One must have lived in the country to know with what inconceivable
rapidity news flies from mouth to mouth.
Strange as it may seem, the news of the scene at the chateau reached
Father Poignot’s farm-house that same evening.
It had not been three hours since Maurice, Jean Lacheneur and Bavois
left the house, promising to re-cross the frontier that same night.
Abbe Midon had decided to say nothing to M. d’Escorval of his son’s
return, and to conceal Marie-Anne’s presence in the house. The baron’s
condition was so critical that the merest trifle might turn the scale.
About ten o’clock the baron fell asleep, and the abbe and Mme.
d’Escorval went downstairs to talk with Marie-Anne. As they were sitting
there Poignot’s eldest son entered in a state of great excitement.
After supper he had gone with some of his acquaintances to admire
the splendors of the fete, 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.
He knew but too well, and the others comprehended it likewise, that
these strange events rendered their situation more perilous than ever.
“I cannot understand how Maurice could commit such an act of folly after
what I had just said to him. The baron’s most cruel enemy has been his
own son. We must wait until to-morrow before deciding upon anything.”
The next day they heard of the meeting at the Reche. A peasant who, from
a distance, had witnessed the preliminaries of the duel which had not
been fought, was able to give them the fullest details.
He had seen the two adversaries take their places, then the soldiers run
to the spot, and afterward pursue Maurice, Jean and Bavois.
But he was sure that the soldiers had not overtaken them. He had met
them five hours afterward, harassed and furious; and the officer in
charge of the expedition declared their failure to be the fault of the
Marquis de Sairmeuse, who had detained them.
That same day Father Poignot informed the abbe that the Duc de Sairmeuse
and the Marquis de Courtornieu were at variance. It was the talk of the
country. The marquis had returned to his chateau, accompanied by his
daughter, and the duke had gone to Montaignac.
The abbe’s anxiety on receiving this intelligence was so poignant that
he could not conceal it from Baron d’Escorval.
“You have heard something, my friend,” said the baron.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“Some new danger threatens us.”
“None, I swear it.”
The priest’s protestations did not convince the baron.
“Oh, do not deny it!” he exclaimed. “Night before last, when you entered
my room after I awoke, you were paler than death, and my wife had
certainly been crying. What does all this mean?”
Usually, when the cure did not wish to reply to the sick man’s
questions, it was sufficient 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 tranquillity,” he said.
“Confess now, that you are trembling lest they discover my retreat.
This fear is torturing me also. Very well, swear to me that you will not
allow them to take me alive, and then my mind will be at rest.”
“I cannot take such an oath as that,” said the cure, turning pale.
“And why?” insisted M. d’Escorval. “If I am recaptured, what will
happen? They will nurse me, and then, as soon as I can stand upon my
feet, they will shoot me down. Would it be a crime to save me from
such suffering? You are my best friend; swear to render me this supreme
service. Would you have me curse you for saving my life?”
The abbe made no response; but his eye, voluntarily or involuntarily,
turned with a peculiar expression to the box of medicine standing upon
the table near by.
Did he wish to be understood as saying:
“I will do nothing; but you will find a poison there.”
M. d’Escorval understood it in this way, for it was with an accent of
gratitude that he murmured:
“Thanks!”
Now that he felt that he was master of his life he breathed more freely.
From that moment his condition, so long desperate, began to improve.
“I can defy all my enemies from this hour,” he said, with a gayety which
certainly was not feigned.
Day after day passed and the abbe’s sinister apprehensions were not
realized; he, too, began to regain confidence.
Instead of causing an increase of severity, Maurice’s and Jean
Lacheneur’s frightful imprudence had been, as it were, the point of
departure for a universal indulgence.
One might reasonably have supposed that the authorities of Montaignac
had forgotten, and desired to have forgotten, if that were possible,
Lacheneur’s conspiracy, and the abominable slaughter for which it had
been made the pretext.
They soon heard at the farm that Maurice and the brave corporal had
succeeded in reaching Piedmont.
No allusion was made to Jean Lacheneur, so it was supposed that he had
not left the country; but they had no reason to fear for his safety,
since he was not upon the proscribed list.
