XXVIII.

“This is the second time,” resumed Martial, “that this scoundrel has tried to dishonour our name; and if I am to convince people of the truth of this assertion, I must break off all connection with him and his daughter. I have done so, and I don’t regret it, for I only married her out of deference to your wishes, and because it seemed necessary for me to marry, and because all women, excepting one, who can never be mine, are alike to me.”

Such utterances were scarcely calculated to re-assure the duke. “This sentiment is very noble, no doubt,” said he; “but it has none the less ruined the political prospects of our house.”

An almost imperceptible smile curved Martial’s lips. “I believe, on the contrary, I have saved them,” replied he. “It is useless for us to attempt to deceive ourselves; this affair of the insurrection has been abominable, and you ought to bless the opportunity this quarrel gives you to free yourself from all responsibility in it. You must go to Paris at once, and see the Duke de Richelieu—nay, the king himself, and with a little address, you can throw all the odium on the Marquis de Courtornieu, and retain for yourself only the prestige of the valuable services you have rendered.”

The duke’s face brightened. “Zounds, marquis!” he exclaimed; “that is a good idea! In the future I shall be infinitely less afraid of Courtornieu.”

Martial remained thoughtful. “It is not the Marquis de Courtornieu that I fear,” he murmured, “but his daughter—my wife.”

INthe country, news flies from mouth to mouth with inconceivable rapidity, and, strange as it may seem, the scene at the Chateau de Sairmeuse was known of at Father Poignot’s farm-house that same night. After Maurice, Jean Lacheneur, and Bavois left the farm, promisingto recross the frontier as quickly as possible the Abbe Midon decided not to acquaint M. d’Escorval either with his son’s return, or Marie-Anne’s presence in the house. The baron’s condition was so critical that the merest trifle might turn the scale. At about ten o’clock he fell asleep, and the abbe and Madame d’Escorval then went downstairs to talk with Marie-Anne. They were sitting together when Poignot’s eldest son came home in a state of great excitement. He had gone out after supper with some of his acquaintances to admire the splendours of the Sairmeusefete, and he now came rushing back to relate the strange events of the evening to his father’s guests. “It is inconceivable!” murmured the abbe when the lad had finished his narrative. The worthy ecclesiastic fully understood that these strange events would probably render their situation more perilous than ever. “I cannot understand,” added he, “how Maurice could commit such an act of folly after what I had just said to him. The baron has no worse enemy than his own son.”

In the course of the following day the inmates of the farm heard of the meeting at La Reche; a peasant who had witnessed the preliminaries of the duel from a distance being able to give them the fullest details. He had seen the two adversaries take their places, and had then perceived the soldiers hasten to the spot. After a brief parley with the young Marquis de Sairmeuse, they had started off in pursuit of Maurice, Jean, and Bavois, fortunately, however, without overtaking them; for this peasant had met the same troopers again five hours later, when they were harassed and furious; the officer in command declaring that their failure was due to Martial, who had detained them. That same day, moreover, Father Poignot informed the abbe that the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu were at variance. Their quarrel was the talk of the district. The marquis had returned home with his daughter, and the duke had gone to Montaignac. The abbe’s anxiety on receiving this intelligence was so intense that, strive as he might, he could not conceal it from the Baron d’Escorval. “You have heard some bad news, my friend,” said the latter.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing.”

“Some new danger threatens us.”

“None, none at all.”

But the priest’s protestations did not convince the wounded man. “Oh, don’t deny it!” he exclaimed. “On the night before last, when you came into my room after I woke up, you were paler than death, and my wife had certainly been crying. What does all this mean?” As a rule, when the cure did not wish to reply to his patient’s questions, it sufficed to tell him that conversation and excitement would retard his recovery; but this time the baron was not so docile. “It will be very easy for you to restore my peace of mind,” he continued. “Confess now, you are afraid they may discover my retreat. This fear is torturing me also. Very well, swear to me that you will not let them take me alive, and then my mind will be at rest.”

“I can’t take such an oath as that,” said the cure, turning pale.

“And why not?” insisted M. d’Escorval. “If I am recaptured, what will happen? They will nurse me, and then, as soon as I can stand on my feet, they will shoot me down again. Would it be a crime to save me from such suffering? You are my best friend; swear you will render me this supreme service. Would you have me curse you for saving my life?”

The abbe offered no verbal reply; but his eye, voluntarily or involuntarily, turned with a peculiar expression to the medicine chest standing upon the table near by. Did he wish to be understood as saying: “I will do nothing myself, but you will find a poison there?”

At all events M. d’Escorval understood him so; and it was in a tone of gratitude that he murmured: “Thanks!” He breathed more freely now that he felt he was master of his life, and from that hour his condition, so long desperate, began steadily to improve.

Day after day passed by, and yet the abbe’s gloomy apprehensions were not realised. Instead of fomenting reprisals, the scandal at the Chateau de Sairmeuse, and the imprudent temerity of which Maurice and Jean Lacheneur had been guilty, seemed actually to have frightened the authorities into increased indulgence; and it might have been reasonably supposed that they quite had forgotten, and wished every one else to forget, all about Lacheneur’s conspiracy, and the slaughter which had followed it. The inmates of the farm soon learnt that Mauriceand his friend the corporal had succeeded in reaching Piedmont; though nothing was heard of Jean Lacheneur, who had probably remained in France. However, his safety was scarcely to be feared for, as he was not upon the proscribed list. Later on it was rumoured that the Marquis de Courtornieu was ill, and that Blanche his daughter did not leave his bedside; and then just afterwards Father Poignot returning from an excursion to Montaignac, reported that the Duke de Sairmeuse had lately passed a week in Paris, and that he was now on his way home with one more decoration—a convincing proof that he was still in the enjoyment of royal favour. What was of more importance was, that his grace had succeeded in obtaining an order for the release of all the conspirators still detained in prison. It was impossible to doubt this news which the Montaignac papers formally chronicled on the following day. The abbe attributed this sudden and happy change of prospects to the quarrel between the duke and the Marquis de Courtornieu, and such indeed was the universal opinion in the neighbourhood. Even the retired officers remarked: “The duke is decidedly better than he was supposed to be; if he was so severe, it is only because he was influenced by his colleague the odious provost marshal.”

Marie-Anne alone suspected the truth. A secret presentiment told her that it was Martial de Sairmeuse who was working all these changes, by utilizing his ascendancy over his father’s mind. “And it is for your sake,” whispered an inward voice, “that Martial is working in this fashion. He cares nothing for the obscure peasant prisoners, whose names he does not even know! If he protects them, it is only that he may have a right to protect you, and those whom you love!” With these thoughts in her mind she could but feel her aversion for Martial diminish. Was not his conduct truly noble? She had to confess it was, and yet the thought of this ardent passion which she had inspired never once quickened the throbbing of Marie-Anne’s heart. Alas! it seemed as if nothing were capable of touching her heart now. She was but the ghost of her former self. She would sit for whole days motionless in her chair, her eyes fixed upon vacancy, her lips contracted as if by a spasm, while great tears rolled silently down her cheeks. The Abbe Midon, who was very anxious on heraccount, often tried to question her. “You are suffering my child,” he said kindly one afternoon. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing, Monsieur le Cure. I am not ill.”

