“And after that! If you take Montaignac, what will you do then? Do you imagine the English will give you back your emperor? Isn’t Napoleon II. an Austrian prisoner. Have you forgotten that the allied sovereigns have left a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers within a day’s march of Paris?” Sullen murmurs were heard among Lacheneur’s followers. “But all this is nothing,” continued the baron. “The chief danger lies in the fact that there are generally as many traitors as dupes in an undertaking of this sort.” “Whom do you call dupes?” “All those who mistake their illusions for realities, as you have done; all those who wishing something to happen, are convinced that it _will_ happen--simply because they wish it so. And besides do you really suppose that neither the Duke de Sairmeuse nor the Marquis de Courtornieu has been warned of your attempt?” Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders. “Who could have warned them?” he asked complacently. But his tranquility was feigned; as the glance he cast on Jean only too plainly proved. Frigid indeed was the tone in which he added: “It is probable that the duke and the marquis are at this very moment in the power of our friends.” The cure now attempted to second the baron’s efforts. “You will not go, Lacheneur,” he said. “You cannot remain deaf to the voice of reason. You are an honest man; think of the frightful responsibility you assume! Upon these frail hopes you are imperilling hundreds of brave lives? I tell you that you will not succeed; you will be betrayed; I am sure you will be betrayed!” An expression of horrible agony contracted Lacheneur’s features. It was evident to every one that he was deeply moved; and, perhaps, matters might have taken a very different course, had it not been for Chanlouineau’s intervention. “We are wasting too much time in foolish prattle,” he exclaimed, stepping forward and brandishing his gun. Lacheneur started as if he had been struck by a whip. He rudely freed himself from his friend’s grasp, and leaped into the saddle. “Forward!” he ordered. But the baron and the priest did not yet despair; they sprang to the horse’s head. “Lacheneur,” cried the priest, “beware! The blood you are about to spill will fall on your own head, and on the heads of your children!” Arrested by these prophetic words, the little band paused, and at the same moment a figure clad in the costume of a peasant issued from the ranks. “Marie-Anne!” exclaimed the abbe and the baron in the same breath.