The Honor of the Name | Page 7

had not been painted
out.
"Twenty years ago, Lacheneur was a poor devil like myself; now, he is
a grand gentleman with fifty thousand livres a year. He wears the finest
broadcloth and top-boots like the Baron d'Escorval. He no longer works;
he makes others work; and when he passes, everyone must bow to the
earth. If you kill so much as a sparrow upon his lands, as he says, he
will cast you into prison. Ah, he has been fortunate. The emperor made
him mayor. The Bourbons deprived him of his office; but what does
that matter to him? He is still the real master here, as the Sairmeuse
were in other days. His son is pursuing his studies in Paris, intending to
become a notary. As for his daughter, Mademoiselle Marie-Anne--"
"Not a word against her!" exclaimed Chanlouineau; "if she were
mistress, there would not be a poor man in the country; and yet, how
some of her pensioners abuse her bounty. Ask your wife if this is not so,
Father Chupin."
Undoubtedly the impetuous young man spoke at the peril of his life.
But the wicked old Chupin swallowed this affront which he would
never forget, and humbly continued:
"I do not say that Mademoiselle Marie-Anne is not generous; but after
all her charitable work she has plenty of money left for her fine dresses
and her fallals. I think that Monsieur Lacheneur ought to be very well
content, even after he has restored to its former owner one- half or even
three-quarters of the property he has acquired--no one can tell how. He
would have enough left then to grind the poor under foot."

After his appeal to selfishness, Father Chupin appealed to envy. There
could be no doubt of his success.
But he had not time to pursue his advantage. The services were over,
and the worshippers were leaving the church.
Soon there appeared upon the porch the man in question, with a young
girl of dazzling beauty leaning upon his arm.
Father Chupin walked straight toward him, and brusquely delivered his
message.
M. Lacheneur staggered beneath the blow. He turned first so red, then
so frightfully pale, that those around him thought he was about to fall.
But he quickly recovered his self-possession, and without a word to the
messenger, he walked rapidly away, leading his daughter.
Some minutes later an old post-chaise, drawn by four horses, dashed
through the village at a gallop, and paused before the house of the
village cure.
Then one might have witnessed a singular spectacle.
Father Chupin had gathered his wife and his children together, and the
four surrounded the carriage, shouting, with all the power of their
lungs:
"Long live the Duc de Sairmeuse!"
CHAPTER II
A gently ascending road, more than two miles in length, shaded by a
quadruple row of venerable elms, led from the village to the Chateau de
Sairmeuse.
Nothing could be more beautiful than this avenue, a fit approach to a
palace; and the stranger who beheld it could understand the naively

vain proverb of the country: "He does not know the real beauty of
France, who has never seen Sairmeuse nor the Oiselle."
The Oiselle is the little river which one crosses by means of a wooden
bridge on leaving the village, and whose clear and rapid waters give a
delicious freshness to the valley.
At every step, as one ascends, the view changes. It is as if an
enchanting panorama were being slowly unrolled before one.
On the right you can see the saw-mills of Fereol. On the left, like an
ocean of verdure, the forest of Dolomien trembles in the breeze. Those
imposing ruins on the other side of the river are all that remain of the
feudal manor of the house of Breulh. That red brick mansion, with
granite trimmings, half concealed by a bend in the river, belongs to the
Baron d'Escorval.
And, if the day is clear, one can easily distinguish the spires of
Montaignac in the distance.
This was the path traversed by M. Lacheneur after Chupin had
delivered his message.
But what did he care for the beauties of the landscape!
Upon the church porch he had received his death-wound; and now,
with a tottering and dragging step, he dragged himself along like one of
those poor soldiers, mortally wounded upon the field of battle, who go
back, seeking a ditch or quiet spot where they can lie down and die.
He seemed to have lost all thought of his surroundings--all
consciousness of previous events. He pursued his way, lost in his
reflections, guided only by force of habit.
Two or three times his daughter, Marie-Anne, who was walking by his
side, addressed him; but an "Ah! let me alone!" uttered in a harsh tone,
was