“Won’t you confide in me? Am I not your friend? What do you fear?”

She shook her head sadly and replied: “I have nothing to confide.” She said this, and yet she was dying of sorrow and anguish. Faithful to the promise she had made to Maurice, she had never spoken of her condition, or of the marriage solemnized in the little church at Vigano. And she saw with inexpressible terror the moment, when she could no longer keep her secret, slowly approaching. Her agony was frightful; but what could she do! Fly! but where could she go? And by going, would she not lose all chance of hearing from Maurice, which was the only hope that sustained her in this trying hour? Still she had almost determined on flight when circumstances—providentially, it seemed to her—came to her aid.

Money was needed at the farm. The fugitives were unable to obtain any without betraying their whereabouts, and Father Poignot’s little store was almost exhausted. The Abbe Midon was wondering what they could do, when Marie-Anne told him of the will which Chanlouineau had made in her favour, and of the money concealed under the hearth-stone in the room on the first floor. “I might go to the Borderie one night,” she suggested, “enter the house, which is unoccupied, obtain the money and bring it here. I have a right to do so, haven’t I?”

“You might be seen,” replied the priest, “and who knows—perhaps arrested. If you were questioned, what plausible explanation could you give?”

“What shall I do, then?”

“Act openly; you yourself are not compromised. You must appear at Sairmeuse to-morrow as if you had just returned from Piedmont; go at once to the notary, take possession of your property, and install yourself at the Borderie.”

Marie-Anne shuddered. “What, live in Chanlouineau’s house,” she faltered. “Live there alone?”

“Heaven will protect you, my dear child. I can only see an advantage in your living at the Borderie. It will be easy to communicate with you; and with ordinary precautionsthere can be no danger. Before you start we will decide on a meeting place, and two or three times a week you can join Father Poignot there. And in the course of two or three months you can be still more useful to us. When people have grown accustomed to your living at the Borderie, we will take the baron there. Such an arrangement would hasten his convalescence; for in the narrow loft, where we are obliged to conceal him now, he is really suffering for want of light and air.”

Accordingly it was decided that Father Poignot should accompany Marie-Anne to the frontier that very night; and that she should take the diligence running between Piedmont and Montaignac,viaSairmeuse. Before she started, the Abbe Midon gave her minute instructions as to the story she should tell of her sojourn in foreign lands. The peasantry, possibly even the authorities, would question her, and all her answers must tend to prove that the Baron d’Escorval was concealed near Turin.

The plan was carried out as projected; and at eight o’clock on the following morning, the people of Sairmeuse were greatly astonished to see Marie-Anne alight from the passing diligence. “M. Lacheneur’s daughter has come back again!” they exclaimed. The words flew from lip to lip with marvellous rapidity, and soon all the villagers stood at their doors and windows watching the poor girl as she paid the driver, and entered the local hostelry, followed by a lad carrying a small trunk. Urban curiosity has some sense of shame, and seeks to hide itself when prying into other people’s affairs, but country folks are openly and outrageously inquisitive. Thus when Marie-Anne emerged from the inn, she found quite a crowd of sightseers awaiting her with gaping mouths and staring eyes. And fully a score of chattering gossips thought fit to escort her to the notary’s door. This notary was a man of importance, and he welcomed Marie-Anne with all the deference due to the heiress of a house and farm worth from forty to fifty thousand francs. However, being jealous of his renown for perspicuity, he gave her clearly to understand that, as a man of experience, he fully divined that love alone had influenced Chanlouineau in drawing up this last will and testament. He was no doubt anxious to obtain some information concerning the young farmer’s passion, and Marie-Anne’scomposure and reticence disappointed him immensely.

“You forget what brings me here,” she said; “you don’t tell me what I have to do!”

The notary, thus interrupted, made no further attempts at divination. “Plague on it!” he thought, “she is in a hurry to get possession of her property—the avaricious creature!” Then he added aloud, “The business can be finished at once, for the magistrate is at liberty to-day, and can go with us to break the seals this afternoon.”

So, before evening, all the legal requirements complied with, and Marie-Anne was formally installed at the Borderie. She was alone in Chanlouineau’s house, and as the darkness gathered round her, a great terror seized hold of her heart. She fancied that the doors were about to open, that this man who had loved her so much would suddenly appear before her, and that she should hear his voice again as she heard it for the last time in his grim prison cell. She struggled hard against these foolish fears, and at last lighting a lamp she ventured to wander through this house—now her’s—but wherein everything spoke so forcibly of its former owner. She slowly examined the different rooms on the ground floor, noting the recent repairs and improvements, and at last climbed the stairs to the room above which Chanlouineau had designed to be the altar of his love. Strange as it may seem, it was really luxuriously upholstered—far more so than Chanlouineau’s letter had led her to suppose. The young farmer, who for years had breakfasted off a crust and an onion, had lavished a small fortune on this apartment, which he meant to be his idol’s sanctuary.

“How he loved me!” murmured Marie-Anne, moved by that emotion, the bare thought of which had awakened Maurice’s jealousy. But she had neither the time nor the right to yield to her feelings. At that very moment Father Poignot was no doubt waiting for her at the appointed meeting place. Accordingly, she swiftly raised the hearth-stone, and found the money which Chanlouineau had mentioned. She handed the larger part of it to Poignot, who in his turn gave it to the abbe on reaching home.

The days that followed were peaceful ones for Marie-Anne, and this tranquillity, after so many trials, seemed to her almost happiness. Faithful to the priest’s instructions,she lived alone; but, by frequent visits to Sairmeuse, she accustomed people to her presence. Yes, she would have been almost happy if she could only have had some news of Maurice. What had become of him! Why did he give no sign of life? She would have given anything in exchange for one word of love and counsel from him. Soon the time approached when she would require a confidant; and yet there was no one in whom she dared confide. In her dire need she at last remembered the old physician at Vigano, who had been one of the witnesses at her marriage. She had no time to reflect whether he would be willing or not; but wrote to him immediately, entrusting her letter to a youth in the neighbourhood. “The gentleman says you may rely upon him,” said the lad on his return. And that very evening Marie-Anne was roused by a rap at her door. It was the kind-hearted old man, who had hastened to her relief. He remained at the Borderie nearly a fortnight, and when he left one morning before daybreak, he took away with him under his cloak an infant—a little boy—whom he had sworn to cherish as his own child.

IThad cost Blanche an almost superhuman effort to leave Sairmeuse without treating the duke to a display of violence, such as would have fairly astonished even that irascible nobleman. She was tortured with inward rage at the very moment, when, with an assumption of melancholy dignity, she murmured the words of forgiveness we have previously recorded. But vanity, after all, was more powerful than resentment. She thought of the gladiators who fall in the arena with a smile on their lips, and resolved that no one should see her weep, that no one should hear her threaten or complain. Indeed, on her return to the Chateau de Courtornieu her behaviour was truly worthy of a stoic philosopher. Her face was pale, but not a muscle of her features moved as the servants glanced at her inquisitively. “I am to be called mademoiselle as formerly,” she said imperiously. “Any of you forgetting this order will be at once dismissed.”

One maid did forget the injunction that very day, addressing her young mistress as “madame,” and the poorgirl was instantly dismissed, in spite of her tears and protestations. All the servants were indignant. “Does she hope to make us forget that she’s married, and that her husband has deserted her?” they queried.

