The ledge of rock upon which Baron d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois rested in their descent from the tower was very narrow.
In the widest place it did not measure more than a yard and a half, and its surface was uneven, cut by innumerable fissures and crevices, and sloped suddenly at the edge. To stand there in the daytime, with the wall of the tower behind one, and the precipice at one’s feet, would have been considered very imprudent.
Of course, the task of lowering a man from this ledge, at dead of night, was perilous in the extreme.
Before allowing the baron to descend, honest Bavois took every possible precaution to save himself from being dragged over the verge of the precipice by the weight he would be obliged to sustain.
He placed his crowbar firmly in a crevice of the rock, then bracing his feet against the bar, he seated himself firmly, throwing his shoulders well back, and it was only when he was sure of his position that he said to the baron:
“I am here and firmly fixed, comrade; now let yourself down.”
The sudden parting of the rope hurled the brave corporal rudely against the tower wall, then he was thrown forward by the rebound.
His unalterablesang-froidwas all that saved him.
For more than a minute he hung suspended over the abyss into which the baron had just fallen, and his hands clutched at the empty air.
A hasty movement, and he would have fallen.
But he possessed a marvellous power of will, which prevented him from attempting any violent effort. Prudently, but with determined energy, he screwed his feet and his knees into the crevices of the rock, feeling with his hands for some point of support, and gradually sinking to one side, he finally succeeded in dragging himself from the verge of the precipice.
It was time, for a cramp seized him with such violence that he was obliged to sit down and rest for a moment.
That the baron had been killed by his fall, Bavois did not doubt for an instant. But this catastrophe did not produce much effect upon the old soldier, who had seen so many comrades fall by his side on the field of battle.
What didamazehim was the breaking of the rope—a rope so large that one would have supposed it capable of sustaining the weight of ten men like the baron.
As he could not, by reason of the darkness, see the ruptured place, Bavois felt it with his finger; and, to his inexpressible astonishment, he found it smooth. No filaments, no rough bits of hemp, as usual after a break; the surface was perfectly even.
The corporal comprehended what Maurice had comprehended below.
“The scoundrels have cut the rope!” he exclaimed, with a frightful oath.
And a recollection of what had happened three or four hours previous arose in his mind.
“This,” he thought, “explains the noise which the poor baron heard in the next room! And I said to him: ‘Nonsense! it is a rat!’”
Then he thought of a very simple method of verifying his conjectures. He passed the cord about the crowbar and pulled it with all his strength. It parted in three places.
This discovery appalled him.
A part of the rope had fallen with the unfortunate baron, and it was evident that the remaining fragments tied together would not be long enough to reach to the base of the rock.
From this isolated ledge it was impossible to reach the ground upon which the citadel was built.
“You are in a fine fix, Corporal,” he growled.
Honest Bavois looked the situation full in the face, and saw that it was desperate.
“Well, Corporal, your jig is up!” he murmured, “At daybreak they will find that the baron’s cell is empty. They will poke their heads out of the window, and they will see you here, like a stone saint upon his pedestal. Naturally, you will be captured, tried, condemned; and you will be led out to take your turn in the ditches. Ready! Aim! Fire! And that will be the end of your story.”
He stopped short. A vague idea had entered his mind, which he felt might possibly be his salvation.
It came to him in touching the rope which he had used in his descent from the prison to the ledge, and which, firmly attached to the bars, hung down the side of the tower.
“If you had that rope which hangs there useless, Corporal, you could add it to these fragments, and then it would be long enough to carry you to the foot of the rock. But how shall I obtain it? It is certainly impossible to go back after it! and how can I pull it down when it is so securely fastened to the bars?”
He sought a way, found it, and pursued it, talking to himself all the while as if there were two corporals; one prompt to conceive, the other, a trifle stupid, to whom it was necessary to explain everything in detail.
