“No offence,” he growled. “If I had trusted poor M. d’Escorval, he would be alive now.”
“The baron still breathes,” observed one of the officers.
This was such astounding news that for a moment Bavois was utterly confounded. “Ah! I will give my right hand, if necessary, to save him!” he exclaimed, at last.
“If it is possible to save him, he will be saved, my friend. That worthy priest whom you see there, is an excellent physician. He is examining M. d’Escorval’s wounds at this moment. It was by his order that we procured and lighted that candle, which may bring ourenemies upon us at any moment; but this is not a time for hesitation.”
Bavois looked with all his eyes, but from where he was standing he could only distinguish a confused group of moving figures. On stepping forward, however, he perceived that Marie-Anne was holding a candle over the baron who lay stretched upon the ground, his head reclining on his wife’s knees. His face was not disfigured; but he was extremely pale, and his eyes were closed at intervals. He shuddered, and then the blood would trickle from his mouth. His clothing was hacked—literally hacked to pieces; and it was easy to see that he had been frightfully mauled and wounded. Kneeling beside the unconscious man, the Abbe Midon was dexterously staunching the blood and applying bandages, torn from the linen of those present. Maurice and one of the officers were assisting him. “Ah! if I had my hands on the scoundrel who cut the rope,” cried the corporal, with passionate indignation; “but patience. I shall have him yet.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“Only too well!” He said no more. The abbe had done all it was possible to do, and was now lifting the wounded man a little higher on Madame d’Escorval’s knees. This change of position elicited a moan which betrayed the baron’s intense sufferings. He opened his eyes and faltered a few words—the first he had uttered. “Firmin!” he murmured, “Firmin!” This was the name of his former secretary, a devoted helpmate who had been dead for several years. It was evident that the baron’s mind was wandering. Still he had some vague idea of his terrible situation, for in a stifled, almost inaudible voice, he added: “Oh! how I suffer! Firmin, I will not fall into the hands of the Marquis de Courtornieu alive. I would rather kill myself.”
This was all; his eyes closed again, and his head fell back a dead weight. The officers clustering round believed that he had expired, and it was with poignant anxiety that they drew the abbe aside. “Is it all over?” they asked. “Is there any hope?”
The priest shook his head sadly, and pointing to heaven: “My hope is in God!” he said reverently.
The hour, the place, the catastrophe, the present danger,the threatening future, all combined to impart solemnity to the priest’s few words; and so profound was the impression that, for a moment, these men, familiar with death and peril, stood in awed silence. Maurice, who approached, followed by Corporal Bavois, brought them back to the exigencies of the situation. “Ought we not to make haste and carry my father away?” he asked. “Mustn’t we be in Piedmont before evening?”
“Yes!” exclaimed one of the officers, “let us start at once.”
But the priest did not move, and it was in a despondent voice that he remarked: “Any attempt to carry M. d’Escorval across the frontier in his present condition would cost him his life.”
This seemed so inevitably a death-warrant for them all, that they shuddered. “My God! what shall we do?” faltered Maurice. “What course shall we adopt?”
No one replied. It was clear that they hoped for salvation through the priest alone. He was lost in thought, and it was some time before he spoke. “About an hour’s walk from here,” he said, at last, “beyond the Croix-d’Arcy, lives a peasant on whom I can rely. His name is Poignot; and he was formerly in M. Lacheneur’s employ. With the assistance of his three sons, he now tills quite a large farm. We must procure a litter and carry M. d’Escorval to this honest peasant’s house.”
“What,” interrupted one of the officers, “you want us to procure a litter at this hour of the night, and in this neighbourhood?”
“It must be done.”
“But won’t it awake suspicion?”
“Most assuredly.”
“The Montaignac police will follow us.”
“I am certain of it.”
“The baron will be recaptured?”
“No.” The abbe spoke in the tone of a man who, having assumed all the responsibility, feels that he has a right to be obeyed. “When the baron had been conveyed to Poignot’s house,” he continued, “one of you gentlemen will take the wounded man’s place on the litter; the others will carry him, and the party will remain together until you have reached Piedmontese territory. Then you mustseparate and pretend to conceal yourselves, but do it in such a way that you are seen everywhere.”
The priest’s simple plan was readily understood. The royalist emissaries must be thrown off the track; and at the very moment when it seemed to them that the baron was in the mountains, he would be safe in Poignot’s house.
“One word more,” added the cure. “The party which will accompany the pretended baron must look as much like the people one would expect to find with him, as possible. So Mademoiselle Lacheneur will go with you, and Maurice also. Again, people know that I would not leave the baron; and as my priestly robe would attract attention, one of you must assume it. God will forgive the deception on account of its worthy motive.”
It was now necessary to procure the litter; and the officers were trying to decide where they should go to obtain it, when Corporal Bavois interrupted them. “Give yourselves no uneasiness,” he remarked; “I know an inn not far from here where I can procure one.”
He started off on the run, and a few minutes later returned with a small litter, a thin mattress, and a coverlid. He had thought of everything. The baron was lifted carefully from the ground and placed on the mattress—a long and difficult operation which, in spite of extreme caution, provoked many terrible groans from the wounded man. When everything was ready, each officer took an end of the litter, and the little procession, headed by the abbe, started on its way. They were obliged to proceed slowly as the least jolting increased the baron’s sufferings. Still they made some progress, and by daybreak they were about half way to Poignot’s house. They then chanced to meet some peasants going to their daily toil. The latter paused to look at them, and when the group had passed by stood gazing curiously after these strange folks who were apparently carrying a dead body. However, these meetings did not at all seem to worry the Abbe Midon. At all events, he made no attempt to avoid them. At last they came in sight of Poignot’s cottage. There was a little grove not far from the house, and here the party halted, the priest bidding his companions conceal themselves while he went forward to reconnoitre and confer with the man upon whose decision the safety of the whole party depended.
As the priest approached the house, a short, slim peasant with grey hair and a sunburnt face emerged from the stable. This was Father Poignot himself. “What! is this you, Monsieur le Cure!” he exclaimed, delightedly. “Heavens! how pleased my wife will be. We have a great favour to ask of you——” And then, without giving the abbe an opportunity to open his lips, the farmer began to relate his perplexities. The night of the revolt he had given shelter to a poor fellow who had received an ugly swordthrust. Neither his wife nor himself knew how to dress the wound, and he did not dare to send for a doctor. “And this wounded man,” he added, “is Jean Lacheneur, my old employer’s son.”
This recital made the priest feel very anxious. This peasant had already given an asylum to one wounded conspirator, but would he consent to receive another? He could not say, but his voice trembled as he presented his petition. The farmer turned very pale and shook his head gravely more than once, while the priest was speaking. When the abbe had finished, he coldly asked: “Do you know, sir, that I incur a great risk by converting my house into a hospital for these rebels?” The abbe dared not answer. “They told me,” continued Father Poignot, “that I was a coward, because I would not join in the revolt. Such was not my opinion. Now, however, I choose to shelter these wounded men. In my opinion, it requires quite as much courage to do that as to go and fight.”
“Ah! you are a brave fellow!” cried the abbe.
“Never mind about that, but bring M. d’Escorval here. There is no one but my wife and boys, and they won’t betray him!”
