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Updated: May 20, 2025
It was the first time he had visited the spot, and he was surprised at the extent of the landscape which stretched before him. From this point, which is the most elevated in the surrounding country, one can survey the entire valley of the Oiselle, and discern, in the distance, the redoubtable citadel of Montaignac, built upon an almost inaccessible rock.
But he did not repair to the Chateau de Sairmeuse; he returned to Montaignac, and passed the remainder of the afternoon in the solitude of his own room. That evening he sent two letters to Sairmeuse. One to his father, the other to his wife. Terrible as Martial imagined the scandal to be which he had created, his conception of it by no means equalled the reality.
"I cannot return to Sairmeuse," he wrote, "and yet it is of the utmost importance that I should see you. "You will, I trust, approve my determinations when I explain the reasons that have guided me in making them. "Come to Montaignac, then, the sooner the better. I am waiting for you." Had he listened to the prompting of his impatience, the duke would have started at once.
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.
Maurice seized it and read: "Yesterday, Lacheneur, the leader of the revolt in Montaignac, was executed. The miserable mischief-maker exhibited upon the scaffold the audacity for which he has always been famous." "My father has been put to death!" cried Marie-Anne, "and I his daughter was not there to receive his last farewell!"
Only I don't see that it teaches us anything." An ironical smile curved old Tirauclair's lips. "It teaches us that M. d'Escorval's father was condemned to death," he replied. "That's something, I assure you. A little patience, and you will soon know everything." A French general and politician, born at the chateau de Sairmeuse, near Montaignac, in 1758.
Such a wound, of course, caused him not a little suffering, and he was trying to bandage it with his handkerchief, when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He had no time for reflection; he sprang into the forest that lies to the left of the Croix d'Arcy. The troops were returning to Montaignac after pursuing the rebels for more than three miles.
In the first place, nothing had been heard of Lacheneur, or of his son Jean; thus far they had escaped the most rigorous pursuit. In the second place, there were, at this moment, two hundred prisoners in the citadel, and among them the Baron d'Escorval and Chanlouineau. And lastly, since morning there had been at least sixty arrests in Montaignac.
Some were of the opinion that the crowd should disperse; others wished to march against Montaignac without Lacheneur, and that, immediately. But these deliberations were interrupted by the furious gallop of a horse. A carriage appeared, and stopped in the centre of the open space. Two men alighted; Baron d'Escorval and Abbe Midon. They were in advance of Lacheneur.
"And you think that man can be guilty!" exclaimed the abbe. "You see, Jean, that you are mad!" "And this last insult to my dead sister is an honor, I suppose," said Jean, with a furious gesture. "And the wretch binds my hands by saving my father!" exclaimed Maurice. From his place by the window, the abbe saw Martial remount his horse. But the marquis did not take the road to Montaignac.
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