Ah! that was what she wished to forget herself. She wished to annihilate all recollection of the day that had seen her successively maiden, wife, and widow. For was she not really a widow? A widow, not by her husband’s death, it is true; but, thanks to the machinations of an odious rival, an infamous, perfidious creature, lost to all sense of shame. And yet, though she had been disdained, abandoned, and repulsed, she was no longer free. She belonged to this man whose name she bore like a badge of servitude—to this man who hated her, who had fled from her. She was not yet twenty; still her youth, her hopes, her dreams were ended. Society condemned her to seclusion, while Martial was free to rove wheresoever he listed. It was now that she realised the disadvantages of isolation. She had not been without friends in her school-girl days; but after leaving the convent she had estranged them by her haughtiness, on finding them not as high in rank, or as wealthy as herself. So she was now reduced to the irritating consolations of Aunt Medea, a very worthy person, no doubt, but whose tears flowed as freely for the loss of a cat as for the death of a relative. However, Blanche firmly persevered in her determination to conceal her grief and despair in the deepest recesses of her heart. She drove about the country, wore her prettiest dresses, and forced herself to assume a gay and indifferent air. But on going to church at Sairmeuse on the following Sunday, she realised the futility of her efforts. Her fellow worshippers did not look at her haughtily, or even inquisitively, but they turned aside to smile, and she overheard remarks concerning “the maiden widow,” which pierced her very soul. So she was an object of mockery and ridicule. “Oh! I will have my revenge!” she muttered to herself.

She had indeed already thought of vengeance; and had found her father quite willing to assist her. For the first time the father and the daughter shared the same views. “The Duke de Sairmeuse shall learn what it costs to favour a prisoner’s escape, and to insult a man like me,” said the Marquis bitterly. “Fortune, favour, position—he shall lose everything, and I will not rest content till Isee him ruined and dishonoured at my feet. And mind me, that day shall surely come!”

Unfortunately, however, for M. de Courtornieu’s projects, he was extremely ill for three days after the scene at Sairmeuse; and then he wasted three days more in composing a report, which was intended to crush his former ally. This delay ruined him, for it gave Martial time to perfect his plans, and to despatch the Duke de Sairmeuse to Paris with full instructions. And what did the duke say to the king, who gave him such a gracious reception? He undoubtedly pronounced the first reports to be false, reduced the rising at Montaignac to its proper proportions, represented Lacheneur as a fool, and his followers as inoffensive idiots. It was said, moreover, that he led his majesty to suppose that the Marquis de Courtornieu might have provoked the outbreak by undue severity. He had served under Napoleon, and had possibly thought it necessary to make a display of his zeal, so that his past apostacy might be forgotten. As far as the duke himself was concerned, he deeply deplored the mistakes into which he had been led by his ambitious colleague, on whom he cast most of the responsibility of so much bloodshed. To be brief, the result of the duke’s journey was, that when the Marquis de Courtornieu’s report reached Paris, it was answered by a decree depriving him of his office as provost-marshal of the province.

This unexpected blow quite crushed the old intriguer. What! he had been duped in this fashion, he so shrewd, so adroit, so subtle minded and quick witted; he who had successfully battled with so many storms; who, unlike most of his fellow patricians, had been enriched, not impoverished, by the Revolution, and who had served with the same obsequious countenance each master who was willing to accept his services. “It must be that old imbecile, the Duke de Sairmeuse, who has manœuvred so skilfully,” he groaned. “But who advised him? I can’t imagine who it could have been.”

Who it was Blanche knew only too well. Like Marie-Anne, she recognized Martial’s hand in all this business. “Ah! I was not deceived in him,” she thought; “he is the great diplomatist I believed him to be. To think that at his age he has outwitted my father, an old politician of such experience and acknowledged skill! And he doesall this to please Marie-Anne,” she continued, frantic with rage. “It is the first step towards obtaining pardon for that vile creature’s friends. She has unbounded influence over him, and so long as she lives there is no hope for me. But, patience, my time will come.”

She had not yet decided what form the revenge she contemplated should take; but she already had her eye on a man whom she believed would be willing to do anything for money. And, strange as it may seem, this man was none other than our old acquaintance, Father Chupin. Burdened with remorse, despised and jeered at; stoned whenever he ventured in the streets, and horror-stricken whenever he thought of Balstain’s vow, Chupin had left Montaignac, and sought an asylum at the Chateau de Sairmeuse. In his ignorance, he fancied that the great nobleman who had incited him to discover Lacheneur owed him, over and above the promised reward, all needful aid and protection. But the duke’s servants shunned the so-called traitor. He was not even allowed a seat at the kitchen table, nor a straw pallet in the stables. The cook threw him a bone, as he would have thrown it to a dog; and he slept just where he could. However, he bore all these hardships uncomplainingly, deeming himself fortunate in being able to purchase comparative safety, even at such a price. But when the duke returned from Paris with a policy of forgetfulness and conciliation in his pocket, his grace could no longer tolerate in his establishment the presence of a man who was the object of universal execration. He accordingly gave instructions for Chupin to be dismissed. The latter resisted, however, swearing that he would not leave Sairmeuse unless he were forcibly expelled, or unless he received the order from the lips of the duke himself. This obstinate resistance was reported to the duke, and made him hesitate; but a word from Martial concerning the necessities of the situation eventually decided him. He sent for Chupin and told him that he must not visit Sairmeuse again under any pretext whatever, softening the harshness of expulsion, however, by the offer of a small sum of money. But Chupin, sullenly refusing the proffered coins, gathered his belongings together, and departed, shaking his clenched fist at the chateau, and vowing vengeance on the Sairmeuse family. He then went to his old home, where his wifeand his two boys still lived. He seldom left this filthy den, and then only to satisfy his poaching proclivities. On these occasions, instead of stealthily firing at a squirrel or a partridge from some safe post of concealment, as he had done in former times, he walked boldly into the Sairmeuse or the Courtornieu forests, shot his game, and brought it home openly, displaying it in an almost defiant manner. He spent the rest of his time in a state of semi-intoxication, for he drank constantly, and more and more immoderately. When he had taken more than usual, his wife and his sons usually attempted to obtain money from him, and if persuasion failed they often resorted to blows. For he had never so much as shown them the blood-money paid to him for betraying Lacheneur; and though he had squandered a small sum at Montaignac, no one knew what he had done with the great bulk of the 20,000 francs in gold paid to him by the Duke de Sairmeuse. His sons believed he had buried it somewhere; but they tried in vain to wrest his secret from him. All the people in the neighbourhood were aware of this state of affairs, and one day when the head gardener at Courtornieu was telling the story to two of his assistants, Blanche, seated on a bench near by, chanced to overhear him.

“Ah, he’s an old scoundrel!” said the gardener indignantly. “And he ought to be at the galleys, instead of at large among respectable people.”

At that same moment the voice of hatred was whispering to Blanche, “That’s the man to serve your purpose.” But how an opportunity was to be found to confer with him? she wondered, being too prudent to think of hazarding a visit to his house. However, she remembered that he occasionally went shooting in the Courtornieu woods, and that it might be possible for her to meet him there. “It will only require,” thought she, “a little perseverance and a few long walks.” But, in point of fact, it cost poor Aunt Medea, the inevitable chaperone, two long weeks of almost constant perambulation. “Another freak!” groaned the impoverished relative, overcome with fatigue; “my niece is certainly crazy!”