Later, it was rumored that the Marquis de Courtornieu was ill, and that
Mme. Blanche did not leave his bedside.
Soon afterward, Father Poignot, on returning from Montaignac, reported
that the duke had just passed a week in Paris, and that he was now on
his way home with one more decoration--another proof of royal favor--and
that he had succeeded in obtaining an order for the release of all the
conspirators, who were now in prison.
It was impossible to doubt this intelligence, for the Montaignac papers
mentioned this fact, with all the circumstances on the following day.
The abbe attributed this sudden and happy change entirely to the rupture
between the duke and the marquis, and this was the universal opinion in
the neighborhood. Even the retired officers remarked:
“The duke is decidedly better than he is supposed to be, and if he has
been severe, it is only because he was influenced by that odious Marquis
de Courtornieu.”
Marie-Anne alone suspected the truth. A secret presentiment told her
that it was Martial de Sairmeuse who had shaken off his wonted apathy,
and was working these changes and using and abusing his ascendancy over
the mind of his father.
“And it is for your sake,” whispered an inward voice, “that Martial is
thus working. What does this careless egotist care for these obscure
peasants, 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 not but feel her aversion to
Martial diminish.
Was not such conduct truly heroic in a man whose dazzling offers she had
refused? Was there not real moral grandeur in the feeling that induced
Martial to reveal a secret which might ruin the political fortunes of
his house, rather than be suspected of an unworthy action? And still
the thought of this _grande passion_ which she had inspired in so truly
great a man never once made her heart quicken its throbbing.
Alas! nothing was capable of touching her heart now; nothing seemed to
reach her through the gloomy sadness that enveloped her.
She was but the ghost of the formerly beautiful and radiant Marie-Anne.
Her quick, alert tread had become slow and dragging, often she sat 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.
Abbe Midon, who was greatly disquieted on her account, often attempted
to question her.
“You are suffering, my child,” he said, kindly. “What is the matter?”
“I am not ill, Monsieur.”
“Why do you not 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 Maurice, she had said nothing of
her condition, or of the marriage solemnized in the little church at
Vigano. And she saw with inexpressible terror, the approach of
the moment when she could no longer keep her secret. Her agony was
frightful; but what could she do!
Fly? but where should 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?
She had almost determined on flight when circumstances--providentially,
it seemed to her--came to her aid.
Money was needed at the farm. The guests were unable to obtain any
without betraying their whereabouts, and Father Poignot’s little store
was almost exhausted.
Abbe Midon was wondering what they were to do, when Marie-Anne told him
of the will which Chanlouineau had made in her favor, and of the money
concealed beneath the hearth-stone in the best chamber.
“I might go to the Borderie at night,” suggested Marie-Anne, “enter the
house, which is unoccupied, obtain the money and bring it here. I have a
right to do so, have I not?”
But the priest did not approve this step.
“You might be seen,” said he, “and who knows--perhaps arrested. If you
were questioned, what plausible explanation could you give?”
“What shall I do, then?”
“Act openly; you are not compromised. Make your appearance in Sairmeuse
to-morrow as if you had just returned from Piedmont; go to the notary,
take possession of your property, and install yourself at the Borderie.”
Marie-Anne shuddered.
“Live in Chanlouineau’s house,” she faltered. “I alone!”
“Heaven will protect you, my dear child. I can see only advantages in
your installation at the Borderie. It will be easy to communicate with
you; and with ordinary precautions there can be no danger. Before your
departure we will decide upon a place of rendezvous, and two or three
times a week you can meet Father Poignot there. And, in the course of
two or three months you can be still more useful to us. When people have
become accustomed to your residence at the Borderie, we will take the
baron there. His convalescence will be much more rapid there, than here
in this cramped and narrow loft, where we are obliged to conceal him
now, and where he is really suffering for light and air.”
So it was decided that Father Poignot should accompany Marie-Anne to the
frontier that very night; there she would take the diligence that
ran between Piedmont and Montaignac, passing through the village of
Sairmeuse.
