Circumstances, as he always said, had been against him.

So he desperately caught at the first and only opportunity worthy of his talent, which had ever presented itself.

Of course, the wily rustic had said nothing of the true circumstances which attended the restoration of Sairmeuse to its former owner.

From him, the peasants learned only the bare fact; and the news spread rapidly from group to group.

“Monsieur Lacheneur has given up Sairmeuse,” said he.  “Chateau, forests, vineyards, fields—­he surrenders everything.”

This was enough, and more than enough to terrify every land-owner in the village.

If Lacheneur, this man who was so powerful in their eyes, considered the danger so threatening that he deemed it necessary or advisable to make a complete surrender, what was to become of them—­poor devils—­without aid, without counsel, without defence?

They were told that the government was about to betray their interests; that a decree was in process of preparation which would render their title-deeds worthless.  They could see no hope of salvation, except through the duke’s generosity—­that generosity which Chupin painted with the glowing colors of the rainbow.

When one is not strong enough to weather the gale, one must bow like the reed before it and rise again after the storm has passed; such was their conclusion.

And they bowed.  And their apparent enthusiasm was all the more vociferous on account of the rage and fear that filled their hearts.

A close observer would have detected an undercurrent of anger and menace in their shouts.

Each man also said to himself: 

“What do we risk by crying, ‘Vive le Duc?’ Nothing; absolutely nothing.  If he is contented with that as a compensation for his lost property—­good!  If he is not content, we shall have time afterward to adopt other measures.”

So they shouted themselves hoarse.

And while the duke was sipping his coffee in the little drawing-room of the presbytery, he expressed his lively satisfaction at the scene without.

He, this grand seigneur of times gone by, this man of absurd prejudices and obstinate illusions; the unconquerable, and the incorrigible—­he took these acclamations, “truly spurious coin,” as Chateaubriand says, for ready money.

“How you have deceived me, cure,” he was saying to Abbe Midon.  “How could you declare that your people were unfavorably disposed toward us?  One is compelled to believe that these evil intentions exist only in your own mind and in your own heart.”

Abbe Midon was silent.  What could he reply?

He could not understand this sudden revolution in public opinion—­this abrupt change from gloom and discontent to excessive gayety.

There is somebody at the bottom of all this, he thought.

It was not long before it became apparent who that somebody was.