When the Baron d’Escorval divined the reason of his son’s frequent
absences from home, he studiously avoided speaking on the matter to his
wife; and, indeed, he did not even warn her of his purpose when he went
to ask the Abbe Midon to go with him to Lacheneur’s. This was the first
time that he had ever had a secret from the faithful partner of his
life; and his silence fully explains the intensity of Madame
d’Escorval’s astonishment when at dinner time Maurice was sometimes
late; but the baron, like all great workers, was punctuality itself.
Hence his non-arrival could only be due to some extraordinary
occurrence. Madame d’Escorval’s surprise developed into uneasiness when
she ascertained that her husband had started off in the Abbe Midon’s
company, that they had harnessed a horse to the cabriolet themselves,
driving through the stable-yard into a lane leading to the public road,
in lieu of passing through the court-yard in front of the house, as was
the usual practice. This strange precaution must necessarily conceal
some mystery.
Madame d’Escorval waited, oppressed by vague forebodings. The servants
shared her anxiety; for the baron’s affability and kindness had greatly
endeared him to all his dependants. Long hours passed by, but
eventually, at about ten o’clock in the evening, a peasant returning
from Sairmeuse passed by the chateau, and seeing the servants clustering
in front of the garden gate he stopped short, and with the loquacity of
a man who has just been sacrificing at the altar of Bacchus proceeded to
relate the most incredible stories. He declared that all the peasantry
for ten leagues around were under arms, and that the Baron d’Escorval
was the leader of a revolt organized for the restoration of the Empire.
He did not doubt the final success of the movement, boldly stating that
Napoleon II., Marie-Louise, and all the marshals were concealed in
Montaignac. Alas! it must be confessed that Lacheneur had not hesitated
to utter the grossest falsehoods in his anxiety to gain followers to his
cause. Madame d’Escorval, before whom this peasant was conducted, could
not be deceived by these ridiculous stories, but she could and did
believe that the baron was the prime mover in the insurrection. And this
belief, which would have carried consternation to many women’s hearts,
absolutely reassured her. She had entire, unlimited faith in her
husband. She believed him superior to all other men--infallible, in
short. Hence, if he had organized a movement, that movement was right.
If he had attempted it, it was because he expected to succeed; and if he
looked for success, to her mind it was certain.
Impatient, however, to know the result, she despatched the gardener to
Sairmeuse with orders to obtain information without awakening suspicion,
if possible, and to hasten back as soon as he could learn anything of a
positive nature. He returned shortly after midnight, pale, frightened,
and in tears. The disaster had already become known, and had been
described to him with any amount of exaggeration. He had been told that
hundreds of men had been killed, and that a whole army was scouring the
country, massacring the defenceless peasants and their families.
While he was telling his story, Madame d’Escorval felt as if she were
going mad. She saw--yes, positively, saw her son and her husband,
dead--or still worse, mortally wounded, stretched on the public
highway--lying with their arms crossed upon their breasts, livid,
bloody, their eyes staring wildly--begging for water--a drop of water to
assuage their burning thirst. “I will find them!” she exclaimed, in
frenzied accents. “I will go to the battlefield and seek for them among
the dead, until I find them. Light some torches, my friends, and come
with me, for you will aid me, will you not? You loved them; they were so
good! You would not leave their dead bodies unburied! Oh! the wretches!
The wretches who have killed them!”
The servants were hastening to obey when the furious gallop of a horse
and the rapid roll of carriage-wheels were heard. “Here they come!”
exclaimed the gardener, “here they come!”
Madame d’Escorval, followed by the servants, rushed to the gate just in
time to see a cabriolet enter the courtyard, and the panting horse,
flecked with foam, miss his footing, and fall. The Abbe Midon and
Maurice had already sprung to the ground and were removing an apparently
lifeless body from the vehicle. Even Marie-Anne’s great energy had not
been able to resist so many successive shocks. The last trial had
overwhelmed her. Once in the carriage, all immediate danger having
disappeared, the excitement which had sustained her fled. She became
unconscious, and all efforts had hitherto failed to restore her. Madame
d’Escorval, however, did not recognize Mademoiselle Lacheneur in her
masculine attire. She only saw that the body Maurice and the priest were
carrying was not her husband, and turning to her son exclaimed in a
stifled voice. “And your father--your father where is he?”