The offer was at once accepted, and half-an-hour later the baron was lying in a small loft, where Jean Lacheneur was already installed. From the window, the Abbe Midon and Madame d’Escorval watched the little party, organized for the purpose of deceiving the Duke de Sairmeuse’s spies, as it moved rapidly away. Corporal Bavois, with his head bound up with blood-stained linen, had taken the baron’s place on the litter carried by the retired officers. These latter only knew the baron by name and reputation. But then he was the friend of their former ruler—the friend of that great captain whom they hadmade their idol, and they rejoiced with all their hearts when they saw him reposing under Father Poignot’s roof in comparative security. After this, there was the task of misleading the government emissaries, and they took various skilful precautions, not knowing that they were quite unnecessary. Public sentiment had declared itself in an unmistakable manner, and the police did not ascertain a single detail of the escape. They did not even hear of the little party that travelled nearly three leagues in the full light of day, bearing a wounded man upon a litter. Among the two thousand peasants who believed that this wounded man was the Baron d’Escorval, there was not one who turned informer, or made an indiscreet remark.
The fugitives were ignorant of this willing connivance, and on approaching the frontier, which they had heard was strictly guarded, they became extremely cautious. They waited until nightfall before presenting themselves at a lonely inn, where they hoped to procure a guide to lead them through the mountain passes. Sad news awaited them there, for the inn-keeper informed them of the executions that had taken place that day at Montaignac, giving the particulars as he had heard them from an eye witness. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he knew nothing of M. d’Escorval’s flight or of M. Lacheneur’s arrest. But he was well acquainted with Chanlouineau, and was quite inconsolable concerning the death of that “handsome young fellow, the best farmer in the country.”
Finding this man’s views so favourable, the officers, who had left the litter a short distance from the inn, decided to confide in him, at least in some degree. “We are carrying one of our wounded comrades,” they said. “Can you guide us across the frontier to-night?”
The inn-keeper replied that he would do so willingly, that he could promise to take them safely past the military posts; but that he could not think of starting before the moon rose. At midnight the fugitives were on their way; and at daybreak they set foot on the territory of Piedmont. They had dismissed their guide some time before. They now proceeded to break the litter in pieces; and handful by handful cast the wool of the mattress to the wind.
“Our task is accomplished,” said one of the officers to Maurice. “We will now return to France. May God protect you! Farewell!”
It was with tears in his eyes that Maurice parted from these brave fellows who had proved so instrumental in saving his father’s life. Now he was the sole protector of Marie-Anne, who, pale and overcome with fatigue and emotion trembled on his arm. But no—for Corporal Bavois still lingered by his side. “And you, my friend,” he asked, sadly, “what are you going to do?”
“Follow you,” replied the old soldier. “I have a right to a home with you; that was agreed between your father and myself! so don’t hurry, for the young lady does not seem well, and I can see a village only a short distance off.”
ESSENTIALLYa woman in grace and beauty, as well as in devotion and tenderness, Marie-Anne, as we have shown, was moreover capable of truly virile bravery. Her energy and coolness during those trying days had been the admiration and astonishment of all around her. But human endurance has its limits, and after excessive efforts there invariably comes a moment when the shrinking flesh fails the firmest will. Thus, when Marie-Anne tried to resume her journey she found that her strength was exhausted; her swollen feet and limbs scarcely supported her, her head whirled, and she shivered feverishly. Maurice and the old soldier were both obliged to support her, almost to carry her; but fortunately they were not far from a village, as was evident from an old church tower just discernible through the morning mist. Soon, however, they distinguished several cottages, and with the prospect of speedy rest before them they were hastening forward, when suddenly Bavois stopped short, “A thousand thunderclaps!” he exclaimed; “why, I’m in uniform! It would excite suspicion at once if I went into the village dressed like this; before we had a chance to sit down, the Piedmontese gendarmes would arrest us.” He reflected for a moment, twirling his moustache furiously; then, in a tone that would have made a passer-by tremble, he remarked, “All things are fair in love and war. The next person who passes——”
“But I have money with me,” interrupted Maurice, unbucklinga belt filled with gold, which he had put on under his clothing on the night of the revolt.
“Eh! then we are fortunate!” cried Bavois. “Give me some, and I will soon find a shop where I can purchase a change of clothing.”
He started; and it was not long before he re-appeared clad in peasant’s garb, his thin weazened countenance well-nigh hidden by a large broad-brimmed slouching hat. “Now, steady, forward, march!” he said to Maurice and Marie-Anne, who scarcely recognized him in this disguise.
What they had taken to be a mere village proved to be almost a small town, called Saliente, as they almost immediately afterwards ascertained from a sign-post. The fourth house they met with was a hostelry, the Traveller’s Rest. They went in, and at once asked the hostess to take the young lady to a room, and to assist her in undressing. While these instructions were being complied with, Maurice and the corporal proceeded to the dining-room, and ordered something to eat. Refreshments were served at once, but the glances cast upon the new arrivals were by no means friendly. They were evidently regarded with suspicion. A tall man, who was apparently the landlord, hovered round them, and at last embraced a favourable opportunity to ask their names. “My name is Dubois,” replied Maurice, without the slightest hesitation. “I am travelling on business, and this man with me is a farmer of mine.”
The landlord seemed somewhat reassured by this reply. “And what is your business?” he enquired.
“I have come into this land of inquisitive people to buy mules,” laughed Maurice, striking his belt of money.
On hearing the jingle of the coin the landlord deferentially raised his cap. Breeding mules was the chief industry of the district. This would-be purchaser was very young, but he had a well-filled purse, and that was enough. “You will excuse me,” resumed the landlord, in quite a different tone. “You see, we are obliged to be very careful. There has been some trouble at Montaignac.”
The imminence of the peril and the responsibility devolving upon him, gave Maurice unusual assurance; and it was in the most careless, off-hand manner possible that he concocted quite a plausible story to explain his early arrival on foot with his wife, who had been taken poorly on theway. He congratulated himself upon his address, but the old corporal was far from satisfied. “We are too near the frontier to bivouac here,” he grumbled. “As soon as the young lady is on her feet again we must hurry on.”
He believed, and Maurice hoped, that twenty-four hours’ rest would set Marie-Anne right again. But they were both mistaken. She could not move, but remained in a state of torpor from which it was impossible to rouse her. When she was spoken to she made no reply, and it seemed very doubtful whether she could even hear and understand. Fortunately the landlord’s mother proved to be a good, kind-hearted old woman, who would not leave the so-called Madame Dubois’s bed-side, but nursed her with the greatest care during three long days, while Marie-Anne remained in this strange and alarming condition. When at last she spoke, Maurice could at first scarcely understand the import of her words. “Poor girl!” she sighed; “poor, wretched girl!” In point of fact she was alluding to herself. By a phenomenon which often manifests itself after a crisis in which reason has been temporarily imperilled, it seemed to her that it was some one else who had been the victim of all these misfortunes, the recollection of which gradually returned to her like the memory of a painful dream. What strange and terrible events had taken place since that August Sunday when, on leaving church with her father, she first heard of the Duke de Sairmeuse’s return to France. And that was only nine months ago. What a difference between the past—when she lived happy and envied in that beautiful Chateau de Sairmeuse, of which she believed herself the mistress—and the present, when she found herself lying in the comfortless room of a miserable country inn, attended by an old woman whom she did not know, and with no other protectors than her proscribed lover, and an old soldier—a deserter, whose life was in constant peril. Hope, fortune, and future happiness, had all been wrecked, and she had not even saved her honour. But was she alone responsible? Who was it that had forced her to play that odious part with Maurice, Martial, and Chanlouineau? As this last name darted through her mind, she recalled with startling clearness all the incidents of her last meeting with the young farmer. She saw him at her feet in that dingy cell of the citadel at Montaignac; she felt hisfirst and only kiss upon her cheek, and remembered that he had given her a second letter, saying as he did so: “You will read this when I am dead.”
