildly from her chair. The priest bowed his head. “Death!” she faltered, fully understanding the significance of this impressive gesture. “What? they have condemned him!” And overcome with the terrible blow, she sank back, with hanging arms. But this weakness did not last long. “We must save him!” she exclaimed, abruptly springing to her feet again, her eyes bright with some sudden resolution, “we must wrest him from the scaffold. Up, Maurice! up, Marie-Anne! No more lamentations. To work! You also, gentlemen, will assist me; and I can count on your help, Monsieur le Cure. I do not quite know how to begin, but something must be done. The murder of so good, so noble a man as he would be too great a crime. God will not permit it.” She paused, with clasped hands, as if seeking for inspiration. “And the king,” she resumed--”can the king consent to such a crime? No. A king can refuse mercy, but he cannot refuse justice. I will go to him. I will tell him everything. Ah! why didn’t this thought occur to me sooner? We must start for Paris without losing an instant. Maurice you must accompany me; and one of you gentlemen go at once and order post-horses.” Then, thinking they would obey her, she hastened into the next room to make preparations for her journey.

“Poor woman!” whispered the lawyer to the abbe, “she does not know that the sentence of a military commission is executed in twenty-four hours, and that it requires four days to make the journey to Paris.” He reflected a moment, and then added: “But, after all, to let her go would be an act of mercy. Did not Ney, on the morning of his execution, implore the king to order the removal of his wife who was sobbing and moaning in his cell?”

The abbe shook his head. “No,” said he; “Madame d’Escorval would never forgive us if we prevented her from receiving her husband’s last farewell.”

At that very moment, the baroness re-entered the room, and the priest was trying to gather sufficient courage to tell her the cruel truth, when a loud knock was heard at the door. One of the retired officers went to open it, and our old friend Bavois, the corporal of grenadiers, entered, raising his right hand to his cap, as if he were in his captain’s presence. “Is Mademoiselle Lacheneur here?” he asked.

Marie-Anne stepped forward. “I am she, sir,” she replied; “what do you want with me?”

“I am ordered to conduct you to the citadel, mademoiselle.”

“What?” exclaimed Maurice, in a tone of anger; “so they imprison women as well?”

The worthy corporal struck his forehead with his open hand. “I am an old fool!” he exclaimed, “and don’t know how to express myself. I meant to say that I came to fetch mademoiselle at the request of one of the prisoners, a man named Chanlouineau, who wishes to speak with her.”

“Impossible, my good fellow,” said one of the officers; “they would not allow this lady to visit one of the prisoners without special permission----”

“Well, she has this permission,” said the old soldier. And then persuaded he had nothing to fear from any one present, he added, in lower tones: “This Chanlouineau told me that the cure would understand his reasons.”

Had the brave peasant really found some means of salvation. The abbe almost began to believe that such was the case. “You must go with this worthy fellow, Marie-Anne,” said he.

The poor girl shuddered at the thought of seeing Chanlouineau again, but the idea of refusing never once occurred to her. “Let me go,” she said quietly.

But the corporal did not budge. Winking in a desperate fashion, as was his wont whenever he wished to attract attention, he exclaimed: “Wait a bit. I’ve something else to tell you. This Chanlouineau, who seems to be a shrewd fellow, told me to say that all was going well. May I be hung if I can see how! Still such is his opinion. He also told me to tell you not to stir from this place, and not to attempt anything until mademoiselle comes back again, which will be in less than an hour. He swears that he will keep his promise, and only asks you to pledge your word that you will obey him----”

“We will wait for an hour,” replied the abbe. “I can promise that----”

“Then that’ll do,” rejoined Bavois. “Salute company. And now, mademoiselle, on the double, quick march! The poor devil over there must be on coals of fire.”

That a condemned conspirator should be allowed to receive a visit from his leader’s daughter--from the daughter of that Lacheneur who had succeeded in making his escape--was indeed surprising. But Chanlouineau had been ingenious enough to discover a means of procuring this special permission; and with this aim in view, he had feigned the most abject terror on hearing the sentence of death passed upon him. He even contrived to weep in a bellowing fashion, and the guards could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw this robust young fellow, so insolent and defiant a few hours before, now utterly overcome, and even unable to walk back to his cell. They had to carry him there, and then his lamentations became still more boisterous, concluding with an urgent prayer that one of the guard should go to the Duke de Sairmeuse, or the Marquis de Courtornieu, and tell them he had revelations of the greatest importance to make.