However, at last, one lovely afternoon in May, Blanche came across the object of her quest. She chanced to be standing in a sequestered nook nigh the mere, situated in the depths of the forest of Courtornieu, when she perceivedChupin, tramping sullenly along with his gun in his hand, and glancing suspiciously on either side. Not that he feared either game-keeper or judicial proceedings, but go wherever he would, still and ever he fancied he could see Balstain the Piedmontese innkeeper, walking in his shadow and brandishing the terrible knife, which, by St. Jean-de-Coche, he had consecrated to his vengeance. Seeing Blanche in turn, the old rascal would have fled into the cover, but before he could do so she had called to him: “Eh, Father Chupin!”

He hesitated for a moment, then paused, dropped his gun, and waited.

Aunt Medea was pale with fright. “Blessed Jesus!” she murmured, pressing her niece’s arm; “what are you calling that terrible man for?”

“I want to speak to him.”

“What Blanche, do you dare——”

“I must!”

“No, I can’t allow it. I must not——”

“There, that’s enough!” said Blanche, with one of those imperious glances that deprive a dependent of all strength and courage; “quite enough.” Then, in gentler tones: “Imusttalk with this man,” she added. “And you, Aunt Medea, must remain some little distance off. Keep a close watch on every side, and if you see any one approaching, call me at once.”

Aunt Medea, submissive as was her wont, immediately obeyed; and Blanche walked straight towards the old poacher. “Well, my good Father Chupin, and what sort of sport have you had to-day?” she began, directly she was a few steps from him.

“What do you want with me?” growled Chupin; “for you do want something, or you wouldn’t trouble yourself about a man like me.”

The old ruffian’s manner was so surly and aggressive that Blanche needed all her strength of mind to carry out her purpose. “Yes, it is true that I have a favour to ask you,” she replied, in a resolute tone.

“Ah, ha! I supposed so.”

“A mere trifle which will cost you no trouble, and for which you shall be well paid.” She said this so carelessly that an ordinary person would have supposed she wasreally asking for some unimportant service; but cleverly as she played her part, Chupin was not deceived.

“No one asks trifling services of a man like me,” he said coarsely. “Since I served the good cause, at the peril of my life, people seem to suppose they’ve a right to come to me with money in their hands whenever they want any dirty work done. It’s true that I was well paid for that other job; but I would like to melt all the gold and pour it down the throats of those who gave it to me. Ah! I know now what it costs the poor to listen to the words of the great! Go your way; and if you have any wickedness in your head, do it yourself!”

He shouldered his gun and was moving off, when Blanche coldly observed: “It was because I knew of your wrongs that I stopped you; I thought you would be glad to serve me, because I hate the Sairmeuses like you do.”

These words excited the old poacher’s interest, and he paused. “I know very well that you hate the Sairmeuses now—but—”

“But what?”

“Why, in less than a month you will be reconciled. And then that old wretch, Chupin—”

“We shall never be reconciled.”

“Hum!” growled the wily rascal, after deliberating awhile. “And if I did assist you, what compensation will you give me?”

“I will give you whatever you wish for—money, land, a house—”

“Many thanks. I want something quite different.”

“What do you want then? Tell me.”

Chupin reflected for a moment, and then replied: “This is what I want. I have a good many enemies, and I don’t even feel safe in my own house. My sons abuse me when I’ve been drinking, and my wife is quite capable of poisoning my wine. I tremble for my life and for my money. I can’t endure such an existence much longer. Promise me an asylum at the Chateau de Courtornieu and I’m yours. I shall be safe in your house. But let it be understood I won’t be ill-treated by the servants like I was at Sairmeuse.”

“Oh, I can promise you all that.”

“Swear it then by your hope of heaven.”

“I swear it.”

There was such evident sincerity in her accent that Chupin felt re-assured. He leant towards her, and in a low voice, remarked: “Now tell me your business.” His small grey eyes glittered in a threatening fashion; his thin lips were drawn tightly over his sharp teeth; he evidently expected some proposition of murder, and was ready to accomplish it.

His attitude evinced his feelings so plainly that Blanche shuddered. “Really, what I want of you is almost nothing,” she replied. “I only want you to watch the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes; my husband. I want to know what he does, where he goes, and what persons he sees, I want to know how he spends all his time.”

“What! now is that really all you want me to do?” asked Chupin eagerly.

“For the present, yes. My plans are not yet decided; but circumstances will guide me.”

“You can rely upon me,” replied Chupin at once; “but I must have a little time.”

“Yes, I understand that. To-day is Saturday; can you give me a first report on Thursday?”

“In five days? Yes, probably.”

“In that case, meet me here on Thursday, at the same hour.”

The conversation might have continued a few moments longer, but at this very moment Aunt Medea was heard exclaiming. “Some one is coming!”

“Quick! we must not be seen together. Conceal yourself,” ejaculated Blanche, and while the old poacher disappeared with one bound into the forest, she hastily rejoined her chaperone. A few paces off she could perceive one of her father’s servants approaching.

“Ah! mademoiselle,” exclaimed the lacquey, “we have been looking for you everywhere during the last three hours. Your father M. le Marquis—good heavens! what a misfortune! A physician has been sent for.”

“Whatever has happened? Is my father dead?”

“No, mademoiselle, no; but—how can I tell you. When the marquis went out this morning his actions were very strange, and—and—when he returned—” As hespoke the servant tapped his forehead with his forefinger. “You understand me, mademoiselle—when he came home his reason seemed to—to have left him!”

Without waiting for the servant to finish, or for her terrified aunt to follow her, Blanche darted off in the direction of the chateau. “How is the marquis?” she inquired of the first servant she met.

“He is in bed, and is quieter than he was,” answered the maid.

But Blanche had already reached her father’s room. He was sitting up in bed, under the supervision of his valet and a footman. His face was livid, and a white foam had gathered on his lips. Still, he recognized his daughter. “Here you are,” said he. “I was waiting for you.”

She paused on the threshold, and though she was neither tender-hearted nor impressionable, the sight seemed to appal her: “My father!” she faltered. “Good heavens! what has happened?”

“Ah, ha!” exclaimed the marquis, with a discordant laugh. “I met him! what, you doubt me? I tell you that I saw the wretch. I know him well; haven’t I seen his cursed face before my eyes for more than a month—for it never leaves me. I saw him. It was in the forest near the Sanguille rocks. You know the place; it is always dark there, on account of the trees. I was slowly walking home thinking of him, when suddenly he sprang up before me, holding out his arms as if to bar my passage. ‘Come,’ said he, ‘you must join me.’ He was armed with a gun; he fired—”

The marquis paused, and Blanche summoned up sufficient courage to approach him. For more than a minute she looked at him attentively, with a cold magnetic glance, such as often exercises great influence over those who have lost their reason, then shaking him roughly by the arm, she exclaimed: “Control yourself, father. You are the victim of an hallucination. It is impossible that you can have seen the man you speak of.”

Blanche knew only too well who was the man that M. de Courtornieu alluded to; but she dared not, could not, utter his name.