She might read it now, for he had already cruelly expiated his share in her father’s enterprise. But then what had become of it? She had not given it a thought till now; but at present, raising herself up in bed, she exclaimed in an eager, imperious voice: “My dress, give me my dress.”
The old nurse obeyed her, and Marie-Anne could not restrain an exclamation of delight when, on examining the pocket, she found the letter there. She opened it and read it slowly, then, sinking back on her pillows, she burst into tears. Maurice hastily approached her. “What is the matter?” he inquired anxiously. Her only reply was to hand him the missive.
Chanlouineau, it should be remembered, was only a poor peasant. Scarcely possessing the rudiments of education, as his letter (written on common paper and closed with a huge wafer, specially purchased from a grocer in Sairmeuse) evinced plainly enough. The heavy, laboured, distorted characters, had evidently been traced by a man who was more at home when guiding a plough than a pen. There was but one straight line, and every third word, at least, was mis-spelt. And yet the thoughts expressed were noble and generous, well worthy of the true heart that had beat in the young farmer’s breast. “Marie-Anne,”—So the letter began. “The outbreak is at hand, and whether it succeeds or fails, at all events, I shall die. I decided that on the day when I learned that you could marry no other man than Maurice d’Escorval. The conspiracy cannot succeed; and I understand your father well enough to know that he will not survive defeat. And if Maurice and your brother should both be killed, what would become of you? Oh, my God, would you not be reduced to beggary? The thought has haunted me continually. I have reflected, and this is my last will: I give and bequeath to you all my property, everything that I possess: My house, the Borderie, with its gardens and vineyards, the woodland and pastures of Berarde, and five lots of lands at Valrollier. An inventory of this property, and of the other possessions I leave to you is deposited with the notary at Sairmeuse. You can accept this bequest without fear; for I have norelatives, and am at liberty to dispose of my belongings as I please. If you do not wish to remain in France, the property can be sold for at least forty thousand francs. But it would, it seems to me, be better for you to remain in your own province. The house on the Borderie is comfortable and convenient, for I have had it thoroughly repaired. Upstairs you will find a room that has been fitted up by the best upholsterer in Montaignac. I intended it for you. Under the hearth-stone in this same room I have deposited a box containing three hundred and twenty-seven louis d’or and one hundred and forty-six livres. If you refuse this gift, it will be because you scorn me even after I am dead. Accept it, if not for your own sake, for the sake of—I dare not finish, but you will understand my meaning only too well. If Maurice is not killed, and I shall try my best to stand between him and danger, he will marry you. Then, perhaps, you will be obliged to ask his consent in order to accept my gift. I hope that he will not refuse his permission. One is not jealous of the dead! Besides, he knows well enough that you scarcely ever vouchsafed a glance to the poor peasant who loved you so much. Do not be offended at anything I have said, I am in such agony that I cannot weigh my words. Farewell, Marie-Anne. Farewell for ever.
Chanlouineau.”
Maurice read this letter carefully, at times pausing with suppressed emotion. After finishing its perusal he remained silent for a moment, and then in a husky voice exclaimed: “You cannot refuse; it would be wrong.” Then, fearing lest he might betray his feelings, he hastily left the room. Chanlouineau’s words had evidently made a deep impression on his mind. This noble peasant had saved their lives at the Croix d’Arcy, he had wrested the Baron d’Escorval from the hands of the executioner, and he had never allowed either a complaint or a reproach to escape his lips. His abnegation had been sublime; and yet, as if what he had done in life were not sufficient, he sought to protect the woman he loved, even after he was dead. When Maurice recalled all that he and Marie-Anne owed to Chanlouineau, he could not help reproaching himself with inferiority and unworthiness. But, good heavens! what if this same comparison should arise in Marie-Anne’s mind as well? How could he compete withthe memory of such nobility of soul and such self-sacrifice? Ay, Chanlouineau was mistaken; one may, perhaps, be jealous of the dead! However, Maurice took good care to conceal his anxiety, and when he returned to Marie-Anne’s room his face was calm and even cheerful.
Although, as we have seen, Marie-Anne had recovered the full possession of her mental faculties, her strength had not yet returned. She was almost unable to sit up; and Maurice had to relinquish all thought of leaving Saliente for the present. The so-called Madame Dubois’ persistent weakness began to astonish the old nurse, and her faith in herbs, gathered by moonlight, was considerably shaken. Fortunately, however, Bavois had succeeded in finding a medical man in the neighbourhood—a physician of great ability, who, after being at one time attached to Prince Eugene Beauharnais’ vice-regal court at Milan had, for political reasons, been forced to take refuge in this secluded spot. The corporal’s discovery was a happy one, for in these days the smaller towns and villages of Italy rarely possessed any other doctors than some ignorant barber, who invariably treated all complaints with a lancet and a stock of leeches. Bavois’ physician was at once summoned, and he promptly made his appearance. He was a man of uncertain age, with a furrowed brow and a keen and piercing glance. After visiting the sick-room, he drew Maurice aside. “Is this young lady really your wife, Monsieur—Dubois?” he asked, hesitating so strangely over this name, Dubois, that Maurice’s face crimsoned to the roots of his hair.
“I do not understand your question,” he retorted, angrily.
“I beg your pardon, of course, but you seem very young for a married man, and your hands are too soft for a farmer’s. And when I spoke to this young lady about her husband, she turned scarlet. The man who accompanies you, moreover, has terrible moustaches for a farmer, and besides, you must remember that there have been troubles across the frontier at Montaignac.”
From crimson Maurice had turned white. He felt that he was discovered—that he was in this man’s power. What should he do? What was the use of denial? At times it is only prudent to confess, and extreme confidence often meets with sympathy and protection. Heweighed these considerations in his mind, and then in an anxious voice replied: “You are not mistaken, monsieur. My friend and myself are both fugitives, undoubtedly condemned to death in France by this time.” And then, without giving the doctor an opportunity to respond, he briefly narrated the terrible events that had recently happened at Sairmeuse. He neither concealed his own name nor Marie-Anne’s, and when his recital was completed, the physician, whom his confidence had plainly touched, warmly shook his hand.
“It is just as I supposed,” said the medical man. “Believe me, Monsieur Dubois, you must not tarry here. What I have discovered others will discover as well. And, above everything, don’t warn the hotel-keeper of your departure. He has not been deceived by your explanation. Self-interest alone has kept his mouth shut. He has seen your money, and so long as you spend it at his house he will hold his tongue; but if he discovers that you are going away, he will probably betray you.”
“Ah! sir, but how is it possible for us to leave this place?”
“In two days the young lady will be on her feet again,” interrupted the physician. “And take my advice. At the next village, stop and give your name to Mademoiselle Lacheneur.”
“Ah! sir,” exclaimed Maurice, “have you considered the advice you offer me? How can I, a proscribed man—a man condemned to death perhaps—how can I obtain, how can I display the proofs of identity necessary for marriage.”
“Excuse me,” observed the physician shaking his head, “but you are no longer in France, Monsieur d’Escorval, you are in Piedmont.”
“Another difficulty!”
“No, because in this country, people marry, or at least they can marry, without all the formalities that cause you so much anxiety.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Maurice.
“Yes, if you can find a consenting priest, when he has inscribed your name on his parish register and given you a certificate, you will be so undoubtedly married, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and yourself, that the court of Rome would never grant you a divorce.”