“Attention, Corporal,” said he. “You are going to knot these five pieces of rope together and attach them to your waist; then you are going to climb up to that window, hand over hand. Not an easy matter! A carpeted staircase is preferable to that rope dangling there. But no matter, you are not finical, Corporal! So you climb it, and here you are in the cell again. What are you going to do? A mere nothing. You are unfastening the cord attached to the bars; you will tie it to this, and that will give you eighty feet of good strong rope. Then you will pass the rope about one of the bars that remain intact; the rope will thus be doubled; then you let yourself down again, and when you are here, you have only to untie one of the knots and the rope is at your service. Do you understand, Corporal?”
The corporal did understand so well that in less than twenty minutes he was back again upon the narrow shelf of rock, the difficult and dangerous operation which he had planned accomplished.
Not without a terrible effort; not without torn and bleeding hands and knees.
But he had succeeded in obtaining the rope, and now he was certain that he could make his escape from his dangerous position. He laughed gleefully, or rather with that chuckle which was habitual to him.
Anxiety, then joy, had made him forget M. d’Escorval. At the thought of him, he was smitten with remorse.
“Poor man!” he murmured. “I shall succeed in saving my miserable life, for which no one cares, but I was unable to save him. Undoubtedly, by this time his friends have carried him away.”
As he uttered these words he was leaning over the abyss. He doubted the evidence of his own senses when he saw a faint light moving here and there in the depths below.
What had happened? For something very extraordinary must have happened to induce intelligent men like the baron’s friends to display this light, which, if observed from the citadel, would betray their presence and ruin them.
But Corporal Bavois’s moments were too precious to be wasted in idle conjectures.
“Better go down on the double-quick,” he said aloud, as if to spur on his courage. “Come, my friend, spit on your hands and be off!”
As he spoke the old soldier threw himself flat on his belly and crawled slowly backward to the verge of the precipice. The spirit was strong, but the flesh shuddered. To march upon a battery had always been a mere pastime to the worthy corporal; but to face an unknown peril, to suspend one’s life upon a cord, was a different matter.
Great drops of perspiration, caused by the horror of his situation, stood out upon his brow when he felt that half his body had passed the edge of the precipice, and that the slightest movement would now launch him into space.
He made this movement, murmuring:
“If there is a God who watches over honest people let Him open His eyes this instant!”
The God of the just was watching.
Bavois arrived at the end of his dangerous journey with torn and bleeding hands, but safe. He fell like a mass of rock; and the rudeness of the shock drew from him a groan resembling the roar of an infuriated beast.
For more than a minute he lay there upon the ground stunned and dizzy.
When he rose two men seized him roughly.
“Ah, no foolishness,” he said quickly. “It is I, Bavois.”
This did not cause them to relax their hold.
“How does it happen,” demanded one, in a threatening tone, “that Baron d’Escorval falls and you succeed in making the descent in safety a few moments later?”
The old soldier was too shrewd not to understand the whole import of this insulting question.
The sorrow and indignation aroused within him gave him strength to free himself from the hands of his captors.
“Mille tonnerres!” he exclaimed; “so I pass for a traitor, do I! No, it is impossible—listen to me.”
Then rapidly, but with surprising clearness, he related all the details of his escape, his despair, his perilous situation, and the almost insurmountable obstacles which he had overcome. To hear was to believe.
The men—they were, of course, the retired army officers who had been waiting for the baron—offered the honest corporal their hands, sincerely sorry that they had wounded the feelings of a man who was so worthy of their respect and gratitude.
“You will forgive us, Corporal,” they said, sadly. “Misery renders men suspicious and unjust, and we are very unhappy.”
“No offence,” he growled. “If I had trusted poor Monsieur d’Escorval, he would be alive now.”
“The baron still breathes,” said one of the officers.
This was such astounding news that Bavois was utterly confounded for a moment.
“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 Monsieur d’Escorval’s wounds now. It was by his order that we procured and lighted this candle, which may bring our enemies 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 discover only a confused group of moving figures.