However, the marquis had resumed his scarcely coherent narrative. “Was I dreaming?” he continued. “No, itwas Lacheneur, Lacheneur and none other who stood in front of me. I am sure of it, and the proof is that he reminded me of a circumstance which occurred in my youth, and which was known only to him and me. It happened during the Reign of Terror. He was all-powerful in Montaignac; and I was accused of being in correspondence with theemigres. My property had been confiscated; and I was every moment expecting to feel the executioner’s hand on my shoulder, when Lacheneur took me to his house. He concealed me; furnished me with a passport; saved my money, and saved my life as well; and yet—and yet I sentenced him to death. That’s the reason why I’ve seen him again. I must join him; he told me so—I’m a dying man!” With these words the marquis fell back on his pillows, pulled the bed clothes over his face, and lied there so rigid and motionless that one might readily have supposed the counterpane covered some inanimate corpse.

Mute with horror, the servants exchanged frightened glances. Such baseness and ingratitude amazed them. They could not understand why, under such circumstances, the marquis had not pardoned Lacheneur. Blanche alone retained her presence of mind. Turning to her father’s valet, she said: “Hasn’t some one tried to injure my father?”

“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, some one most certainly has: a little more and Monsieur le Marquis would have been killed.”

“How do you know that?”

“In undressing the marquis I noticed that he had received a wound in the head. I also examined his hat, and I found three holes in it, which could only have been made by bullets.”

“Then some one must have tried to murder my father,” murmured Blanche, “and this attack of delirium has been brought on by fright. How can we find out who the would-be murderer was?”

The valet shook his head. “I suspect that old poacher, who is always prowling about here, a man named—Chupin.”

“No, it couldn’t have been him.”

“Ah! I am almost sure of it. There’s no one else in the neighbourhood capable of such an evil deed.”

Blanche could not give her reasons for declaring Chupininnocent. Nothing in the world would have induced her to admit that she had met him, talked with him for more than half-an-hour, and only just parted from him. So she remained silent.

Soon afterwards the medical man arrived. He removed the coverlet from M. de Courtornieu’s face, being almost compelled to use force in doing so—examined the patient with evident anxiety, and then ordered mustard plasters, applications of ice to the head, leeches, and a potion, for which a servant was to gallop to Montaignac at once. Immediately afterwards all was bustle and confusion in the house. When the physician left the sickroom, Blanche followed him. “Well, doctor?” she said, with a questioning look.

The physician hesitated, but at last he replied; “People sometimes recover from such attacks.”

It really mattered little to Blanche whether her father recovered or died, but she felt that an opportunity to recover her lost influence was now afforded her. If she was to fight successfully against Martial’s desertion, she must improvise a very different reputation to that which she at present enjoyed. Now, if she could only appear to the world in the character of a patient victim, and devoted daughter, public opinion, which, as she had recently discovered, was after all worth having, might yet turn in her favour. Such an occasion offering itself must not be neglected. Accordingly, she lavished the most touching and delicate attentions on her suffering father. It was impossible to induce her to leave his bedside for a moment, and it was only with great difficulty that she would be persuaded to sleep for a couple of hours, in an arm-chair in the sick-room. But while she was playing this self-imposed role of sister of charity with a talent worthy of a healthier mind, her chief thoughts were for Chupin. What was he doing at Montaignac? Was he watching Martial as he had promised? How slowly the time passed! Would that Thursday which had been appointed for their meeting never come?

It came at last, and momentarily entrusting her father to Aunt Medea’s care, Blanche made her escape. The old poacher was waiting for her at the appointed place near the lake. “Well, what have you got to tell me?” asked Blanche.

“Next to nothing, I’m sorry to say.”

“What! haven’t you been watching the marquis?”

“Your husband? Excuse me, I have followed him like his own shadow. But I’m afraid the news I have of him won’t interest you very much. Since the duke left for Paris, your husband has charge of everything. Ah! you wouldn’t recognize him! He’s always busy now. He’s up at cock-crow; and goes to bed with the chickens. He writes letters all the morning. In the afternoon he receives every one who calls upon him. The retired officers are hand and glove with him. He has re-instated five or six of them, and has granted pensions to two others. He seldom goes out, and never in the evening.”

He paused, and for a moment Blanche remained silent. A question rose to her lips, and yet she scarcely dared to propound it. She blushed with shame, and it was only after a supreme effort that she managed to articulate, “But he must surely have a mistress?”

Chupin burst into a noisy laugh. “Well, we have come to it at last,” he said, with an air of audacious familiarity that made Blanche positively shudder. “You mean that scoundrel Lacheneur’s daughter, don’t you? that stuck-up minx Marie-Anne?”

Blanche felt that denial was useless. “Yes,” she answered; “I do mean Marie-Anne.”

“Ah, well! she’s neither been seen nor heard of. She must have fled with her other lover, Maurice d’Escorval.”

“You are mistaken.”

“Oh, not at all! Of all the Lacheneurs, the only one remaining about here is Jean the son, who leads a vagabond life, poaching much as I do. He’s always in the woods, day and night, with his gun slung over his shoulder. I caught sight of him once. He’s quite frightful to look at, a perfect skeleton, with eyes that glitter like live coals. If he ever meets me and sees me, my account will be settled then and there.”

Blanche turned pale. Plainly enough it was Jean Lacheneur who had fired at her father. However, concealing her agitation, she replied, “I, myself, feel sure that Marie-Anne is in the neighbourhood, concealed at Montaignac, probably. I must know. Try and find out where she is by Monday, when I will meet you here again.”

“All right, I’ll try,” answered Chupin, and he did indeedtry; exerting all his energy and cunning, but in vain. He was fettered by the precautions which he took to shield himself against Balstain and Jean Lacheneur; while, on the other hand, he had to prosecute his search personally, as no one in the neighbourhood would have consented to give him the least information. “Still no news!” he said to Blanche at each succeeding interview. But she would not admit the possibility of Marie-Anne having fled with Maurice. Jealousy will not yield even to evidence. She had declared that Marie-Anne had taken her husband from her, that Martial and Marie-Anne loved each other, and it must be so, all proofs to the contrary notwithstanding. At last, one morning, she found her spy jubilant. “Good news!” he cried, as soon as he perceived her; “we have caught the minx at last.”

THISwas three days after Marie-Anne’s arrival at the Borderie, which event was the general topic of conversation throughout the neighbourhood; Chanlouineau’s will especially forming the subject of countless comments. The old folks looked grave, and repeated to one another, “Ah, well, here’s M. Lacheneur’s daughter with an income of more than two thousand francs, without counting the house.” While the unattractive maidens who had not been fortunate enough to secure husbands muttered in their turn, “An honest girl would have had no such luck as that!”

When Chupin brought this great news to Blanche she trembled with anger, and clenched her soft white hands, exclaiming: “What audacity! What impudence!”

The old poacher seemed to be of the same opinion. “If each of her lovers gives her as much she will be richer than a queen,” quothed he maliciously. “She will be able to buy up Sairmeuse, and Courtornieu as well if she chooses.”

“And this is the woman who has estranged Martial from me!” ejaculated Blanche. “He abandons me for a filthy drab like that!” She was so incensed that she entirely forgot Chupin’s presence, making no attempt to restrain herself, or to hide the secret of her sufferings. “Are you sure that what you tell me is true?” she asked.