“That may be,” said Maurice hesitatingly, “but how could I find a priest——”
The physician was silent, and it might have been supposed he was blaming himself for meddling with matters that did not concern him. Suddenly, however, he abruptly said: “Listen to me attentively, Monsieur d’Escorval. I am about to take my leave, but before I go, I shall find occasion to recommend your wife to take as much exercise as possible—I will do this in the landlord’s presence. Consequently, on the day after to-morrow, Wednesday, you must hire mules, and you, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and your old friend, the soldier, must start from the hotel as if you were going on a pleasure excursion. You will push on to Vigano, three leagues from here, where I live. Then I will take you to a priest, one of my friends; and upon my recommendation, he will perform the marriage ceremony. Now, reflect, shall I expect you on Wednesday?”
“Oh, yes, yes. How can I ever thank you sufficiently?”
“By not thanking me at all. See, here is the innkeeper; you are M. Dubois, again.”
Maurice was intoxicated with joy. He understood the irregularity of such a marriage, but he knew it would reassure Marie-Anne’s troubled conscience. Poor girl! she was suffering an agony of remorse. It was that which was killing her. However, he did not speak to her on the matter, fearing lest something might occur to interfere with the project. But the old physician had not spoken lightly, and everything took place as he had promised. The priest at Vigano blessed the marriage of Maurice d’Escorval and Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and after inscribing their names upon the church register, he gave them a certificate, which the physician and Corporal Bavois signed as witnesses. That same evening the mules were sent back to Saliente, and the fugitives resumed their journey. The Abbe Midon had advised them to reach Turin as quickly as possible. “It is a large city,” he had said, when bidding them good-bye near Father Poignot’s house, “you will be lost in the crowd. I have several friends there, whose names and addresses are on this paper. Go to them, for through them I will try to send you news of M. d’Escorval.”
So it was towards Turin that Maurice, Marie-Anne, andCorporal Bavois directed their steps. Their progress was slow, however, for they were obliged to avoid the more frequented roads, and renounce all ordinary modes of transport. Still the fatigue of travel, instead of exhausting Marie-Anne, seemed to revive her, and when five or six days had elapsed the colour came back to her cheeks, and her strength had fully returned. “Fate seems to have abandoned the pursuit,” said Maurice one day. “Who knows but what the future may have many compensations in store for us!”
But he was mistaken. Fate far from forgetting them had merely granted them a short respite. One April morning the fugitives stopped to breakfast at an inn in the outskirts of a large town. Maurice had finished eating, and was just leaving the table to settle with the landlady, when Marie-Anne uttered a loud shriek and fell back on her chair. She held in her hand a French newspaper about a fortnight old, which she had found lying on the sideboard where some traveller had probably left it. Maurice seized the print rapidly, and read as follows, “Lacheneur, the leader of the revolt in Montaignac, was executed yesterday. The miserable mischief-maker exhibited on the scaffold the audacity for which he had always been famous.”
“My father has been put to death!” cried Marie-Anne, “and I—his daughter—was not there to receive his last farewell!” She rose, and in an imperious voice: “I will go no farther,” she said; “we must turn back now without losing an instant. I wish to return to France.”
To return to France was to expose themselves to frightful peril. What good would it do? Was not the misfortune irreparable? So Corporal Bavois suggested, very timidly it is true, for the old soldier trembled at the thought that they might suspect him of being afraid. But Maurice would not listen. He shuddered. He did not know what had transpired since their flight, but it seemed to him that the Baron d’Escorval must have been discovered and re-arrested at the same time that Lacheneur was captured. Accordingly they at once procured a vehicle to convey them to the frontier. One important question, however, remained to be decided. Should Maurice and Marie-Anne make their marriage public? She wished to do so, but Maurice with tears in his eyes entreated her toconceal it. “Our marriage certificate will not silence those who are disposed against us,” said he. “Let us keep our secret for the present. No doubt we shall only remain in France for a few days.” Unfortunately, Marie-Anne yielded. “Since you wish it,” said she, “I will obey you. No one shall know of it.”
It was the evening of the seventeenth of April, the same day that Martial was married to Blanche, when the fugitives at last reached Father Poignot’s house. Maurice and Corporal Bavois were disguised as peasants and the old soldier had made a sacrifice that drew tears from his eyes; he had shaved off his moustaches.
WHENthe Abbe Midon and Martial de Sairmeuse held their conference, to decide upon the arrangements for the Baron de Escorval’s escape, a difficulty presented itself which threatened to break off the negotiations. “Return my letter,” said Martial, “and I will save the baron.”
“Save the baron,” replied the abbe, “and your letter shall be returned.”
The idea that any one should suppose him to be influenced by danger when in reality he was only yielding to Marie-Anne’s tears, angered Martial beyond endurance. “These are my last words, sir,” he retorted, emphatically. “Give me the letter now, and I swear to you, by the honour of my name, that I will do everything that is possible for any human being to do to save the baron. If you distrust my word, good-evening.”
The situation was desperate, the danger imminent, the time limited, and Martial’s tone betrayed an inflexible determination. The abbe could not hesitate. He drew the letter from his pocket and handing it to Martial: “Here it is, sir,” he said, solemnly, “remember that you have pledged the honour of your name.”
“I will remember it, Monsieur le Cure. Go and obtain the ropes.”
Thus the abbe’s sorrow and amazement were intense, when, after the baron’s terrible fall, Maurice declared that the cord had been cut beforehand. And yet the priest could not make up his mind that Martial was guilty ofsuch execrable duplicity, which is rarely found in men under twenty-five years of age. However, no one suspected the abbe’s secret thoughts. It was with perfect composure that he dressed the baron’s wounds and made arrangements for the flight, though not until he saw M. d’Escorval installed in Poignot’s house did he breathe freely. The fact that the baron had been able to endure the journey, proved that he retained a power of vitality for which the priest had scarcely dared to hope. Some way must now be discovered to procur the surgical instruments and pharmaceutical remedies which the wounded man’s condition would necessitate. But where and how could they be procured. The police kept a close watch over all the medical men and druggists in Montaignac, in hopes of discovering the wounded conspirators through one or the other medium. However, the cure had for ten years acted as physician and surgeon for the poor of his parish, and he possessed an almost complete set of surgical instruments, and a well-filled medicine chest. Accordingly at nightfall he put on a long blue blouse, concealed his features under a large slouch hat, and wended his way towards Sairmeuse. There was not a single light in the parsonage; Bibiane, the old housekeeper, having gone out to gossip with some of the neighbours. The priest effected an entrance into the house, by forcing the lock of the garden door; he speedily found the things he wanted and was able to retire without having been perceived. That night the abbe hazarded a cruel but indispensable operation. His heart trembled, but although he had never before attempted so difficult a task, the hand that held the knife was firm. “It is not upon my weak powers that I rely,” he murmured, “I have placed my trust in One who is on High.”
His faith was rewarded. Three days later the wounded man, after a comfortable night, seemed to regain consciousness. His first glance was for his devoted wife, who was sitting by the bedside; his first word was for his son. “Maurice?” he asked.
“Is in safety,” replied the abbe. “He must be on the road to Turin.”
M. d’Escorval’s lips moved as if he were murmuring a prayer; then, in a feeble voice: “We owe you a debt ofgratitude which we can never pay,” he murmured, “for I think I shall pull through.”