“I would like to see the poor man,” he said, sadly.
“Come nearer, my good fellow; fear nothing!”
He stepped forward, and by the flickering light of the candle which Marie-Anne held, he saw a spectacle which moved him more than the horrors of the bloodiest battle-field.
The baron was lying upon the ground, his head supported on Mme. d’Escorval’s knee.
His face was not disfigured; but he was pale as death itself, and his eyes were closed.
At intervals a convulsive shudder shook his frame, and a stream of blood gushed from his mouth. His clothing was hacked—literally hacked in pieces; and it was easy to see that his body had sustained many frightful wounds.
Kneeling beside the unconscious man, Abbe Midon, with admirable dexterity, was stanching the blood and applying bandages which had been 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, in a passion of 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 he now lifted the wounded man a little higher on Mme. d’Escorval’s knee.
This change of position elicited a moan that betrayed the unfortunate baron’s intense sufferings. He opened his eyes and faltered a few words—they were the first he had uttered.
“Firmin!” he murmured, “Firmin!” It was the name of the baron’s former secretary, a man who had been absolutely devoted to his master, but 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. You shall kill me rather—do you hear me? I command it.”
This was all; then his eyes closed again, and his head fell back a dead weight. One would have supposed that he had yielded up his last sigh.
Such was the opinion of the officers; and it was with poignant anxiety they drew the abbe a little aside.
“Is it all over?” they asked. “Is there any hope?”
The priest sadly shook his head, and pointing to heaven:
“My hope is in God!” he said, reverently.
The hour, the place, the terrible catastrophe, the present danger, the threatening future, all combined to lend a deep solemnity to the words of the priest.
So profound was the impression that, for more than a minute, these men, familiar with peril and scenes of horror, stood in awed silence.
Maurice, who approached, followed by Corporal Bavois, brought them back to the exigencies of the present.
“Ought we not to make haste and carry away my father?” he asked. “Must we not be in Piedmont before evening?”
“Yes!” exclaimed the officers, “let us start at once.”
But the priest did not move, and in a despondent voice, he said:
“To make any attempt to carry Monsieur 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 pursue?”
Not a voice 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, is the hut of a peasant upon whom I can rely. His name is Poignot; and he was formerly in Monsieur Lacheneur’s employ. With the assistance of his three sons, he now tills quite a large farm. We must procure a litter and carry Monsieur d’Escorval to the house of this honest peasant.”
“What, Monsieur,” interrupted one of the officers, “you wish us to procure a litter at this hour of the night, and in this neighborhood?”
“It must be done.”
“But, will it not awaken 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, by virtue of assuming all the responsibility, feels that he has a right to be obeyed.
“When the baron has been conveyed to Poignot’s house,” he continued, “one of you gentlemen will take the wounded man’s place upon the litter; the others will carry him, and the party will remain together until it has reached Piedmontese territory. Then you will separate and pretend to conceal yourselves, but do it in such a way that you are seen everywhere.” All present comprehended the priest’s simple plan.
They were to throw the emissaries sent by the Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu off the track; and at the very moment it was apparently proven that the baron was in the mountains, he would be safe in Poignot’s house.
“One word more,” added the priest. “It will be necessary to make thecortegewhich accompanies the pretended baron resemble as much as possible the little party that would be likely to attend Monsieur d’Escorval. Mademoiselle Lacheneur will accompany you; Maurice also. People know that I would not leave the baron, who is my friend; my priestly robe would attract attention; one of you must assume it. God will forgive this 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 departed on the run, and five minutes later reappeared with a small litter, a thin mattress, and a coverlid. He had thought of everything.
The wounded man was lifted carefully and placed upon the mattress.
A long and difficult operation which, in spite of extreme caution, drew many terrible groans from the baron.
When all 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 on account of the suffering which the least jolting inflicted upon the baron. Still they made some progress, and by daybreak they were about half way to Poignot’s house.
