The Honor of the Name

by Emile Gaboriau

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Chupin's stupefying revelations and the thought that Martial, the heirof his name and dukedom, should degrade himself so low as to enter intoa conspiracy with vulgar peasants, drove the Duc de Sairmeuse nearlywild.

  But the Marquis de Courtornieu's coolness restored the duke's_sang-froid_.

  He ran to the barracks, and in less than half an hour five hundredfoot-soldiers and three hundred of the Montaignac chasseurs were underarms.

  With these forces at his disposal it would have been easy enoughto suppress this movement without the least bloodshed. It was onlynecessary to close the gates of the city. It was not with fowling-piecesand clubs that these poor peasants could force an entrance into afortified town.

  But such moderation did not suit a man of the duke's violenttemperament, a man who was ever longing for struggle and excitement, aman whose ambition prompted him to display his zeal.

  He had ordered the gate of the citadel to be left open, and hadconcealed some of his soldiers behind the parapets of the outerfortifications.

  He then stationed himself where he could command a view of the approachto the citadel, and deliberately chose his moment for giving the signalto fire.

  Still, a strange thing happened. Of four hundred shots, fired into adense crowd of fifteen hundred men, only three had hit the mark.

  More humane than their chief, nearly all the soldiers had fired in theair.

  But the duke had not time to investigate this strange occurrence now.He leaped into the saddle, and placing himself at the head of aboutfive hundred men, cavalry and infantry, he started in pursuit of thefugitives.

  The peasants had the advantage of their pursuers by about twentyminutes.

  Poor simple creatures!

  They might easily have made their escape. They had only to disperse,to scatter; but, unfortunately, the thought never once occurred to themajority of them. A few ran across the fields and gained their homesin safety; the others, frantic and despairing, overcome by the strangevertigo that seizes the bravest in moments of panic, fled like a flockof frightened sheep.

  Fear lent them wings, for did they not hear each moment shots fired atthe laggards?

  But there was one man, who, at each of these detonations, received, asit were, his death-wound--this man was Lacheneur.

  He had reached the Croix d'Arcy just as the firing at Montaignac began.He listened and waited. No discharge of musketry replied to the firstfusillade. There might have been butchery, but combat, no.

  Lacheneur understood it all; and he wished that every ball had piercedhis own heart.

  He put spurs to his horse and galloped to the crossroads. The place wasdeserted. At the entrance of one of the roads stood the cabriolet whichhad brought M. d'Escorval and the abbe.

  At last M. Lacheneur saw the fugitives approaching in the distance. Hedashed forward, to meet them, trying by mingled curses and insults tostay their flight.

  "Cowards!" he vociferated, "traitors! You flee--and you are ten againstone! Where are you going? To your own homes. Fools! you will findthe gendarmes there only awaiting your coming to conduct you to thescaffold. Is it not better to die with your weapons in your hands?Come--right about. Follow me! We may still conquer. Reinforcements areat hand; two thousand men are following me!"

  He promised them two thousand men; had he promised them ten thousand,twenty thousand--an army and cannon, it would have made no difference.

  Not until they reached the wide-open space of the cross-roads, wherethey had talked so confidently scarcely an hour before, did the mostintelligent of the throng regain their senses, while the others fled inevery direction.

  About a hundred of the bravest and most determined of the conspiratorsgathered around M. Lacheneur. In the little crowd was the abbe, gloomyand despondent. He had been separated from the baron. What had been hisfate? Had he been killed or taken prisoner? Was it possible that he hadmade his escape?

  The worthy priest dared not go away. He waited, hoping that hiscompanion might rejoin him, and deemed himself fortunate in findingthe carriage still there. He was still waiting when the remnant of thecolumn confided to Maurice and Chanlouineau came up.

  Of the five hundred men that composed it on its departure fromSairmeuse, only fifteen remained, including the two retired officers.

  Marie-Anne was in the centre of this little party.

  M. Lacheneur and his friends were trying to decide what course it wasbest for them to pursue. Should each man go his way? or should theyunite, and by an obstinate resistance, give all their comrades time toreach their homes?

  The voice of Chanlouineau put an end to all hesitation.

  "I have come to fight," he exclaimed, "and I shall sell my life dearly."

  "We will make a stand then!" cried the others.

  But Chanlouineau did not follow them to the spot which they hadconsidered best adapted to the prolonged defence; he called Maurice anddrew him a little aside.

  "You, Monsieur d'Escorval," he said, almost roughly, "are going to leavehere and at once."

  "I--I came here, Chanlouineau, as you did, to do my duty."

  "Your duty, Monsieur, is to serve Marie-Anne. Go at once, and take herwith you."