He did “pull through,” but not without terrible suffering, and not without severe relapses that made those around him tremble with anxiety. Jean Lacheneur was more fortunate, for he was on his legs by the end of the week.
On the evening of the seventeenth of April the abbe was seated in the loft reading a newspaper to the baron when suddenly the door was quietly opened, and one of the Poignot boys looked into the room. He did not speak, however, but merely gave the cure a glance, and then quickly withdrew.
The priest finished the paragraph he was perusing, laid down the paper, and went out on to the landing. “What’s the matter?” he inquired.
“Ah!” answered the young fellow, “M. Maurice, Mademoiselle Lacheneur, and the old corporal have just arrived; they want to come upstairs.”
Three bounds and the abbe reached the ground floor. “You imprudent children!” he exclaimed, addressing the three travellers, “what has induced you to return here?” Then turning to Maurice: “Isn’t it enough that your father has nearly died for you and through you? Are you so anxious for his recapture, that you return here to set our enemies on his track? Be off at once!”
Utterly abashed, it was as much as Maurice could do to falter his excuses; uncertainty, he said, had seemed worse to him than death; he had heard of M. Lacheneur’s execution; he had started off at once without reflection and only asked to see his father and embrace his mother before leaving again.
The priest was inflexible. “The slightest emotion might kill your father,” he declared; “and I should cause your mother the greatest anxiety if I told her of your return, and the dangers to which you have foolishly exposed yourself. Come, go at once, and cross the frontier again this very night.”
The scene had been witnessed by Jean Lacheneur, who now approached. “The time has come for me to takemyleave,” said he, “I shall go with Maurice. But I scarcely think that the highway’s the right place for my sister. You would cap all your kindness, Monsieur le Cure, if youwould only persuade Father Poignot to let her remain here, and if you would watch over her yourself.”
The abbe deliberated for a moment, and then hurriedly replied: “So be it; but go at once; your name is not on the proscribed list. You will not be pursued.”
Suddenly separated from his wife in this fashion, Maurice wished to confer with her, to give her some parting advice; but the abbe did not allow him an opportunity to do so. “Go, go at once,” he insisted. “Farewell!”
The priest’s intentions were excellent, no doubt, but in point of fact he was too hasty. At the very moment when Maurice stood sorely in need of wise and temperate counsel he was handed over to Jean Lacheneur’s pernicious influence. Scarcely were they outside the house, than the latter remarked: “We have to thank the Sairmeuses and the Marquis de Courtornieu for all this. I don’t even know where they have thrown my father’s corpse. I, his son, was even debarred from embracing him before he was traitorously murdered.” He spoke in a harsh, bitter voice, laughing the while in a strange discordant fashion. “And yet,” he continued, “if we climbed that hill we should be able to see the Chateau de Sairmeuse brightly illuminated. They are celebrating the marriage of Martial de Sairmeuse and Blanche de Courtornieu. We are friendless outcasts, succourless and shelterless, but they are feasting and making merry.”
Less than this would have sufficed to rekindle Maurice’s wrath. Yes, these Sairmeuses and these Courtornieus had killed the elder Lacheneur, and they had betrayed the Baron d’Escorval, and delivered him up—a mangled corpse—to his suffering relatives. It would be a rightful vengeance to disturb their merrymaking now, and in the midst of hundreds of assembled guests denounce their cruelty and perfidy. “I will start at once,” exclaimed Maurice, “I will challenge Martial in the presence of the revellers.”
But Jean interrupted him. “No, don’t do that! The cowards would arrest you. Write to the young marquis, and I will take your letter.”
Corporal Bavois, who heard the conversation, did not make the slightest attempt to oppose this foolish enterprise. Indeed, he thought the undertaking quite natural, under the circumstances, and esteemed his young friendsall the more for their rashness. They all three entered the first wine shop they came across, and Maurice wrote the challenge which was confided to Jean Lacheneur.
The only object which Jean had in view was to disturb the bridal ball at the Chateau de Sairmeuse. He merely hoped to provoke a scandal which would disgrace Martial and his relatives in the eyes of all their friends; for he did not for one moment imagine that the young marquis would accept Maurice’s challenge. While waiting for Martial in the hall of the chateau, he sought to compose a fitting attitude, striving to steel himself against the sneering scorn with which he expected the young nobleman would receive him. Martial’s kindly greeting was so unlooked for that Jean was at first quite disconcerted, and he did not recover his assurance until he perceived how cruelly Maurice’s insulting letter made the marquis suffer. When the latter seized him by the arm and led him upstairs, he offered no resistance; and as they crossed the brightly-lighted drawing-rooms and passed through the throng of astonished guests, his surprise was so intense that he forgot both his heavy shoes and peasant’s blouse. Breathless with anxiety, he wondered what was coming. Then standing on the threshold of the little saloon leading out of the grand hall he heard Martial read Maurice d’Escorval’s letter aloud, and finally saw him frantic with passion, throw the missive in his father-in-law’s face. It might have been supposed that these incidents did not in the least affect Jean Lacheneur, who stood by cold and unmoved, with compressed lips and downcast eyes. However, appearances were deceitful, for in reality his heart throbbed with exultation; and if he lowered his eyes, it was only to conceal the joy that sparkled in them. He had not hoped for so prompt and so terrible a revenge.
Nor was this all. After brutally pushing Blanche, his newly-wedded wife, aside when she attempted to detain him, Martial again seized Jean Lacheneur’s arm. “Now,” said he, “follow me!”
Jean still obeyed him without uttering a word. They again crossed the grand hall, and on passing out into an ante-room, Martial took a candle burning on a side table, and opened a little door leading to a private staircase. “Where are you taking me?” inquired Jean.
Martial, in his haste, was already a third of the way up the flight. “Are you afraid?” he asked, turning round.
The other shrugged his shoulders. “If you put it in that way, let us go on,” he coldly replied.
They entered the room which Martial had occupied since taking possession of the chateau. It was the same room that had once belonged to Jean Lacheneur; and nothing in it had been changed. The whilom steward’s son recognized the brightly-flowered curtains, the figures on the carpet, and even an old arm-chair ensconced wherein he had read many a novel in secret. Martial hastened to a small writing-desk, and drew therefrom a folded paper which he slipped into his pocket. “Now,” said he, “let us be off. We must avoid another scene. My father and my wife will be looking for me. I will explain everything when we are outside.”
They hastily descended the staircase, passed through the gardens, and soon reached the long avenue. Then Jean Lacheneur suddenly paused. “After all,” said he, “it was scarcely necessary for me to wait so long for a simple yes or no. Have you decided? What answer am I to give Maurice d’Escorval?”
“None at all! You will take me to him. I must see him and speak with him in order to justify myself. Let us proceed!”
But Jean did not move. “What you ask is impossible!” he replied.
“Why so?”
“Because Maurice is pursued. If he is captured, he will be tried and undoubtedly condemned to death. He is now in a safe retreat, and I have no right to disclose it.” In point of fact, Maurice’s safe retreat, for the time being, was only a neighbouring wood, where, in the corporal’s company, he was waiting for Jean’s return. But the latter could not resist the temptation to make this insinuating remark, which by reason of its covert character, was far more insulting than if he had simply said: “We fear informers!”
Strange as it may appear, and proud and violent as was Martial’s nature, he did not resent the insult. “So you distrust me!” he merely said. Jean Lacheneur was silent—another insult. “And yet,” insisted Martial, “afterwhat you’ve just seen and heard you can’t possibly suspect me of having cut the ropes I carried to the baron.”