Until that moment, Maurice and the cure had comforted themselves with
the hope that M. d’Escorval would reach home before them. They were now
cruelly undeceived. Maurice tottered, and almost dropped his precious
burden. The abbe perceived his anguish and made a sign to two servants
who gently lifted Marie-Anne, and bore her to the house. Then turning to
Madame d’Escorval the cure exclaimed at hazard. “The baron will soon be
here, madame, he fled first--”
“The baron d’Escorval could not have fled,” she interrupted. “A general
does not desert when he is face to face with the enemy. If a panic
seizes his soldiers, he rushes to the front, and either leads them back
to combat, or sacrifices his own life.”
“Mother!” faltered Maurice; “mother!”
“Oh! do not try to deceive me. My husband was the organizer of this
conspiracy--If his confederates have been beaten and dispersed they must
have proved themselves cowards. Heaven have mercy upon me, my husband is
dead!”
In spite of the abbe’s quickness of perception, he could not understand
these assertions on the part of the baroness; and feared that sorrow and
terror had tampered with her mind. “Ah! madame,” he exclaimed, “the
baron had nothing to do with this movement: far from it--” He paused;
they were standing in the court-yard, in the full glare of the torches
lighted by the servants a moment previously. Any one passing along the
public road could hear and see everything; and in the present situation
such imprudence might have fatal results. “Come, Madame,” accordingly
resumed the priest, leading the baroness toward the house “and you
Maurice, come as well!”
Madame d’Escorval and her son passively obeyed the summons. The former
seemed crushed by unspeakable anguish, but on entering the drawing-room
she instinctively glanced at the seemingly lifeless form extended on the
sofa. This time she recognized Marie-Anne. “What, Mademoiselle
Lacheneur!” she faltered, “here in this costume? dead?”
One might indeed believe that the poor girl was dead, to see her lying
there rigid, cold, and as white as if the last drop of blood had been
drained from her veins. Her beautiful face had the motionless pallor of
marble; her half-open colourless lips disclosed her teeth, clenched
convulsively, and a large dark blue circle surrounded her closed
eyelids. Her long black hair, which she had rolled up closely, so as to
slip it under her peasant’s hat was now unwound, and fell confusedly
over the sofa and her shoulders.
“There is no danger,” declared the abbe, after he had examined her. “She
has only fainted, and it will not be long before she regains
consciousness.” And then, rapidly but clearly, he gave the necessary
directions to the servants, who were as astonished as their mistress.
“What a night!” murmured Madame d’Escorval, as staring on the scene
with dilated eyes she mechanically wiped her forehead, covered with cold
perspiration.
“I must remind you, madame,” said the priest sympathizingly, but firmly,
“that reason and duty alike forbid your yielding to despair! Wife, where
is your energy? Christian, what has become of your confidence in a just
and protecting providence!”
“Oh! I have courage left,” faltered the wretched woman. “I am brave!”
The abbe led her to a large arm-chair and compelled her to sit down.
Then in a gentler tone, he resumed: “Besides, why should you despair,
madame? Your son is with you in safety. Your husband has not compromised
himself; he has done nothing more than I have done myself.” And briefly,
but with rare precision, the priest explained the part which he and the
baron had played during this unfortunate evening.
Instead of reassuring the baroness, however, his recital seemed to
increase her anxiety. “I understand you,” she interrupted, “and I
believe you. But I also know that all the people in the country round
about are convinced that my husband commanded the rebels. They believe
it, and they will say it.”
“And what of that?”
“If he has been arrested, as you give me to understand may be the case,
he will be summoned before a court-martial. Was he not one of the
emperor’s friends? That alone is a crime, as you know very well
yourself. He will be convicted and sentenced to death.”
“No, madame, no! Am I not here? I will go to the tribunal, and say: ‘I
have seen and know everything.’”
“But they will arrest you as well, for you are not a priest after their
cruel hearts. They will throw you into prison, and you will meet him on
the scaffold.”