  "I shall remain," said Maurice, firmly.

  He was going to join his comrades when Chanlouineau stopped him.

  "You have no right to sacrifice your life here," he said, quietly. "Yourlife belongs to the woman who has given herself to you."

  "Wretch! how dare you!"

  Chanlouineau sadly shook his head.

  "What is the use of denying it?" said he.

  "It was so great a temptation that only an angel could have resistedit. It was not your fault, nor was it hers. Lacheneur was a bad father.There was a day when I wished either to kill myself or to kill you, Iknew not which. Ah! only once again will you be as near death as youwere that day. You were scarcely five paces from the muzzle of my gun.It was God who stayed my hand by reminding me of her despair. Now that Iam to die, as well as Lacheneur, someone must care for Marie-Anne.Swear that you will marry her. You may be involved in some difficulty onaccount of this affair; but I have here the means of saving you."

  A sound of firing interrupted him; the soldiers of the Duc de Sairmeusewere approaching.

  "Good God!" exclaimed Chanlouineau, "and Marie-Anne!"

  They rushed in pursuit of her, and Maurice was the first to discoverher, standing in the centre of the open space clinging to the neck ofher father's horse. He took her in his arms, trying to drag her away.

  "Come!" said he, "come!"

  But she refused.

  "Leave me, leave me!" she entreated.

  "But all is lost!"

  "Yes, I know that all is lost--even honor. Leave me here. I must remain;I must die, and thus hide my shame. I must, it shall be so!"

  Just then Chanlouineau appeared.

  Had he divined the secret of her resistance? Perhaps; but withoututtering a word, he lifted her in his strong arms as if she had been achild and bore her to the carriage guarded by Abbe Midon.

  "Get in," he said, addressing the priest, "and quick--take MademoiselleLacheneur. Now, Maurice, in your turn!"

  But already the duke's soldiers were masters of the field. Seeing agroup in the shadow, at a little distance, they rushed to the spot.

  The heroic Chanlouineau seized his gun, and brandishing it like a club,held the enemy at bay, giving Maurice time to spring into the carriage,catch the reins and start the horse off at a gallop.

  All the cowardice and all the heroism displayed on that terrible nightwill never be really known.

  Two minutes after the departure of Marie-Anne and of Maurice,Chanlouineau was still battling with the foe.

  A dozen or more soldiers were in front of him. Twenty shots had beenfired, but not a ball had struck him. His enemies always believed himinvulnerable.

  "Surrender!" cried the soldiers, amazed by such valor; "surrender!"

  "Never! never!"

  He
was truly formidable; he brought to the support of his marvellouscourage a superhuman strength and agility. No one dared come withinreach of those brawny arms that revolved with the power and velocity ofthe sails of a wind-mill.

  Then it was that a soldier, confiding his musket to the care of acompanion, threw himself flat upon his belly, and crawling unobservedaround behind this obscure hero, seized him by the legs. He totteredlike an oak beneath the blow of the axe, struggled furiously, but takenat such a disadvantage was thrown to the ground, crying, as he fell:

  "Help! friends, help!"

  But no one responded to this appeal.

  At the other end of the open space those upon whom he called had, aftera desperate struggle, yielded.

  The main body of the duke's infantry was near at hand.

  The rebels heard the drums beating the charge; they could see thebayonets gleaming in the sunlight.

  Lacheneur, who had remained in the same spot, utterly ignoring the shotthat whistled around him, felt that his few remaining comrades wereabout to be exterminated.

  In that supreme moment the whole past was revealed to him as by a flashof lightning. He read and judged his own heart. Hatred had led him tocrime. He loathed himself for the humiliation which he had imposedupon his daughter. He cursed himself for the falsehoods by which he haddeceived these brave men, for whose death he would be accountable.

  Enough blood had flowed; he must save those who remained.

  "Cease firing, my friends," he commanded; "retreat!"

  They obeyed--he could see them scatter in every direction.

  He too could flee; was he not mounted upon a gallant steed which wouldbear him beyond the reach of the enemy?

  But he had sworn that he would not survive defeat. Maddened withremorse, despair, sorrow, and impotent rage, he saw no refuge save indeath.

  He had only to wait for it; it was fast approaching; he preferred torush to meet it. Gathering up the reins, he dashed the rowels in hissteed and, alone, charged upon the enemy.

  The shock was rude, the ranks opened, there was a moment of confusion.

  But Lacheneur's horse, its chest cut open by the bayonets, reared, beatthe air with his hoofs, then fell backward, burying his rider beneathhim.

  And the soldiers marched on, not suspecting that beneath the body of thehorse the brave rider was struggling to free himself.

  It was half-past one in the morning--the place was deserted.