“No! I’m convinced thatyoudidn’t do it.”
“You saw how I punished the man who had dared to compromise my honour. And this man is the father of the girl I married to-day.”
“Oh, I saw and heard everything, but as for taking you to Maurice, I must still reply: ‘Impossible.’ ”
No doubt the younger Lacheneur’s severity was unjust; however, Martial did not rebel against it. He merely drew from his pocket the paper which he had taken from his desk a few minutes previously, and handed it to Jean. “You doubt my word,” he said grimly. “I shall not forget to punish those whose fault it is. However, here is a proof of my sincerity which I expect you to give to Maurice, and which must convince even you.”
“What proof is it?”
“Why, the very letter in exchange for which we facilitated the baron’s escape. A presentiment I can’t explain prevented me from burning it, and now I’m very glad I didn’t. Take it, and do what you choose with it.”
Any one but Jean Lacheneur would have appreciated the young marquis’s candour, and have been touched by the confidence he displayed. But Jean’s hatred was implacable, and the more humble his enemy showed himself, the more determined he was to carry out the project of vengeance maturing in his brain. His only reply to Martial’s last remark was a promise to give the letter to Maurice.
“It should be a bond of alliance, it seems to me,” said Martial, gently.
“A bond of alliance!” rejoined Jean with a threatening gesture. “You are too fast, Monsieur le Marquis! Have you forgotten all the blood that flows between us? You didn’t cut the ropes; but who condemned the Baron d’Escorval to death? Wasn’t it your father, the Duke de Sairmeuse? An alliance! why, you must have forgotten that you and yours sent my father to the scaffold! How have you rewarded the man whose honesty gave you back a fortune? By murdering him and ruining his daughter’s reputation.”
“I offered my name and fortune to your sister.”
“I would have killed her with my own hand had she acceptedyour offer. Take that as a proof that I don’t forget; and if any great disgrace ever tarnishes the proud name of Sairmeuse, think of Jean Lacheneur. My hand will be in it.” He was so frantic with passion that he forgot his usual caution. However, after a great effort he re covered his self-possession, and added in calmer tones “If you are so desirous of seeing Maurice, be at La Reche to-morrow at noon. He will be there.” With these words he turned abruptly aside, sprang over the fence skirting the avenue, and vanished into the darkness.
“Jean,” cried Martial, in almost supplicating tones; “Jean, come back—listen to me!” There was no reply. The young marquis stood bewildered in the middle of the road; and little short of a miracle prevented his being run over by a horseman galloping in the direction of Montaignac. The latter’s shouts to get out of the way awakened him from his dream, and as the cold night breeze fanned his forehead he was able to collect his thoughts and judge his conduct. Ah, there was no denying it. He, the professed sceptic, a man who, despite his youth, boasted of his indifference and insensibility, had forgotten all self-control. He had acted generously, no doubt, but after all he had created a terrible scandal, all to no purpose. When Blanche, his wife, had accused Marie-Anne of being the cause of his frenzy, she had not been entirely wrong. For though Martial might regard all other opinions with disdain, the thought that Marie-Anne despised him, and considered him a traitor and a coward, had, in truth, made him perfectly frantic. It was for her sake, that on the impulse of the moment he had resorted to such a startling justification. And if he had begged Jean to lead him to Maurice d’Escorval, it was because he hoped to find Marie-Anne not far off, and to say to her, “Appearances were against me, but I am innocent; and have proved it by unmasking the real culprit.” It was to Marie-Anne that he wished Chanlouineau’s circular to be given, thinking that she, at least, would be surprised at his generosity. And yet all his expectations had been disappointed. “It will be the devil to arrange!” he thought; “but nonsense! it will be forgotten in a month. The best way is to face those gossips at once: I will return immediately.” He said: “I will return,” in the most deliberate manner; but his courage grew weaker at each successive step he took in the directionof the chateau. The guests must have already left, and Martial concluded that he would probably find himself alone with his young wife, his father and the Marquis de Courtornieu, whose reproaches, tears, and threats he would be obliged to encounter. “No,” muttered he. “After all, let them have a night to calm themselves. I will not appear until to-morrow.”
But where should he sleep? He was in evening dress and bare-headed, and the night was chilly. On reflection he recollected his father’s house at Montaignac. “I shall find a bed there,” he thought, “servants, a fire, and a change of clothing—and to-morrow, a horse to come back again.” The walk was a long one, no doubt; however, in his present mood, this circumstance did not displease him. The servant who came to open the door when he knocked, was at first speechless with astonishment. “You, Monsieur le Marquis!” he exclaimed at last.
“Yes, it’s I. Light a good fire in the drawing-room, and bring me a change of clothes.” The valet obeyed, and soon Martial found himself alone, stretched on a sofa in front of the blazing logs. “It would be a good thing to sleep and forget my troubles,” he thought; and accordingly he tried to do so, but it was almost dawn when at last he fell into a feverish slumber.
He woke up again at nine o’clock, gave the necessary instructions for breakfast, and was eating with a good appetite, when suddenly he remembered his rendezvous with Maurice. He ordered a horse and set out at once, reaching La Reche at half-past eleven o’clock. The others had not yet arrived; so he fastened his horse by the bridle to a tree near by, and leisurely climbed to the summit of the hill. It was here that Lacheneur’s cottage had formerly stood, and the four walls still remained standing, blackened by fire. Martial was gazing at the ruins, not without a feeling of emotion, when he heard the branches crackle in the adjacent cover. He turned, and perceived that Maurice, Jean, and Corporal Bavois were approaching. The old soldier carried under his arm, in a piece of green serge, a couple of swords which Jean Lacheneur had borrowed from a retired officer at Montaignac during the night. “We are sorry to have kept you waiting,” began Maurice, “but you will observethat it is not yet noon. Since we scarcely expected to see you——”
“I was too anxious to justify myself not to be here early,” interrupted Martial.
Maurice shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “This is not a question of self-justification, but one of fighting,” he abruptly replied.
Insulting as were the words and the gesture that accompanied them, Martial never so much as winced. “Grief has made you unjust,” said he, gently, “or M. Lacheneur has not told you everything.”
“Yes, Jean has told me everything.”
“Well, then?”
Martial’s coolness drove Maurice frantic. “Well,” he replied, with extreme violence, “my hatred is unabated even if my scorn is diminished. I have waited for this occasion ever since the day we met on the square at Sairmeuse in Mademoiselle Lacheneur’s presence. You said to me then, ‘We shall meet again.’ And now here we stand face to face. What insults must I heap upon you to decide you to fight?”
With a threatening gesture Martial seized one of the swords which Bavois offered him, and assumed an attitude of defence. “You will have it so,” said he in a husky voice. “The thought of Marie-Anne can no longer save you.”
But the blades had scarcely crossed before a cry from Jean arrested the combat. “The soldiers!” he exclaimed; “we are betrayed.” A dozen gendarmes were indeed approaching at full speed.
“Ah! I spoke the truth!” exclaimed Maurice. “The coward came, but the guards accompanied him.” He bounded back, and breaking his sword over his knee, hurled the fragments in Martial’s face. “Here, miserable wretch!” he cried.
“Wretch!” repeated Jean and Corporal Bavois, “traitor! coward!” And then they fled, leaving Martial literally thunderstruck.
He struggled hard to regain his composure. The soldiers were swiftly approaching; he ran to meet them, and addressing the officer in command, imperiously enquired, “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” replied the brigadier, respectfully, “you are the Duke de Sairmeuse’s son.”