Maurice had been listening with a pale, haggard face. “Ah, I shall have
been the cause of the death of my father,” he exclaimed, as he heard
these last words, and then despite all the abbe’s attempts to silence
him, he continued. “Yes, I shall have killed him. He was ignorant even
of the existence of this conspiracy desired by Lacheneur; but I knew of
it, and wished to succeed, because on it the success, the happiness of
my life depended. And then--wretch that I was!--at times when I wished
to gain a waverer to our ranks, I mentioned the honoured name of
D’Escorval. Ah! I was mad!--I was mad! And yet, even now, I have not the
courage to curse my folly! Oh, mother, mother, if you knew----”
The young fellow paused, the sobs which convulsively rose in his throat,
choking all further utterances. Just then a faint moan was heard.
Marie-Anne was slowly regaining consciousness. She seemed intensely
puzzled by the scene around her, and passed her hands before her
wandering eyes as if to ascertain whether she were really awake or not.
At one moment she opened her mouth as if to speak, but the Abbe Midon
checked her with a hasty gesture. Maurice’s confession, and his mother’s
remarks had fully enlightened the priest as to the danger threatening
the D’Escorvals. How could it be averted? There was no time for
reflection. He must decide, and act at once. Accordingly he darted to
the door, and summoned the servants still clustering in the hall and on
the staircase. “Listen to me attentively,” said he, in that quick
imperious voice which unhesitatingly impresses the hearer with the
certainty of approaching peril, “and remember that your master’s life
depends, perhaps, upon your discretion. We can rely upon you, can we
not?”
Simultaneously the little group of dependents raised their hands, as if
to call upon heaven to witness their fidelity.
“In less than an hour,” continued the priest, “the soldiers sent in
pursuit of the fugitives will be here. Not a word must be said
concerning what has happened this evening. Whoever questions you must be
led to suppose that I went away with the baron, and returned alone. Not
one of you must have seen Mademoiselle Lacheneur. We are going to
conceal her. Remember, my friends that all is lost if the slightest
suspicion of her presence here is roused. Should the soldiers question
you, try and convince them that M. Maurice has not left the house this
evening.” The priest paused for a moment, trying to think if he had
forgotten any other precaution that human prudence could suggest; then
he added again. “One word more; to see you standing about at this hour
of the night will awaken suspicion at once. However, we must plead in
justification the alarm we feel at the baron’s prolonged absence.
Besides, Madame d’Escorval is ill and that will furnish another excuse.
She must go to bed at once, for by this means she may escape all
awkward questioning. As for you, Maurice, run and change your clothes;
and above all, wash your hands, and sprinkle some scent over them.”
Those who heard the abbe were so impressed with the imminence of the
danger, that they were more than willing to obey his orders. As soon as
Marie-Anne could be moved, she was carried to a tiny garret under the
roof; while Madame d’Escorval retired to her own room, and the servants
went back to the kitchen. Maurice and the abbe remained alone in the
drawing-room. They were both cruelly oppressed by anxiety, and shared
the opinion that the Baron d’Escorval had been made a prisoner. In that
event, the abbe Midon felt that all he could usefully attempt, was to
try and save Maurice from any charge of complicity. “And who knows,” he
muttered, “the son’s freedom may save the father’s life.”
At that moment, his meditations were interrupted by a violent pull at
the bell of the front gate. The gardener could be heard hastening to
answer the summons, the gate grated on its hinges, and then the measured
tread of soldiers resounded over the gravel. Half-a-minute later a loud
voice commanded: “Halt!”
The priest looked at Maurice and saw that he was as pale as death. “Be
calm,” he entreated, “don’t be alarmed. Don’t lose your
self-possession--and, above all, don’t forget my instructions.”
“Let them come,” replied Maurice. “I am prepared.”
Scarcely had he spoken than the drawing-room door was flung violently
open, and a captain of grenadiers entered the apartment. He was a young
fellow of five-and-twenty, tall, fair-haired, with blue eyes, and a
little, carefully waxed moustache. No doubt on ordinary occasions this
military dandy’s features wore the coxcomb’s usual look of
self-complacency, but for the time being he had a really ferocious air.
The soldiers by whom he was accompanied awaited his orders in the hall.
After glancing suspiciously round the apartment, he asked in a harsh
voice; “Who is the master of this house?”
