“Was the act I committed so ignoble and abominable?” he pursued. “Then why did your father propose it? The shame should fall on him. He should not have tempted a poor man with wealth like that. If, on the contrary, I have done well, let them make laws to protect me.” Martial comprehended the necessity of reassuring his troubled mind. “Chupin, my boy,” said he, “I do not ask you to discover Monsieur d’Escorval in order to denounce him; far from it--I only desire you to ascertain if anyone at Saint-Pavin, or at Saint-Jean-de-Coche, knows of his having crossed the frontier.” On hearing the name Saint-Jean-de-Coche, Chupin’s face blanched. “Do you wish me to be murdered?” he exclaimed, remembering Balstain and his vow. “I would have you know that I value my life, now that I am rich.” And seized with a sort of panic he fled precipitately. Martial was stupefied with astonishment. “One might really suppose that the wretch was sorry for what he had done,” he thought. If that was really the case, Chupin was not alone. M. de Courtornieu and the Duc de Sairmeuse were secretly blaming themselves for the exaggerations in their first reports, and the manner in which they had magnified the proportions of the rebellion. They accused each other of undue haste, of neglect of the proper forms of procedure, and the injustice of the verdict rendered. Each endeavored to make the other responsible for the blood which had been spilled; one tried to cast the public odium upon the other. Meanwhile they were both doing their best to obtain a pardon for the six prisoners who had been reprieved. They did not succeed. One night a courier arrived at Montaignac, bearing the following laconic despatch: “The twenty-one convicted prisoners must be executed.” That is to say, the Duc de Richelieu, and the council of ministers, headed by M. Decazes, the minister of police, had decided that the petitions for clemency must be refused. This despatch was a terrible blow to the Duc de Sairmeuse and M. de Courtornieu. They knew, better than anyone else, how little these poor men, whose lives they had tried, too late, to save, deserved death. They knew it would soon be publicly proven that two of the six men had taken no part whatever in the conspiracy. What was to be done? Martial desired his father to resign his authority; but the duke had not courage to do it. M. de Courtornieu encouraged him. He admitted that all this was very unfortunate, but declared, since the wine had been drawn, that it was necessary to drink it, and that one could not draw back now without causing a terrible scandal. The next day the dismal rolling of drums was again heard, and the six doomed men, two of whom were known to be innocent, were led outside the walls of the citadel and shot, on the same spot where, only a week before, fourteen of their comrades had fallen. And the prime mover in the conspiracy had not yet been tried.