It was then that they met some peasants going to their daily toil. Both men and women paused to look at them, and when the littlecortegehad passed they still stood gazing curiously after these people who were apparently carrying a dead body.
The priest did not seem to trouble himself in regard to these encounters; at least, he made no attempt to avoid them.
But he did seem anxious and cautious when, after a three hours’ march, they came in sight of Poignot’s cottage.
Fortunately there was a little grove not far from the house. The abbe made the party enter it, recommending the strictest prudence, while he went on in advance to confer with this man, upon whose decision the safety of the whole party depended.
As the priest approached the house, a small, thin man, with gray hair and a sunburned face emerged from the stable.
It was Father Poignot.
“What! is this you, Monsieur le Cure!” he exclaimed, delightedly. “Heavens! how pleased my wife will be. We have a great favor to ask of you——”
And then, without giving the abbe an opportunity to open his lips, he began to tell him his perplexities. The night of the revolt he had given shelter to a poor man who had received an ugly sword-thrust. Neither his wife nor himself knew how to dress the wound, and he dared not call in a physician.
“And this wounded man,” he added, “is Jean Lacheneur, the son of my former employer.” A terrible anxiety seized the priest’s heart.
Would this man, who had already given an asylum to one wounded conspirator, consent to receive another?
The abbe’s voice trembled as he made known his petition.
The farmer turned very pale and shook his head gravely, while the priest was speaking. When the abbe had finished:
“Do you know, sir,” he asked, coldly, “that I incur a great risk by converting my house into a hospital for these rebels?”
The abbe dared not answer.
“They told me,” Father Poignot continued, “that I was a coward, becauseIwould not take part in the revolt. Such was not my opinion. Now I choose to shelter these wounded men—I shelter them. In my opinion, it requires quite as much courage as it does to go and fight.”
“Ah! you are a brave man!” cried the abbe.
“I know that very well! Bring Monsieur d’Escorval. There is no one here but my wife and boys—no one will betray him!”
A half hour later the baron was lying in a small loft, where Jean Lacheneur was already installed.
From the window, Abbe Midon and Mme. d’Escorval watched the littlecortege, organized for the purpose of deceiving the Duc de Sairmeuse’s spies, as it moved rapidly away.
Corporal Bavois, with his head bound up with bloodstained linen, had taken the baron’s place upon the litter.
This was one of the troubled epochs in history that try men’s souls. There is no chance for hypocrisy; each man stands revealed in his grandeur, or in his pettiness of soul.
Certainly much cowardice was displayed during the early days of the second Restoration; but many deeds of sublime courage and devotion were performed.
These officers who befriended Mme. d’Escorval and Maurice—who lent their aid to the abbe—knew the baron only by name and reputation.
It was sufficient for them to know that he was the friend of their former ruler—the man whom they had made their idol, and they rejoiced with all their hearts when they saw M. d’Escorval reposing under Father Poignot’s roof in comparative security.
After this, their task, which consisted in misleading the government emissaries, seemed to them mere child’s play.
But all these precautions were unnecessary. Public sentiment had declared itself in an unmistakable manner, and it was evident that Lacheneur’s hopes had not been without some foundation.
The police discovered nothing, not so much as a single detail of the escape. They did not even hear of the little party that had 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 Baron d’Escorval, there was not one who turned informer or let drop an indiscreet word.
But on approaching the frontier, which they knew to be strictly guarded, the fugitives became even more cautious.
They waited until nightfall before presenting themselves at a lonely inn, where they hoped to procure a guide to lead them through the defiles of the mountains.
Frightful news awaited them there. The innkeeper informed them of the bloody massacre at Montaignac.
With tears rolling down his cheeks, he related the details of the execution, which he had heard from an eyewitness.
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 he was inconsolable over the death of that “handsome young fellow, the best farmer in the country.”