  Nothing disturbed the silence save the moans of a few wounded men, whocalled upon their comrades for succor.

  But before thinking of the wounded, M. de Sairmeuse must decide upon thecourse which would be most likely to redound to his advantage and to hispolitical glory.

  Now that the insurrection had been suppressed, it was necessary toexaggerate its magnitude as much as possible, in order that his rewardshould be in proportion to the service supposed to have been rendered.

  Some fifteen or twenty rebels had been captured; but that was not asufficient number to give the victory the _eclat_ which he desired. Hemust find more culprits to drag before the provost-marshal or before amilitary commission.

  He, therefore, divided his troops into several detachments, and sentthem in every direction with orders to explore the villages, search allisolated houses, and arrest all suspected persons.

  His task here having been completed, he again recommended the mostimplacable severity, and started on a brisk trot for Montaignac.

  He was delighted; certainly he blessed--as had M. de Courtornieu--thesehonest and artless conspirators; but one fear, which he vainly tried todismiss, impaired his satisfaction.

  His son, the Marquis de Sairmeuse, was he, or was he not, implicated inthis conspiracy?

  He could not, he would not, believe it; and yet the recollection ofChupin's assurance troubled him.

  On the other hand, what could have become of Martial? The servant whohad been sent to warn him--had he met him? Was the marquis returning?And by which road? Could it be possible that he had fallen into thehands of the peasants?

  The duke's relief was intense when, on returning home, after aconference with M. de Courtornieu, he learned that Martial had arrivedabout a quarter of an hour before.

  "The marquis went at once to his own room on dismounting from hishorse," added the servant.

  "Very well," replied the duke. "I will seek him there."

  Before the servants he said, "Very well;" but secretly, he exclaimed:"Abominable impertinence! What! I am on horseback at the head of mytroops, my life imperilled, and my son goes quietly to bed without evenassuring himself of my safety!"

  He reached his son's room, but found the door closed and locked on theinside. He rapped.

  "Who is there?" demanded Martial.

  "It is I; open the door."

  Martial drew the bolt; M. de Sairmeuse entered, but the sight that methis gaze made him tremble.

  Upon the table was a basin of blood, and Martial, with chest bared, wasbathing a large wound in his right breast.

  "You have been fighting!" exclaimed the duke, in a husky voice.

  "Yes."

  "Ah! then you were, indeed----"

  "I was where? what?"

  "At the convocation of these miserable peasants who, in their parricidalfolly, have dared to dream of the overthrow of the best of princes!"

  Martial's face betrayed successively profound surprise, and a moreviolent desire to laugh.

  "I think you must be jesting, Monsieur," he replied.

  The young man's words and manner reassured the duke a little, withoutentirely dissipating his suspicions.

  "Then, these vile rascals attacked you?" he exclaimed.

  "Not at all. I have been simply obliged to fight a duel."

  "With whom? Name the scoundrel who has dared to insult you!"

  A faint flush tinged Martial's cheek; but it was in his usual carelesstone that he replied:

  "Upon my word, no; I shall not give his name. You would trouble him,perhaps; and I really owe the fellow a debt of gratitude. It happenedupon the highway; he might have assassinated me without ceremony, but heoffered me open combat. Besides, he was wounded far more severely thanI."

  All M. de Sairmeuse's doubts had returned.

  "And why, instead of summoning a physician, are you attempting to dressthis wound yourself?"

  "Because it is a mere trifle, and because I wish to keep it a secret."

  The duke shook his head.

  "All this is scarcely plausible," he remarked, "especially after theassurance of your complicity, which I have received."

  "Ah!" said he; "and from whom? From your spy-in-chief, no doubt--thatrascal Chupin. It surprises me to see that you can hesitate for a momentbetween the word of your son and the stories of such a wretch."

  "Do not speak ill of Chupin, Marquis; he is a very useful man. Had itnot been for him, we should have been taken unawares. It was through himthat I learned of this vast conspiracy organized by Lacheneur----"

  "What! is it Lacheneur--"

  "Who is at the head of the movement? yes, Marquis. Ah! your usualdiscernment has failed you in this instance. What, you have been aconstant visitor at this house, and you have suspected nothing? And youcontemplate a diplomatic career! But this is not all. You know now forwhat purpose the money which you so lavishly bestowed upon them has beenemployed. They have used it to purchase guns, powder, and ammunition."

  The duke had become satisfied of the injustice of his suspicions; but hewas now endeavoring to irritate his son.

  It was a fruitless effort. Martial knew very well that he had beenduped, but he did not think of resenting it.

  "If Lacheneur has been captured," he thought; "if he should be condemnedto death and if I should save him, Marie-Anne would refuse me nothing."