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

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

In that supreme moment the whole past was revealed to him as by a flash of lightning. He read and judged his own heart. Hatred had led him to crime. He loathed himself for the humiliation which he had imposed upon his daughter. He cursed himself for the falsehoods by which he had deceived 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 would bear him beyond the reach of the enemy?

But he had sworn that he would not survive defeat. Maddened with remorse, despair, sorrow, and impotent rage, he saw no refuge save in death.

He had only to wait for it; it was fast approaching; he preferred to rush to meet it. Gathering up the reins, he dashed the rowels in his steed 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, beat the air with his hoofs, then fell backward, burying his rider beneath him.

And the soldiers marched on, not suspecting that beneath the body of the horse 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, who called upon their comrades for succor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He could not, he would not, believe it; and yet the recollection of Chupin's a.s.surance troubled him.

On the other hand, what could have become of Martial? The servant who had 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 the hands of the peasants?

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

"The marquis went at once to his own room on dismounting from his horse," 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 my troops, my life imperilled, and my son goes quietly to bed without even a.s.suring himself of my safety!"

He reached his son's room, but found the door closed and locked on the inside. 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 met his gaze made him tremble.

Upon the table was a basin of blood, and Martial, with chest bared, was bathing 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 parricidal folly, have dared to dream of the overthrow of the best of princes!"

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

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

The young man's words and manner rea.s.sured the duke a little, without entirely 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 careless tone 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 grat.i.tude. It happened upon the highway; he might have a.s.sa.s.sinated me without ceremony, but he offered me open combat. Besides, he was wounded far more severely than I."

All M. de Sairmeuse's doubts had returned.

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

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

The duke shook his head.