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 the only response she could draw from him.

Evidently he had received a terrible blow; and undoubtedly, as often
happens under such circumstances, the unfortunate man was reviewing all
the different phases of his life.

At twenty Lacheneur was only a poor ploughboy in the service of the
Sairmeuse family.

His ambition was modest then. When stretched beneath