“As sure as you stand there.”

“Who told you all this?”

“No one—I have eyes. That is, I overheard two villagers talking about Mademoiselle Lacheneur’s return; so then I went to the Borderie to see for myself, and I found all the shutters open. Marie-Anne was leaning out of a window. She doesn’t even wear mourning, the heartless hussy!” Chupin spoke the truth, but then the only dress the poor girl possessed was the one that Madame d’Escorval had lent her on the night of the insurrection, when it became necessary for her to doff her masculine attire.

The old poacher was about to increase Blanche’s irritation by some further malicious remarks, when she checked him with the enquiry—”Whereabouts is the Borderie?”

“Oh, about a league and a half from here, opposite the water mills on the Oiselle, and not far from the river bank.”

“Ah, yes! I remember now. Were you ever in the house?”

“Oh, scores and scores of times while Chanlouineau was living.”

“Then you can describe it to me?”

“I should think I could. It stands in an open space a little distance from the road. There’s a small garden in front, and an orchard behind. They are both hedged in. In the rear of the orchard, on the right, are the vineyards; while on the left there’s a small grove planted round about a spring.” Chupin paused suddenly in his description, and with a knowing wink, inquired: “But what use do you mean to make of all this information?”

“That’s no matter of yours. But tell me, what is the house like inside?”

“There are three large square rooms on the ground floor, besides the kitchen and pantry. I can’t say what there is upstairs, as I’ve never been there.”

“And what are the rooms you’ve seen furnished like?”

“Why, like those in any peasant’s house, to be sure.” Chupin, it should be observed, knew nothing of the luxurious apartment which Chanlouineau had intended for Marie-Anne. Indeed, the only stranger who was aware of its existence was the leading upholsterer of Montaignac, for the young farmer had never confided his secret to any one in the neighbourhood, and the furniture had been brought to the Borderie one night in the stealthiest fashion.

“How many doors are there to the house?” enquired Blanche.

“Three: one opening into the garden, one into the orchard, and another communicating with the stables. The staircase is in the middle room.”

“And is Marie-Anne quite alone at the Borderie?”

“Quite alone at present; but I expect her brigand of a brother will join her before long.”

After this reply, Blanche fell into so deep and prolonged a reverie that Chupin at last became impatient. He ventured to touch her on the arm, and, in a wily voice, enquired, “Well, what shall we decide?”

Blanche drew back shuddering. “My mind is not yet made up,” she stammered. “I must reflect—I will see.” And then noting the old poacher’s discontented face, she added, “I will do nothing lightly. Don’t lose sight of the marquis. If he goes to the Borderie, and he will go there, I must be informed of it. If he writes, and he will write, try to procure one of his letters. I must see you every other day. Don’t rest! Try to deserve the good place I am reserving for you at Courtornieu. Now go!”

The old rascal trudged off without attempting a rejoinder, but his manner plainly showed that he was intensely disappointed. “It serves me deucedly well right,” he growled. “I oughtn’t to have listened to such a silly, affected woman. She fills the air with her ravings, wants to kill everybody, burn and destroy everything. She only asks for an opportunity. Well, the occasion presents itself, and then of course her heart fails her. She draws back, and gets afraid!”

In these remarks Chupin did Blanche great injustice. If, as he had noted, she had shrunk back shuddering when he urged her to decide, it was not because her will wavered, but rather because her flesh instinctively revolted against the deed she had in her mind. The old spy’s unwelcome touch, his perfidious voice and threatening glance, may also in a minor degree have prompted this movement of repulsion. At all events, Blanche’s reflections were by no means calculated to appease her rancour. Whatever Chupin and the Sairmeuse villagers might say to the contrary, she regarded the story which Marie-Anne, in obedience to the Abbe Midon’s instructions, had told of her travels in Piedmont as a ridiculous fable, and nothing more. In heropinion, Marie-Anne had simply emerged from some retreat where Martial had previously deemed it prudent to conceal her. But why this sudden re-appearance? Vindictive Blanche was ready to swear that it was out of mere bravado, and intended only as an insult to herself. “Ah, Iwillhave my revenge,” she thought. “I would tear my heart out if it were capable of cowardly weakness under such provocation!”

The voice of conscience was unheard, unheeded, in this tumult of passion. Her sufferings, and Jean Lacheneur’s attempt upon her father’s life, seemed to justify the most terrible reprisals. She had plenty of time now to brood over her wrongs, and to concoct schemes of vengeance; for her father no longer required her care. He had passed from the frenzied ravings of delirium to the stupor of idiocy. And yet the physician had confidently declared his patient to be cured. Cured! The body was cured, perhaps, but reason had utterly fled. All traces of intelligence had left the marquis’s once mobile face, so ready in former times to assume the precise expression which his hypocrisy and duplicity required. His eyes, which had gleamed with cunning, wore a dull, vacant stare, and his under lip hung low, as is customary with idiots. Worst of all, no hope of any improvement was to be entertained. A single passion—indulgence at table—had taken the place of all those which in former times had swayed the life of this ambitious man. The marquis, in previous years most temperate in his habits, now ate and drank with disgusting voracity, and was rapidly becoming extremely corpulent. Between his meals he would wander about the Chateau and its surrounding in a listless fashion, scarcely knowing what he did. His memory had gone, and he had lost all sense of dignity, all knowledge of good and evil. Even the instinct of self-preservation, the last which dies within us, had departed, and he had to be watched like a child. Often, as he roamed about the grounds, his daughter would gaze at him from her window with a strange terror in her heart. But after all, this warning of providence only increased her desire for revenge. “Who would not prefer death to such a misfortune?” she murmured. “Ah! Jean Lacheneur’s revenge is far more terrible than if his bullet had pierced my father’s heart. It is a similar revenge that I must have, and I will have it!”

She saw Chupin every two or three days; sometimes going alone to the meeting-place, and at others in Aunt Medea’s company. The old poacher came punctually enough although he was beginning to tire of his task. “I am risking a great deal,” he growled. “I fancied that Jean Lacheneur would go and live at the Borderie with his sister. Then, I should have been safe. But no; the brigand continues to prowl about with his gun under his arm: and sleeps in the woods at night time. What game is he after? Why, Father Chupin, of course. On the other hand, I know that my rascally innkeeper over there has abandoned his inn and disappeared. Where is he? Hidden behind one of these trees, perhaps, in settling what part of my body he shall plunge his knife into.” What irritated the old poacher most of all was, that after two months watching he had come to the conclusion that whatever might have been Martial’s connection with Marie-Anne in former times, everything was now all over between them.

But Blanche would not admit this. “Own that they are more cunning than you are, Father Chupin, but don’t tell me they don’t see each other,” she observed one day.

“Cunning—and how?” was the retort. “Since I have been watching the marquis, he hasn’t once passed outside the fortifications of Montaignac, while, on the other hand, the postman at Sairmeuse, whom my wife cleverly questioned, declares that he hasn’t taken a single letter to the Borderie.”