It was with the greatest care that the abbe dictated to Marie-Anne the
story she was to tell of her sojourn in foreign lands. All that she
said, and all her answers to questions must tend to prove that Baron
d’Escorval was concealed near Turin.
The plan was carried out in every particular; and the next day, about
eight o’clock, the people of Sairmeuse were greatly astonished to see
Marie-Anne alight from the diligence.
“Monsieur Lacheneur’s daughter has returned!”
The words flew from lip to lip with marvellous rapidity, and soon all
the inhabitants of the village were gathered at the doors and windows.
They saw the poor girl pay the driver, and enter the inn, followed by a
boy bearing a small trunk.
In the city, curiosity has some shame; it hides itself while it spies
into the affairs of its neighbors; but in the country it has no such
scruples.
When Marie-Anne emerged from the inn, she found a crowd awaiting her
with open mouths and staring eyes.
And more than twenty people making all sorts of comments, followed her
to the door of the notary.
He was a man of importance, this notary, and he welcomed Marie-Anne with
all the deference due an heiress of an unencumbered property, worth from
forty to fifty thousand francs.
But jealous of his renown for perspicuity, he gave her clearly to
understand that he, being a man of experience, had divined that love
alone had dictated Chanlouineau’s last will and testament.
Marie-Anne’s composure and resignation made him really angry.
“You forget what brings me here,” she said; “you do not tell me what I
have to do!”
The notary, thus interrupted, made no further attempts at consolation.
“_Pestet!_” he thought, “she is in a hurry to get possession of her
property--the avaricious creature!”
Then aloud:
“The business can be terminated at once, for the justice of the peace
is at liberty to-day, and he can go with us to break the seals this
afternoon.”
So, before evening, all the legal requirements were complied with, and
Marie-Anne was formally installed at the Borderie.
She was alone in Chanlouineau’s house--alone! Night came on and a great
terror seized her heart. It seemed to her that the doors were about to
open, that this man who had loved her so much would appear before her,
and that she would hear his voice as she heard it for the last time in
his grim prison-cell.
She fought against these foolish fears, lit a lamp, and went through
this house--now hers--in which everything spoke so forcibly of its
former owner.
Slowly she examined the different rooms on the lower floor, noting the
recent repairs which had been made and the conveniences which had been
added, and at last she ascended to that room above which Chanlouineau
had made the tabernacle of his passion.
Here, everything was magnificent, far more so than his words had led her
to suppose. The poor peasant who made his breakfast off a crust and a
bit of onion had lavished a small fortune on the decorations of this
apartment, designed as a sanctuary for his idol.
“How he loved me!” murmured Marie-Anne, moved by that emotion, the bare
thought of which had awakened the jealousy of Maurice.
But she had neither the time nor the right to yield to her feelings.
Father Poignot was doubtless, even then, awaiting her at the rendezvous.
She lifted the hearth-stone, and found the sum of money which
Chanlouineau had named.
The next morning, when he awoke, the abbe received the money.
Now, Marie-Anne could breathe freely; and this peace, after so many
trials and agitations, seemed to her almost happiness.
Faithful to the abbe’s instructions, she lived alone; but, by frequent
visits, she accustomed the people of the neighborhood to her presence.
Yes, she would have been almost happy, could she have had news of
Maurice. What had become of him? Why did he give no sign of life? What
would she not have given in exchange for some word of counsel and of
love from him?
The time was fast approaching when she would require a confidant; and
there was no one in whom she could confide.
In this hour of extremity, when she really felt that her reason was
failing her, she remembered the old physician at Vigano, who had been
one of the witnesses to her marriage.
“He would help me if I called upon him for aid,” she thought.
She had no time to temporize or to reflect; she wrote to him
immediately, giving the letter in charge of a youth in the neighborhood.
“The gentleman says you may rely upon him,” said the messenger on his
return.
That very evening Marie-Anne heard someone rap at her door. It was the
kind-hearted old man who had come to her relief.
He remained at the Borderie nearly a fortnight.
When he departed one morning, before daybreak, he took away with him
under his large cloak an infant--a boy--whom he had sworn to cherish as
his own child.