The officers, who had left the litter a short distance from the inn, decided that they could confide at least a part of their secret to this man.
“We are carrying one of our wounded comrades,” they said to him. “Can you guide us across the frontier to-night?”
The innkeeper replied that he would do so very willingly, that he would promise to take them safely past the military posts; but that he would not think of going upon the mountain before the moon rose.
By midnight the fugitives wereen route; by daybreak they set foot on Piedmont territory.
They had dismissed their guide some time before. They now proceeded to break the litter in pieces; and handful by handful they cast the wool of the mattress to the wind.
“Our task is accomplished,” the officer said to Maurice. “We will now return to France. May God protect you! Farewell!”
It was with tears in his eyes that Maurice saw these brave men, who had just saved his father’s life, depart. Now he was the sole protector of Marie-Anne, who, pale and overcome with fatigue and emotion, trembled on his arm.
But no—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 do not hurry, the young lady does not seem well, and I see the village only a short distance away.”
Essentially a woman in grace and beauty, as well as in devotion and tenderness, Marie-Anne was capable of a virile bravery. Her energy and her coolness during those trying days had been the admiration and the astonishment of all around her.
But human endurance has its limits. Always after excessive efforts comes a moment when the shrinking flesh fails the firmest will.
When Marie-Anne tried to begin her journey anew, she found that her strength was exhausted; her swollen feet would no longer sustain her, her limbs sank under her, her head whirled, and an intense freezing coldness crept over her heart.
Maurice and the old soldier were obliged to support her, almost carry her. Fortunately they were not far from the village, whose church-tower they had discerned through the gray mists of morning.
Soon the fugitives could distinguish the houses on the outskirts of the town. The corporal suddenly stopped short with an oath.
“Mille tonnerres!” he exclaimed; “and my uniform! To enter the village in this rig would excite suspicion at once; before we had a chance to sit down, the Piedmontese gendarmes would arrest us.”
He reflected for a moment, twirling his mustache furiously; then, in a tone that would have made a passerby tremble, he said:
“All things are fair in love and war. The next peasant who passes—”
“But I have money,” interrupted Maurice, unbuckling a belt filled with gold, which he had put on under his clothing on the night of the revolt.
“Eh! we are fortunate!” cried Bavois. “Give me some, and I will soon find some shop in the suburbs where I can purchase a change of clothing.” He departed; but it was not long before he reappeared, transformed by a peasant’s costume, which fitted him perfectly. His small, thin face was almost hidden beneath an immense broad-brimmed hat.
“Now, steady, forward, march!” he said to Maurice and Marie-Anne, who scarcely recognized him in this disguise.
The town, which they soon reached, was called Saliente. They read the name upon a guide-post.
The fourth house after entering the place was a hostelry, the Traveller’s Rest. They entered it, and ordered the hostess to take the young lady to a room and to assist her in disrobing.
The order was obeyed, and Maurice and the corporal went into the dining-room and ordered something to eat.
The desired refreshments were served, but the glances cast upon the guests were by no means friendly. It was evident that they were regarded with suspicion.
A large man, who was apparently the proprietor of the house, hovered around them, and at last embraced a favorable opportunity to ask their names.
“My name is Dubois,” replied Maurice, without the slightest hesitation. “I am travelling on business, and this man here is my farmer.”
These replies seemed to reassure the host a little.
“And what is your business?” he inquired.
“I came into this land of inquisitive people to buy mules,” laughed Maurice, striking his belt of money.
On hearing the jingle of the coin the man lifted his cap deferentially. Raising mules was the chief industry of the country. This bourgeois was very young, but he had a well-filled purse, and that was enough.
“You will excuse me,” resumed the host, in quite a different tone. “You see, we are obliged to be very careful. There has been some trouble in Montaignac.”