After this, if it had not been for the hope of a safe and pleasant retreat at Courtornieu, Chupin would have abandoned his task altogether; as it was, he relaxed his surveillance considerably; coming to the rendezvous with Blanche, chiefly because he had fallen into the habit of claiming some money for his expenses, on each occasion. And when Blanche asked him for an account of everything that Martial had done since their previous meeting, he generally told her anything that came into his head. However, one day, early in September, she interrupted him as he began the same old story, and, looking him steadfastly in the eyes, exclaimed: “Either you are betraying me, Father Chupin, or else you are a fool. Yesterday Martial and Marie-Anne spent a quarter of an hour together at the Croix d’Arcy.”

AFTERthe old physician of Vigano had left the Borderie with his precious burden, Marie-Anne fell into a state of bitter despondency. Many in her situation would perhaps have experienced a feeling of relief, for had she not succeeded in concealing the outcome of her frailty, which none, save perhaps the Abbe Midon, so much as suspected? Hence, her despondency may at first sight seem to have been uncalled for. But then, let it be remembered that the sublime instinct of maternity had been awakened in her breast; and when she saw the physician leave her, carrying away her child she felt as if her soul and body were being rent asunder. When might she hope to set her eyes again on this poor babe who was doubly dear to her by reason of the very sorrow and anguish he had cost her? Ah, if it had not been for her promise to Maurice, she would have braved public opinion and kept her infant son at the Borderie. Had she not braved calumny already? She had been accused of having three lovers. Chanlouineau, Martial, and Maurice. The comments of the villagers had not affected her; but she had been tortured, and was still tortured by the thought that these people didn’t know the truth. Maurice was her husband, and yet she dare not proclaim the fact; she was “Mademoiselle Lacheneur” to all around—a maiden—a living lie. Surely such a situation accounted only too completely for her despondency and distress. And when she thought of her brother she positively shuddered with dismal apprehensions.

Having learnt that Jean was roving about the country she sent for him; but it was not without considerable persuasion that he consented to come and see her at the Borderie. A glance at his appearance sufficed to explain all Chupin’s terror. The young fellow’s clothes were in tatters, and the expression of his weather-stained, unshaven, unkempt face was ferocious in the extreme. When he entered the cottage, Marie-Anne recoiled with fear. She did not recognize him until he spoke. “It is I, sister,” he said gloomily.

“What, you—my poor Jean! you!”

He surveyed himself from head to foot, and with asneering laugh retorted, “Well, really, I shouldn’t like to meet myself at dusk in the forest.”

Marie-Anne fancied she could detect a threat behind this ironical remark, and her apprehensions were painful in the extreme. “What a life you must be leading, my poor brother!” she said after a brief pause. “Why didn’t you come here sooner? Now, I have you here, I shall not let you go. You will not desert me. I need protection and love so much. You will remain with me?”

“That’s impossible, Marie-Anne.”

“And why?”

Jean averted his glance; his face coloured, and it was with evident hesitation that he replied—”Because I’ve a right to dispose of my own life, but not of yours. We can’t be anything to each other any longer. I deny you to-day, so that you may be able to deny me to-morrow. Yes, although you are now the only person on earth I love. I must and do renounce you. Your worst enemies haven’t slandered you more foully than I have done, for before numerous witnesses I have openly declared that I would never set my foot inside a house given you by Chanlouineau.”

“What, you said that—you, Jean—you, my brother?”

“Yes, I said it, and with a purpose; for it must be supposed that there is a deadly feud between us, so that neither you nor Maurice d’Escorval may be accused of complicity in any deed of mine.”

Marie-Anne gazed at her brother wonderingly. “He is mad!” she murmured, and then with a burst of energy, she added, “What do you mean to do? Tell me; I must know.”

“Nothing! leave me to myself.”

“Jean!”

“Leave me to myself,” he repeated roughly.

Marie-Anne felt that her apprehensions were correct. “Take care, take care,” she said entreatingly. “Do not tamper with such matters. God’s justice will punish those who have wronged us.”

But nothing could move Jean Lacheneur, or divert him from his purpose. With a hoarse, discordant laugh, he clapped his hand on his gun and retorted, “That’s my justice!”

Marie-Anne almost tottered as she heard these words. She discerned in her brother’s mind the same fixed, fatal idea which had lured her father on to destruction—the idea for which he had sacrificed everything—family, friends, fortune, and even his daughter’s honour, the idea which had caused so much bloodshed, which had cost the lives of so many innocent men, and had finally led him to the scaffold himself. “Jean,” she murmured, “remember our father.”

The young fellow’s face turned livid; and instinctively he clenched his fists. But the words he uttered were the more impressive as his voice was calm and low. “It is just because I do remember my father that I am determined justice shall be done. Ah! these wretched nobles wouldn’t display such audacity if all sons had my will and determination. A scoundrel like the Duke de Sairmeuse would hesitate before he attacked an honest man if he were only obliged to say to himself: ‘If I wrong this man, and even should I kill him, I cannot escape retributive justice, for his children will surely call me to account. Their vengeance will fall on me and mine; they will pursue us by day and night, at all hours and in all seasons. We must ever fear their hatred for they will be implacable and merciless. I shall never leave my house without fear of a bullet; never lift food to my lips without dread of poison. And until I and mine have succumbed, these avengers will prowl round about our home threatening us at every moment with death, dishonour, ruin, infamy, and misery!’ ” The young fellow paused, laughed nervously, and then, in a still slower voice, he added: “That is what the Sairmeuses and the Courtornieus have to expect from me.” It was impossible to mistake the import of these words. Jean Lacheneur’s threats were not the wild ravings of anger. His was a cold, deep-set premeditated desire for vengeance which would last as long as he lived—and he took good care that his sister should understand him, for between his teeth he added: “Undoubtedly these people are very high, and I am very low; but when a tiny insect pierces the root of a giant oak, that tree is doomed.”

Marie-Anne realized that all her entreaties would fail to turn her brother from his purpose, and yet she could not allow him to leave, without making one more effortit was with clasped hands and in a supplicating voice that she begged him to renounce his projects, but he still remained obdurate, and when changing her tactics she asked him to remain with her, at least that evening and share her frugal supper, adding in trembling tones that it might be the last time they would see each other for long years, he again repeated, “You ask me an impossibility!” And yet he was visibly moved, and if his voice was stern, a tear trembled in his eye. She was clinging to him imploringly, when, yielding for one moment to the impulse of nature, he took her in his arms and pressed her to his heart. “Poor sister—poor Marie-Anne,” he said, “you will never know what it costs me to refuse your supplications. But I cannot yield to them. I have been most imprudent in coming here at all. You don’t realize the danger to which you may be exposed if folks suspect that there is any connection between us. I trust that you and Maurice may lead a calm and happy life. It would be a crime for me to mix you up with my wild schemes. Think of me sometimes, but don’t try to see me, or even to find out what has become of me. A man like me struggles, triumphs, or perishes alone.” He kissed Marie-Anne passionately, and freed himself from her detaining hands. “Farewell!” he cried; “when you see me again, our father will be avenged!”

Then with one bound he reached the door. She sprang out after him, meaning to call him back, but he had already disappeared. “It is all over,” murmured the wretched girl; “my brother is lost. Nothing will restrain him now.” And a vague, inexplicable, dread invaded her heart. She felt as if she were being slowly but surely drawn into a whirlpool of passion, rancour, vengeance, and crime, and a voice whispered that she would be crushed.

