"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 it.

"You must go with this worthy man, 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 us go," she said, quietly.

But the corporal did not stir from his place, and winking, according to his habit when he desired to attract the attention of his hearers:

"In one moment," he said. "This Chanlouineau, who seems to be a shrewd fellow, told me to tell you 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 returns, which will be in less than an hour. He swears to you that he will keep his promise; he only asks you to pledge your word that you will obey him----"

"We will take no action until an hour has pa.s.sed," said the abbe. "I promise that----"

"That is all. Salute company. And now, Mademoiselle, on the double-quick, march! The poor devil over there must be on coals of fire."

That a condemned prisoner should be allowed to receive a visit from the daughter of the leader of the rebellion--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.

With this aim in view, when sentence of death was pa.s.sed upon him, he pretended to be overcome with terror, and to weep piteously.

The soldiers could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw this robust young fellow, who had been so insolent and defiant a few hours before, so overcome that they were obliged to carry him to his cell.

There, his lamentations were redoubled; and he begged the guard to go to the Duc 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 was apparently an agony of fear. The man dragged himself toward him, took his hands and kissed them, imploring mercy and forgiveness, swearing that to preserve his life he was ready to do anything, yes, anything, even to deliver up M. Lacheneur.

To capture Lacheneur! Such a prospect had powerful attractions for the Marquis de Courtornieu.

"Do you know, then, where this brigand is concealed?" he inquired.

Chanlouineau admitted that he did not know, but declared that Marie-Anne, Lacheneur's daughter, knew her father's hiding-place. She had, he declared, perfect confidence in him; and if they would only send for her, and allow him ten minutes' private conversation with her, he was sure he could obtain the secret of her father's place of concealment. So the bargain was quickly concluded.

The prisoner's life was promised, him in exchange for the life of Lacheneur.

A soldier, who chanced to be Corporal Bavois, was sent to summon Marie-Anne.

And Chanlouineau waited in terrible anxiety. No one had told him what had taken place at Escorval, but he divined it by the aid of that strange prescience which so often illuminates the mind when death is near at hand.

He was almost certain that Mme. d'Escorval was in Montaignac; he was equally certain that Marie-Anne was with her; and if she were, he knew that she would come.

And he waited, counting the seconds by the throbbings of his heart.

He waited, understanding the cause of every sound without, distinguishing with the marvellous acuteness of senses excited to the highest pitch by pa.s.sion, sounds which would have been inaudible to another person.

At last, at the end of the corridor, he heard the rustling of a dress against the wall.

"It is she," he murmured.

Footsteps approached; the heavy bolts were drawn back, the door opened, and Marie-Anne entered, accompanied by Corporal Bavois.

"Monsieur de Courtornieu promised me that we should be left alone!"

exclaimed Chanlouineau.

"Therefore, I go at once," 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 Marie-Anne's hand and drew her to the tiny grafted 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.

This outburst of pa.s.sion, at such a moment, seemed at once unspeakably sad and frightful.

"Have I, then, offended you?" said Chanlouineau, sadly. "Forgive one who is about to die! You cannot refuse to listen to the voice of one, who after tomorrow, will have vanished from earth forever.

"I have loved you for a long time, Marie-Anne, for more than six years.

Before I saw you, I loved only my possessions. To raise fine crops, and to ama.s.s a fortune, seemed to me, then, the greatest possible happiness here below.

"Why did I meet you? But at that time you were so high, and I, so low, that never in my wildest dreams did I aspire to you. I went to church each Sunday only that I might worship you as peasant women worship the Blessed Virgin; I went home with my eyes and my heart full of you--and that was all.

"Then came the misfortune that 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 Sairmeuse, your father resolved to revenge himself upon these arrogant n.o.bles, and he selected me for his accomplice. He had read my heart. On leaving the house of Baron d'Escorval, on that Sunday evening, which you must remember, the compact that bound me to your father was made.

"'You love my daughter, my boy,' said he. 'Very well, aid me, and I promise you, in case we succeed, she shall be your wife. Only,' he added, 'I must warn you that you hazard your life.'

"But what was life in comparison with the hope that dazzled me! From that night I gave body, soul, and fortune to the cause. Others were influenced by hatred, or by ambition; but I was actuated by neither of these motives.

"What did the quarrels of the great matter to me--a simple laborer? I knew that the greatest were powerless to give my crops a drop of rain in season of drought, or a ray of sunshine during the rain.

"I took part in this conspiracy because I loved you----"

"Ah! you are cruel!" exclaimed Marie-Anne, "you are pitiless!"

It seemed to the poor girl that he was reproaching her for the horrible fate which Lacheneur had brought upon him, and for the terrible part which her father had imposed upon her, and which she had not been strong enough to refuse to perform.

But Chanlouineau scarcely heard Marie-Anne's exclamation. All the bitterness of the past had mounted to his brain like fumes of alcohol.

He was scarcely conscious of his own words.

"But the day soon came," he continued, "when my foolish illusions were destroyed. You could not be mine since you belonged to another. I might have broken my compact! I thought of doing so, but had not the courage.

To see you, to hear your voice, to dwell beneath the same roof with you, was happiness. I longed to see you happy and honored; I fought for the triumph of another, for him whom you had chosen----"

A sob that had risen in his throat choked his utterance; he buried his face in his hands to hide his tears, and, for a moment, seemed completely overcome.