The imminence of the peril and the responsibility devolving upon him, gave Maurice an assurance unusual to him; and it was in the most careless, off-hand manner possible that he concocted a quite plausible story to explain his early arrival on foot accompanied by a sick wife. 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 of rest would restore Marie-Anne.
They were mistaken. The very springs of life in her existence seemed to have been drained dry. She did not appear to suffer, but she remained in a death-like torpor, from which nothing could arouse her. They spoke to her but she made no response. Did she hear? did she comprehend? It was extremely doubtful.
By rare good fortune the mother of the proprietor proved to be a good, kind-hearted old woman, who would not leave the bedside of Marie-Anne—of Mme. Dubois, as she was called at the Traveller’s Rest.
It was not until the evening of the third day that they heard Marie-Anne utter a word.
“Poor girl!” she sighed; “poor, wretched girl!”
It was of herself that she spoke.
By a phenomenon not very unusual after a crisis in which reason has been temporarily obscured, it seemed to her that it was someone else who had been the victim of all the misfortunes, whose recollections gradually returned to her like the memory of a painful dream.
What strange and terrible events had taken place since that August Sabbath, when, on leaving the church with her father, she heard of the arrival of the Duc de Sairmeuse.
And that was only eight months ago.
What a difference between those days when she lived happy and envied in that beautiful Chateau de Sairmeuse, of which she believed herself the mistress, and at the present time, 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 protection than that of an old soldier—a deserter, whose life was in constant danger—and that of her proscribed lover.
From this total wreck of her cherished ambitions, of her hopes, of her fortune, of her happiness, and of her future, she had not even saved her honor.
But was she alone responsible? Who had imposed upon her the odious role which she had played with Maurice, Martial, and Chanlouineau?
As this last name darted through her mind, the scene in the prison-cell rose suddenly and vividly before her.
Chanlouineau had given her a letter, saying as he did so:
“You will read this when I am no more.”
She might read it now that he had fallen beneath the bullets of the soldiery. But what had become of it? From the moment that he gave it to her until now she had not once thought of it.
She raised herself in bed, and in an imperious voice:
“My dress,” she said to the old nurse, seated beside her; “give me my dress.”
The woman obeyed; with an eager hand Marie-Anne examined the pocket.
She uttered an exclamation of joy on finding the letter there.
She opened it, read it slowly twice, then, sinking back on her pillows, she burst into tears.
Maurice anxiously approached her.
“What is the matter?” he inquired anxiously.
She handed him the letter, saying: “Read.”
Chanlouineau was only a poor peasant. His entire education had been derived from an old country pedagogue, whose school he attended for three winters, and who troubled himself much less about the progress of his students than about the size of the books which they carried to and from the school.
This letter, which was written upon the commonest kind of paper, was sealed with a huge wafer, as large as a two-sou piece, which he had purchased from a grocer in Sairmeuse.
The chirography was labored, heavy and trembling; it betrayed the stiff hand of a man more accustomed to guiding the plough than the pen.
The lines zigzagged toward the top or toward the bottom of the page, and faults of orthography were everywhere apparent.
But if the writing was that of a vulgar peasant, the thoughts it expressed were worthy of the noblest, the proudest in the land.
This was the letter which Chanlouineau had written, probably on the eve of the insurrection:
“Marie-Anne—The outbreak is at hand. Whether it succeeds, or whether it fails, I shall die. That was decided on the day when I learned that you could marry none other than Maurice d’Escorval.
“But the conspiracy will not succeed; and I understand your father well enough to know that he will not survive its 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, all that I possess:
“My house, the Borderie, with the gardens and vineyards pertaining thereto, the woodland and the pastures of Berarde, and five lots of land at Valrollier.
“You will find an inventory of this property, and of my other possessions which I devise to you, deposited with the lawyer at Sairmeuse.
“You can accept this bequest without fear; for, having no parents, my control over my property is absolute.
“If you do not wish to remain in France, this property will sell for at least forty thousand francs.