“Very well! I forbid you to follow those men.”
The brigadier hesitated at first; then, in a decided tone he replied: “I can’t obey you, sir. I have my orders.” And turning to his men, he added, “Forward!”
He was about to set the example, when Martial seized him by the arm: “At least you will not refuse to tell me who sent you here?”
“Who sent us? The colonel, of course, in obedience to orders from the grand provost, M. d’Courtornieu. He sent the order last night. We have been hidden near here ever since daybreak. But thunder! let go your hold, I must be off.”
He galloped away, and Martial, staggering like a drunken man, descended the slope, and remounted his horse. But instead of repairing to the Chateau of Sairmeuse, he returned to Montaignac, and passed the remainder of the afternoon in the solitude of his own room. That evening he sent two letters to Sairmeuse—one to his father, and the other to his wife.
MARTIALcertainly imagined that he had created a terrible scandal on the evening of his marriage; but he had no conception of the reality. Had a thunderbolt burst in these gilded halls, the guests at Sairmeuse could not have been more amazed and horrified than they were by the scene presented to their view. The whole assembly shuddered when Martial, in his wrath, flung the crumpled letter full in the Marquis de Courtornieu’s face. And when the latter sank back into an arm-chair, several young ladies of extreme sensibility actually fainted away. The young marquis had departed, taking Jean Lacheneur with him, and yet the guests stood as motionless as statues, pale, mute, and stupefied. It was Blanche who broke the spell. While the Marquis de Courtornieu was panting for breath—while the Duke de Sairmeuse stood trembling and speechless with suppressed anger—the young marchioness made an heroic attempt to save the situation. With her hand still aching from Martial’s brutal clasp, her heart swelling with rage and hatred, and her face whiterthan her bridal veil, she yet had sufficient strength to restrain her tears and force her lips to smile. “Really this is placing too much importance on a trifling misunderstanding which will be explained to-morrow,” she said, almost gaily, to those nearest her. And stepping into the middle of the hall she made a sign to the musicians to play a country-dance.
But scarcely had the first note sounded, than, as if by unanimous consent, the whole company hastened towards the door. It might have been supposed that the chateau was on fire, for the guests did not withdraw, they actually fled. An hour previously, the Marquis de Courtornieu and the Duke de Sairmeuse had been overwhelmed with the most obsequious homage and adulation. But now there was not one in all the assembly daring enough to take them openly by the hand. Just when they both believed themselves all-powerful they were rudely precipitated from their lordly eminence. Indeed disgrace, and perhaps punishment, were to be their portion. Heroic to the last, however, the abandoned bride endeavoured to stay the tide of retreating guests. Standing near the door, and with her most bewitching smile upon her lips, Blanche spared neither flattering words nor entreaties in her efforts to retain the deserters. The attempt was vain; and, in point of fact, many were not sorry of this opportunity to repay the young Marchioness de Sairmeuse for all her past disdain and criticism. Soon, of all the guests, there only remained one old gentleman who, on account of his gout, had deemed it prudent not to mingle with the crowd. He bowed as he passed before Blanche, and could not even restrain a blush, for he rightly considered that this swift flight was a cruel insult for the abandoned bride. Still, what could he do alone? Under the circumstances, his presence would prove irksome, and so he departed like the others.
Blanche was now alone, and there was no longer any necessity for constraint. There were no more curious witnesses to enjoy her sufferings and comment upon them. With a furious gesture she tore her bridal veil and wreath of orange flowers from her head, and trampled them under foot. “Extinguish the lights everywhere!” she cried to a servant passing by, stamping her foot angrily, and speaking as imperiously as if she had been in her father’s house,and not at Sairmeuse. The lacquey obeyed her, and then, with flashing eyes and dishevelled hair, she hastened to the little drawing-room at the end of the hall. Several servants stood round the marquis, who was lying back in his chair with a swollen, purple face, as if he had been stricken with apoplexy.
“All the blood in his body has flown to his head,” remarked the duke, with a shrug of his shoulders. His grace was furious. He scarcely knew whom he was most angry with—with Martial or the Marquis de Courtornieu. The former, by his public confession, had certainly imperilled, if not ruined, their political future. But, on the other hand, the Marquis de Courtornieu had cast on the Sairmeuses the odium of an act of treason revolting to any honourable heart. The duke was watching the clustering servants with a contracted brow when his daughter-in-law entered the room. She paused before him, and angrily exclaimed: “Why did you remain here while I was left alone to endure such humiliation. Ah! if I had been a man! All our guests have fled, monsieur—all of them!”
M. de Sairmeuse sprang up. “Ah, well! what if they have. Let them go to the devil!” Among all the invited ones who had just left his house, there was not one whom his grace really regretted—not one whom he regarded as an equal. In giving a marriage feast for his son, he had invited all the petty nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood. They had come—very well! They had fled—bon voyage! If the duke cared at all for their desertion, it was only because it presaged with terrible eloquence the disgrace that was to come. Still he tried to deceive himself. “They will come back again, madame,” said he; “you will see them return, humble and repentant! But where can Martial be?”
Blanche’s eyes flashed, but she made no reply.
“Did he go away with the son of that rascal, Lacheneur?”
“I believe so.”
“It won’t be long before he returns——”
“Who can say?”
M. de Sairmeuse struck the mantlepiece with his clenched fist. “My God!” he exclaimed, “this is an overwhelming misfortune.” The young wife believed that he was anxious and angry on her account. But she was mistaken:for his grace was only thinking of his disappointed ambition. Whatever he might pretend, the duke secretly admitted his son’s intellectual superiority and genius for intrigue, and he was now extremely anxious to consult him. “He has wrought this evil,” he murmured: “it is for him to repair it! And he is capable of doing so if he chooses.” Then, aloud, he resumed: “Martial must be found—he must be found——”
With an angry gesture Blanche interrupted him. “You must look for Marie-Anne Lacheneur if you wish to find my husband,” said she.
The duke was of the same opinion, but he dared not admit it. “Anger leads you astray, marchioness,” said he.
“I know what I say,” was the curt response.
“No, believe me, Martial will soon make his appearance. If he went away, he will soon return. The servants shall go for him at once, or I will go for him myself——”
The duke left the room with a muttered oath, and Blanche approached her father, who still seemed to be unconscious. She seized his arm and shook it roughly, peremptorily exclaiming, “Father, father!” This voice, which had so often made the Marquis de Courtornieu tremble, proved more efficacious than eau de Cologne. “I wish to speak with you,” added Blanche: “do you hear me?”
The marquis dared not disobey; he slowly opened his eyes and raised himself from his recumbent position. “Ah! how I suffer!” he groaned, “how I suffer!”
His daughter glanced at him scornfully, and then in a tone of bitter irony remarked: “Do you think that I’m in paradise?”
“Speak,” sighed the marquis. “What do you wish to say?”
The bride turned haughtily to the servants and imperiously ordered them to leave the room. When they had done so and she had locked the door: “Let us speak of Martial,” she began.
At the sound of his son-in-law’s name the marquis bounded from his chair with clenched fists. “Ah, the wretch!” he exclaimed.
“Martial is my husband, father.”
“And you! after what he has done—you dare to defend him?”
“I don’t defend him; but I don’t wish him to be murdered.” At that moment the news of Martial’s death would have given the Marquis de Courtornieu infinite satisfaction. “You heard, father,” continued Blanche, “that young D’Escorval appointed a meeting for to-morrow, at mid-day, at La Reche. I know Martial; he has been insulted, and will go there. Will he encounter a loyal adversary? No. He will find a band of assassins. You alone can prevent him from being murdered.”