Some days had elapsed after this incident, when one evening, while she was preparing her supper, she heard a rustling sound outside. She turned and looked: some one had slipped a letter under the front door. Without a moments hesitation, she raised the latch and courageously sprang out on to the threshold. No one could be seen. The gloom was well nigh impenetrable, and when she listened not a sound broke the stillness. With a trembling hand she picked up the letter, walked towards the lamp burning on her supper table, and looked at the address.“From the Marquis de Sairmeuse!” she exclaimed, in amazement, as she recognized Martial’s hand-writing. So he had written to her! He had dared to write to her! Her first impulse was to burn the letter; and she was already holding it over the stove, when she suddenly thought of her friends concealed at Father Poignot’s farm. “For their sake,” she thought, “I must read it, and see if they are threatened with danger.”

Then hastily opening the missive, she found that it was as follows: “My dear Marie-Anne—Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has given an entirely new and certainly surprising turn to events. Perhaps you have also understood the motives that guided him. In that case I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you can no longer refuse me your esteem. But my work of reparation is not yet perfect. I have prepared everything for a revision of the judgment that condemned the Baron d’Escorval to death, or for having him pardoned. You must know where the baron is concealed. Acquaint him with my plans and ascertain whether he prefers a revision of judgment, or a simple pardon. If he wishes for a new trial, I will give him a letter of licence from the king. I await your reply before acting.Martial de Sairmeuse.”

Marie-Anne’s head whirled. This was the second time that Martial had astonished her by the chivalrous spirit of his love. How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, had proved themselves to be. One of them Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, had sought to protect her from beyond the grave. The other, Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the connections and prejudices of his caste, and hazarded with noble recklessness the political fortunes of his house, so as to insure as far as possible her own happiness and that of those she loved. And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Maurice d’Escorval, had not given as much as a sign of life since he left her five months before. But suddenly and without reason, Marie-Anne passed from profound admiration to deep distrust. “What if Martial’s offer were only a trap?” This was the suspicion that darted through her mind. “Ah!” she thought, “the Marquis de Sairmeuse would be a hero if he were sincere!” And she did not wish him to be a hero.

The result of her suspicions was that she hesitated fivedays before repairing to the meeting place where Father Poignot usually awaited her. When she did go, in lieu of the worthy farmer she found the Abbe Midon, who had been greatly alarmed by her prolonged absence. It was night time, but Marie-Anne, fortunately, knew Martial’s letter by heart. The abbe made her repeat it twice, the second time very slowly, and when she had concluded, he remarked: “This young man no doubt has the prejudices of his rank and his education; but his heart is noble and generous.” And when Marie-Anne disclosed her suspicions: “You are wrong, my child,” he added, “the marquis is certainly sincere, and it would be unwise not to take advantage of his generosity. Such, at least, is my opinion. Entrust this letter to me. I will consult the baron, and to-morrow you shall know our decision.”

Four and twenty hours later the abbe and Marie-Anne met again at the same spot. “M. d’Escorval,” said the priest, “agrees with me that we must trust ourselves to the Marquis de Sairmeuse. Only the baron, being innocent, cannot, will not, accept a pardon. He demands a revision of the iniquitous judgment which condemned him—in one word, a new trial.”

Marie-Anne had foreseen this determination, and yet she could not help exclaiming: “What! M. d’Escorval means to give himself up to his enemies! To risk his life on the chance of acquittal?” The priest nodded assent, and then knowing that it was quite useless to attempt arguing the point Marie-Anne submissively remarked: “In this case, I must ask you for a rough draft of the letter I ought to write to the marquis.”

For a moment the priest did not reply. He evidently had some misgivings. At last, summoning all his courage, he answered. “It would be better not to write.”

“But——”

“It is not that I distrust the marquis, not by any means, but a letter is dangerous; it doesn’t always reach the person it’s addressed to. You must see M. de Sairmeuse.”

Marie-Anne recoiled. “Never! never!” she exclaimed.

The abbe did not seem surprised. “I understand your repugnance, my child,” he said, gently; “your reputation has suffered greatly through the marquis’s attentions. But duty calls, and this is not the time to hesitate. You know that the baron is innocent, and you know, alas, that yourfather’s mad enterprise has ruined him. You must, at least, make this atoning sacrifice.” He then explained to her everything she would have to say, and did not leave her until she had promised to see the marquis in person.

It must not be supposed that Marie-Anne’s aversion to this interview was due to the reason which the abbe assigned. Her reputation! Alas, she knew that it was lost for ever. A fortnight before the prospect of such a meeting would have in no wise disquieted her. Then, though she no longer hated Martial, she thought of him with indifference, whereas now—— Perhaps, in choosing the Croix d’Arcy for the rendezvous, she hoped that this spot with its cruel memories would restore aversion to her heart. As she walked along towards the meeting place, she said to herself that no doubt Martial would wound her feelings by his usual tone of careless gallantry. But in this she was mistaken. The young marquis was greatly agitated, but he did not utter a word unconnected with the purport of the meeting. It was only when the conference was over, and he had consented to all the conditions suggested by the abbe, that he sadly remarked: “We are friends, are we not?”

And in an almost inaudible voice she answered, “Yes.”

And that was all. He remounted his horse, which had been held by a servant, and galloped off in the direction of Montaignac. Breathless, with cheeks on fire, Marie-Anne watched him as bending low in the saddle he urged his horse onward over the dusty highway, until at last a bend and some projecting trees finally hid him from view. Then, all of a sudden, she became as it were conscious of her thoughts. “Ah, wretched woman that I am,” she exclaimed, “is it possible I could ever love any other man than Maurice, my husband, the father of my child?”

Her voice was still trembling with emotion when she related the particulars of the interview to the abbe. But he did not perceive her trouble, his thoughts being busy with the baron’s interests. “I felt sure,” said he, “that Martial would agree to our conditions. I was, indeed, so certain that I even made every arrangement for the baron to leave the farm. He will leave it to-morrow night and wait at your house till we receive the letters of licence from the king. The heat and bad ventilation of Poignot’s loft are certainly retarding his recovery. One of Poignot’s boys willbring our baggage to-morrow evening, and at eleven o’clock or so we will place M. d’Escorval in a vehicle and all sup together at the Borderie.”

“Heaven comes to my aid!” murmured Marie-Anne as she walked home, reflecting that now she would no longer be alone. With Madame d’Escorval at her side to talk to her of Maurice, and the cheerful presence of her other friends, she would soon be able to chase away those thoughts of Martial, now haunting her.

When she awoke the next morning she was in better spirits than she had been for months, and once, while putting her little house in order, she was surprised to find herself singing at her work. Just as eight o’clock in the evening was striking she heard a peculiar whistle. This was a signal from the younger Poignot, who soon appeared laden with an arm-chair for the sick man, the abbe’s medicine chest, and a bag of books. They were all placed in the room upstairs—the room which Chanlouineau had decorated at such cost, and which Marie-Anne now intended for the baron. Young Poignot told her that he had several other things to bring, and nearly an hour afterwards, fancying that he might be overloaded, she ventured out to meet him. The night was very dark, and as she hastened on, Marie-Anne failed to notice two figures stooping behind a clump of lilac bushes in her little garden.

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