“But it would, it seems to me, be better for you to remain in your own country. The house on the Borderie is comfortable and convenient, since I have had it divided into three rooms and thoroughly repaired.
“Upstairs is a room that has been fitted up by the best upholsterer in Montaignac. I intended it for you. Beneath the hearth-stone in this room you will find 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 write it; 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 you will, perhaps, be obliged to ask his consent in order to accept my gift. I hope that he will not refuse it. One is not jealous of the dead!
“Besides, he knows well that you have scarcely vouchsafed a glance to the poor peasant who has loved you so much.
“Do not be offended at anything I have said, I am in such agony that I cannot weigh my words.
“Adieu, adieu, Marie-Anne.
“Chanlouineau.”
Maurice also read twice, before handing it back, this letter whose every word palpitated with sublime passion.
He was silent for a moment, then, in a husky voice, he said:
“You cannot refuse; it would be wrong.”
His emotion was so great that he could not conceal it, and he left the room.
He was overwhelmed by the grandeur of soul exhibited by this peasant, who, after saving the life of his successful rival at the Croix d’Arcy, had wrested Baron d’Escorval from the hands of his executioners, and who had never allowed a complaint nor a reproach to escape his lips, and whose protection over the woman he adored extended even from beyond the grave.
In comparison with this obscure hero, Maurice felt himself insignificant, mediocre, unworthy.
Good God! what if this comparison should arise in Marie-Anne’s mind as well? How could he compete with the memory of such nobility of soul and heroic self-sacrifice?
Chanlouineau was mistaken; one, may, perhaps, be jealous of the dead!
But Maurice took good care to conceal this poignant anxiety and these sorrowful thoughts, and during the days that followed, he presented himself in Marie-Anne’s room with a calm, even cheerful face.
For she, unfortunately, was not restored to health. She had recovered the full possession of her mental faculties, but her strength had not yet returned. She was still unable to sit up; and Maurice was forced to relinquish all thought of quitting Saliente, though he felt the earth burn beneath his feet.
This persistent weakness began to astonish the old nurse. Her faith in herbs, gathered by the light of the moon, was considerably shaken.
Honest Bavois was the first to suggest the idea of consulting a physician whom he had found in this land of savages.
Yes; he had found a really skilful physician in the neighborhood, a man of superior ability. Attached at one time to the beautiful court of Prince Eugene, he had been obliged to flee from Milan, and had taken refuge in this secluded spot.
This physician was summoned, and promptly made his appearance. He was one of those men whose age it is impossible to determine. His past, whatever it might have been, had wrought deep furrows on his brow, and his glance was as keen and piercing as his lancet.
After visiting the sick-room, he drew Maurice aside.
“Is this young lady really your wife, Monsieur—Dubois?”
He hesitated so strangely over this name, Dubois, that Maurice felt his face crimson 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 to belong to a farmer. And when I spoke to this young lady of her husband, she blushed scarlet. The man who accompanies you has terrible mustaches for a farmer. 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 good would denial do?
He reflected that confession is sometimes the height of prudence, and that extreme confidence often meets with sympathy and protection; so, in a voice trembling with anxiety, he said:
“You are not mistaken, Monsieur. My friend and myself both are fugitives, undoubtedly condemned to death in France at this moment.”
And without giving the doctor time to respond, he narrated the terrible events that had happened at Sairmeuse, and the history of his unfortunate love-affair.
He omitted nothing. He neither concealed his own name nor that of Marie-Anne.
When his recital was completed, the physician pressed his hand.
“It is just as I supposed,” said he. “Believe me, Monsieur—Dubois, you must not tarry here. What I have discovered others will discover. And above all, do not warn the hotel-keeper of your departure. He has not been deceived by your explanation. Self-interest alone has kept his mouth closed. 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,” Maurice exclaimed; “have you considered the advice you offer me? How can I, a proscribed man—a man condemned to death perhaps—how can I obtain the necessary papers?”