“I—and how?”
“By sending some soldiers to La Reche, with orders to conceal themselves in the grove—with orders to arrest these murderers at the proper moment.”
The marquis gravely shook his head. “If I do that,” said he, “Martial is quite capable——”
“Of anything!—yes, I know it. But what does it matter to you, since I am willing to assume the responsibility?”
M. de Courtornieu looked at his daughter inquisitively, and if she had been less excited as she insisted on the necessity of sending instructions to Montaignac at once, she would have discerned a gleam of malice in his eye. The marquis was thinking that this would afford him an ample revenge, since he could easily bring dishonour on Martial, who had shown so little regard for the honour of others. “Very well; then, since you will have it so, it shall be done,” he said, with feigned reluctance.
His daughter hastily procured ink and pens, and then with trembling hands he prepared a series of minute instructions for the commander at Montaignac. Blanche herself gave the letter to a servant, with directions to start at once; and it was not until she had seen him set off at a gallop that she went to her own apartment, that luxurious bridal chamber which Martial had so sumptuously adorned. But now its splendour only aggravated the misery of the deserted wife, for that she was deserted she did not for a moment doubt. She felt sure that her husband would not return, and had no faith whatever in the promises of the Duke de Sairmeuse, who at that moment was searching through the neighbourhood with a party of servants. Where could the truant be? With Marie-Anne most assuredly—and at the thought a wild desire to wreak vengeanceon her rival took possession of Blanche’s heart. She did not sleep that night, she did not even undress, but when morning came she exchanged her snowy bridal robe for a black dress, and wandered through the grounds like a restless spirit. Most of the day, however, she spent shut up in her room, refusing to allow either the duke or her father to enter.
At about eight o’clock in the evening tidings came from Martial. A servant brought two letters; one sent by the young marquis to his father, and the other to his wife. For a moment Blanche hesitated to open the one addressed to her. It would determine her destiny, and she felt afraid. At last, however, she broke the seal and read: “Madame—Between you and me all is ended; reconciliation is impossible. From this moment you are free. I esteem you enough to hope that you will respect the name of Sairmeuse, from which I cannot relieve you. You will agree with me, I am sure, in thinking a quiet separation preferable to the scandal of legal proceedings. My lawyer will pay you an allowance befitting the wife of a man whose income amounts to five hundred thousand francs.Martial de Sairmeuse.”
Blanche staggered beneath the terrible blow. She was indeed deserted—and deserted, as she supposed, for another. “Ah!” she exclaimed, “that creature! that creature! I will kill her!”
While Blanche was measuring the extent of her misfortune his grace the Duke de Sairmeuse raved and swore. After a fruitless search for his son he returned to the chateau, and began a continuous tramp to and fro in the great hall. On the morrow he scarcely ate, and was well nigh sinking from weariness when his son’s letter was handed him. It was very brief. Martial did not vouchsafe any explanation; he did not even mention the conjugal separation he had determined on, but merely wrote: “I cannot return to Sairmeuse, and yet it is of the utmost importance that I should see you. You will, I trust, approve the resolution I have taken when I explain the reasons that have guided me in adopting it. Come to Montaignac, then, the sooner the better. I am waiting for you.”
Had he listened to the prompting of his own impatience, his grace would have started at once. But he could not abandon the Marquis de Courtornieu and his son’s wifein this abrupt fashion. He must at least see them, speak to them, and warn them of his intended departure. He attempted to do this in vain. Blanche had shut herself up in her own apartments, and remained deaf to all entreaties for admittance. Her father had been put to bed, and the physician who had been summoned to attend him, declared that the marquis was well nigh at death’s door. The duke was therefore obliged to resign himself to the prospect of another night of suspense, which was almost intolerable to such a nature as his. “However,” thought he, “to-morrow, after breakfast, I will find some pretext to escape, without telling them I am going to see Martial.”
He was spared this trouble, for on the following morning at about nine o’clock, while he was dressing, a servant came to inform him that M. de Courtornieu and his daughter were waiting to speak with him in the drawing-room. Much surprised, he hastened downstairs. As he entered the room, the marquis, who was seated in an arm-chair, rose to his feet leaning for support on Aunt Medea’s shoulder; while Blanche, who was as pale as if every drop of blood had been drawn from her veins—stepped swiftly forward: “We are going, Monsieur le Duc,” she said, coldly, “and we wish to bid you farewell.”
“What! you are going? Will you not——”
The young bride interrupted him with a mournful gesture, and drew Martial’s letter from her bosom. “Will you do me the favour to peruse this?” she said, handing the missive to his grace.
The duke glanced over the short epistle, and his astonishment was so intense that he could not even find an oath. “Incomprehensible!” he faltered; “incomprehensible!”
“Incomprehensible, indeed,” repeated the young wife sadly, but without bitterness. “I was married yesterday; to-day I am deserted. It would have been more generous to have reflected the evening before and not the next day. Tell Martial, however, that I forgive him for having destroyed my life, for having made me the most unhappy of women. I also forgive him for the supreme insult of speaking to me of his fortune. I trust he may be happy. Farewell, Monsieur le Duc, we shall never meet again. Farewell!”
With these words she took her father’s arm, and theywere about to retire, when M. de Sairmeuse hastily threw himself between them and the door. “You shall not go away like this!” he exclaimed. “I will not suffer it. Wait at least until I have seen Martial. Perhaps he is not so guilty as you suppose——”
“Enough!” interrupted the marquis; “enough! This is one of those outrages which can never be repaired. May your conscience forgive you, as I myself forgive you. Farewell!”
This was said with such a conventional air of benevolence, and with such entire harmony of intonation and gesture that M. de Sairmeuse was perfectly bewildered. With a dazed air he watched the marquis and his daughter depart, and they had been gone some moments before he recovered himself sufficiently to exclaim: “The old hypocrite! does he believe me to be his dupe?” His dupe! M. de Sairmeuse was so far from being his dupe, that his next thought was: “What’s going to follow this farce? If he says he forgives us, that means that he has some crushing blow in store for us.” This idea soon ripening into conviction made his grace feel apprehensive, for he did not quite see how he would cope successfully with the perfidious marquis. “But Martial is a match for him!” he at last exclaimed. “Yes I must see Martial at once.”
So great was his anxiety that he lent a helping hand in harnessing the horses he had ordered, and when the vehicle was ready, he announced his determination to drive himself. As he urged the horses furiously onward, he tried to reflect, but the most contradictory ideas were seething in his brain and he lost all power of looking at the situation calmly. He burst into Martial’s room like a bombshell. “I certainly think you must have gone mad, marquis,” he exclaimed. “That is the only valid excuse you can offer.”
But Martial, who had been expecting the visit, had fully prepared himself for some such remark. “Never, on the contrary, have I felt more calm and composed in mind,” he replied, “than I am now. Allow me to ask you one question. Was it you who sent the gendarmes to the meeting which Maurice d’Escorval appointed?”
“Marquis!”
“Very well! Then it was another act of infamy to be scored against the Marquis de Courtornieu.”
The duke made no reply. In spite of all his faults andvices, this haughty nobleman retained those characteristics of the old French aristocracy—fidelity to his word and undoubted valour. He thought it perfectly natural, even necessary, that Martial should fight with Maurice; and he considered it a contemptible proceeding to send armed soldiers to seize an honest and confiding opponent.