That potent word “revelations” made M. de Courtornieu hasten to the prisoner’s cell. He found Chanlouineau on his knees, his features distorted by what appeared to be an agony of fear. The crafty fellow dragged himself towards the marquis, took hold of his hands and kissed them, imploring mercy and forgiveness, and swearing that to save his own life, he was ready to do anything, yes, anything, even to deliver Lacheneur up to the authorities. Such a prospect had powerful attractions for the Marquis de Courtornieu. “Do you know, then, where this brigand is concealed?” he asked.

Chanlouineau admitted that he did not know, but declared that Marie-Anne, Lacheneur’s daughter, was well acquainted with her father’s hiding-place. She had, he said, perfect confidence in him, Chanlouineau; and if they would only send for her, and allow him ten minutes private conversation with her, he was positive he could ascertain where the leader of the insurrection was concealed. So the bargain was quickly concluded; and Chanlouineau’s life was promised him in exchange for Lacheneur’s. A soldier, who fortunately chanced to be Corporal Bavois, was then sent to summon Marie-Anne; and the young farmer awaited her coming with feelings of poignant anxiety. He loved her, remember, and the thought of seeing her once more--for the last time on earth--made his heart throb wildly with mingled passion and despair. At last, at the end of the corridor, he could hear footsteps approaching. The heavy bolts securing the entrance to his cell were drawn back, the door opened, and Marie-Anne appeared, accompanied by Corporal Bavois. “M. de Courtornieu promised me that we should be left alone!” exclaimed Chanlouineau.

“Yes, I know he did, and I am going,” replied the old soldier. “But I have orders to return for mademoiselle in half-an-hour.”

When the door closed behind the worthy corporal, Chanlouineau took hold of Marie-Anne’s hand and drew her to the tiny grated window. “Thank you for coming,” said he, “thank you. I can see you and speak to you once more. Now that my hours are numbered, I may reveal the secret of my soul and of my life. Now, I can venture to tell you how ardently I have loved you--how much I still love you.”

Involuntarily Marie-Anne drew away her hand and stepped back; for this outburst of passion, at such a moment and in such a place, seemed at once unspeakably sad and shocking.

“Have I, then, offended you?” asked Chanlouineau, sadly. “Forgive me--for I am about to die! You cannot refuse to listen to the voice of one, who, to-morrow, will vanish from earth forever. I have loved you for a long time, Marie-Anne, for more than six years. Before I saw you, I only cared for my belongings, and to raise fine crops and gather money together seemed to me the greatest possible happiness here below. And when at first I did meet you--you were so high, and I so low, that in my wildest dreams I did not dare to aspire to you. I went to the church each Sunday only that I might worship you as peasant women worship the Virgin; I went home with my eyes and heart full of you--and that was all. But then came your father’s misfortunes, which brought us nearer to each other; and your father made me as insane, yes, as insane as himself. After the insults he received from the Duke de Sairmeuse, M. Lacheneur resolved to revenge himself upon all these arrogant nobles, and selected me for his accomplice. He had read my heart as easily as if it had been an open book; and when we left the baron’s house that Sunday evening we both have such good reason to remember, he said to me: ‘You love my daughter, my boy. Very well, assist me, and I promise you, that if we succeed, she shall be your wife. Only,’ he added, ‘I must warn you that you risk your life.’ But what was life in comparison with the hopes that dazzled me? From that night, I gave body, soul, and fortune to his cause. Others were influenced by hatred, or ambition; but I was actuated by neither of these motives. What did the quarrels of these great folks matter to me--a simple labourer? I knew that the greatest were powerless to give my crops a drop of rain in seasons of drought, or a ray of sunshine during long spells of rain. I took part in the conspiracy, it was because I loved you----”

It seemed to Marie-Anne that he was reproaching her for the deception she had been forced to practise, and for the cruel fate to which Lacheneur’s wild designs had brought him. “Ah, you are cruel,” she cried, “you are pitiless!”