The physician shook his head.
“Excuse me, 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?” Maurice exclaimed.
“Yes, if you can find a priest who will consent to your union, inscribe your name upon his parish register and give you a certificate, you will be so indissolubly united, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and you, that the court of Rome would never grant you a divorce.”
To suspect the truth of these affirmations was difficult, and yet Maurice doubted still.
“So, sir,” he said, hesitatingly, “in case I was able to find a priest——”
The physician was silent. One might have supposed he was blaming himself for meddling with matters that did not concern him.
Then, almost brusquely, he said:
“Listen to me attentively, Monsieur d’Escorval. I am about to take my leave, but before I go, I shall take occasion to recommend a good deal of exercise for the sick lady—I will do this before your host. Consequently, day after to-morrow, Wednesday, you will hire mules, and you, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and your old friend, the soldier, will leave the hotel as if going on a pleasure excursion. You will push on to Vigano, three leagues from here, where I live. I will take you to a priest, one of my friends; and he, upon my recommendation, will perform the marriage ceremony. Now reflect, shall I expect you on Wednesday?”
“Oh, yes, yes, Monsieur. How can I ever thank you?”
“By not thanking me at all. See, here is the innkeeper; you are Monsieur 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.
He did not speak to her on the subject, however, fearing something might occur to interfere with the project.
But the old physician had not given his word lightly, and everything took place as he had promised.
The priest at Vigano blessed the marriage of Maurice d’Escorval and of Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and after inscribing their names upon the church register, he gave them a certificate, upon which the physician and Corporal Bavois figured as witnesses.
That same evening the mules were sent back to Saliente, and the fugitives resumed their journey.
Abbe Midon had counselled them to reach Turin as quickly as possible.
“It is a large city,” he said; “you will be lost in the crowd. I have more than one friend there, whose name and address are upon this paper. Go to them, and in that way I will try to send you news of your father.”
So it was toward Turin that Maurice, Marie-Anne, and Corporal Bavois directed their steps.
But their progress was very slow, for they were obliged to avoid frequented roads, and renounce the ordinary modes of transportation.
The fatigue of travel, instead of exhausting Marie-Anne, seemed to revive her. After five or six days the color came back to her cheek and her strength returned.
“Fate seems to have relaxed her rigor,” said Maurice, one day. “Who knows what compensations the future may have in store for us!”
No, fate had not taken pity upon them; it was only a short respite granted by destiny. One lovely April morning the fugitives stopped for breakfast at an inn on the outskirts of a large city.
Maurice having finished his repast was just leaving the table to settle with the hostess, when a despairing cry arrested him.
Marie-Anne, deadly pale, and with eyes staring wildly at a paper which she held in her hand, exclaimed in frenzied tones:
“Here! Maurice! Look!”
It was a French journal about a fortnight old, which had probably been left there by some traveller.
Maurice seized it and read:
“Yesterday, Lacheneur, the leader of the revolt in Montaignac, was executed. The miserable mischief-maker exhibited upon the scaffold the audacity for which he has 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. The old soldier trembled at the thought that they might suspect him of being afraid.
But Maurice would not listen.
He shuddered. It seemed to him that Baron d’Escorval must have been discovered and arrested at the same time that Lacheneur was captured.
“Yes, let us start at once on our return!” he exclaimed.
They immediately procured a carriage 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 entreated her, with tears in his eyes, to conceal it.
“Our marriage certificate will not silence the evil disposed,” said he. “Let us keep our secret for the present. We shall doubtless remain in France only a few days.”
Unfortunately, Marie-Anne yielded.
“Since you wish it,” said she, “I will obey you. No one shall know it.”
The next day, which was the 14th of April, the fugitives at nightfall reached Father Poignot’s house.
Maurice and Corporal Bavois were disguised as peasants.
The old soldier had made one sacrifice that drew tears from his eyes; he had shaved off his mustache.