Five minutes later, the soldier reappeared with the same note.

Upon the margin the duke had written an order, placing at Chupin's
disposal a lieutenant and eight men chosen from the Montaignac
chasseurs, who could be relied upon, and who were not suspected (as were
the other troops) of sympathizing with the rebels.

Chupin also requested a horse for his own use, and this was accorded
him. The duke had just received this note when, with a triumphant
air, he abruptly entered the room where Marie-Anne and his son were
negotiating for the release of Baron d'Escorval.

It was because he believed in the truth of the rather hazardous
assertion made by his spy that he exclaimed, upon the threshold:

"Upon my word! it must be confessed that this Chupin is an incomparable
huntsman! Thanks to him----"

Then he saw Mlle. Lacheneur, and suddenly checked himself.

Unfortunately, neither Martial nor Marie-Anne were in a state of mind to
notice this remark and its interruption.

Had he been questioned, the duke would probably have allowed the truth
to escape him, and M. Lacheneur might have been saved.

But Lacheneur was one of those unfortunate beings who seem to be pursued
by an evil destiny which they can never escape.

Buried beneath his horse, M. Lacheneur had lost consciousness.

When he regained his senses, restored by the fresh morning air, the
place was silent and deserted. Not far from him, he saw two dead bodies
which had not yet been removed.

It was a terrible moment, and in the depth of his soul he cursed death,
which had refused to heed his entreaties. Had he been armed, doubtless,
he would have ended by suicide, the most cruel mental torture which man
was ever forced to endure--but he had no weapon.

He was obliged to accept the chastisement of life.

Perhaps, too, the voice of honor whispered that it was cowardice to
strive to escape the responsibility of one's acts by death.

At last, he endeavored to draw himself out from beneath the body of his
horse.

This proved to be no easy matter, as his foot was still in the stirrup,
and his limbs were so badly cramped that he could scarcely move them.
He finally succeeded in freeing himself, however, and, on examination,
discovered that he, who it would seem ought to have been killed ten
times over, had only one hurt--a bayonet-wound in the leg, extending
from the ankle almost to the knee.

Such a wound, of course, caused him not a little suffering, and he