“The Baron d’Escorval, my father, who is absent,” replied Maurice.
“Where is he?”
The abbe, who had hitherto remained seated, now rose to his feet. “On
hearing of the unfortunate outbreak of this evening,” he replied, “the
baron and myself went after the peasants in the hope of inducing them to
relinquish their foolish undertaking. They would not listen to us. In
the confusion that ensued, I became separated from the baron; I returned
here very anxious, and am now waiting for his return.”
The captain twisted his moustache with a sneering air. “Not a bad
invention!” said he. “Only I don’t believe a word of it.”
A threatening light gleamed in the priest’s eyes, and his lips trembled
for a moment. However, he prudently held his peace.
“Who are you?” rudely asked the officer.
“I am the cure of Sairmeuse.”
“Honest men ought to be in bed at this hour. And you are racing about
the country after rebellious peasants. Really, I don’t know what
prevents me from ordering your arrest.”
What did prevent him was the priestly robe, all powerful under the
Restoration. With Maurice, however, the swaggering swashbuckler was more
at ease. “How many are there in this family of yours?” he asked.
“Three; my father, my mother--ill at this moment--and myself.”
“And how many servants?”
“Seven--four men and three women.”
“You haven’t housed or concealed any one here this evening?”
“No one.”
“It will be necessary to prove that,” rejoined the captain; and turning
towards the door he called, “Corporal Bavois, step here!”
This corporal proved to be one of the old soldiers who had followed the
emperor all over Europe. Two tiny, but piercing grey eyes lighted his
tanned, weather-beaten face, and an immense hooked nose surmounted a
heavy, bristling moustache. “Bavois,” commanded the officer, “take half
a dozen men and search this house from top to bottom. You are an old
fox, and if there be any hiding-place here, you will be sure to discover
it. If you find any one concealed here, bring the person to me. Go, and
make haste!”
The corporal saluted and turned on his heels; while the captain walked
towards Maurice: “And now,” said he, “what have you been doing this
evening?”
The young man hesitated for a moment: then, with well-feigned
indifference, replied: “I have not put my head out of doors.”
“Hum! that must be proved. Let me see your hands.”
The soldier’s tone was so offensive that Maurice felt the blood rise to
his forehead. Fortunately a warning glance from the abbe made him
restrain himself. He offered his hands for inspection, and the captain,
after examining them carefully on either side, took the final precaution
to smell them. “Ah!” quoth he, “these hands are too white and smell too
sweet to have been dabbling with powder.”
At the same time he was somewhat surprised that this young man should
have so little courage as to remain by the fireside at home, while his
father was leading the peasants on to battle. “Another thing,” said he:
“you must have some weapons here?”
“Yes, a few hunting rifles.”
“Where are they?”
“In a small room on the ground floor.”
“Take me there.”
They conducted him to the room, and on finding that none of the guns had
been used, at least for some days, he seemed considerably annoyed. But
his disappointment reached a climax when Corporal Bavois returned and
stated that he had searched everywhere, without finding anything of a
suspicious character.
“Send for the servants,” was the officer’s next order; but all the
dependents faithfully confined themselves to the story indicated by the
abbe Midon, and the captain perceived that even if a mystery existed, as
he suspected, he was not likely to fathom it. Swearing that all the
inmates of the house should pay a heavy penalty if they were deceiving
him, he again called Bavois and told him that he should resume the
search himself. “You,” he added, “will remain here with two men, and I
shall expect you to render a strict account of all you see and hear. If
M. d’Escorval returns, bring him to me at once; do not allow him to
escape. Keep your eyes open and good luck to you!”
He added a few words in a low voice, and then left the room as abruptly
as he had entered it. Scarcely had the sound of his footsteps died away,
than the corporal gave vent to his disgust in a frightful oath.
“_Hein!_” said he, to his men, “did you hear that cadet. Listen, watch,
arrest, report. So he takes us for spies! Ah! if the Little Corporal
only knew how his old soldiers were degraded!”
The two men responded with sullen growls.
“As for you,” pursued the old trooper, addressing Maurice and the abbe,
“I Bavois, corporal of the grenadiers, declare in my own name and in
that of my comrades here, that you are as free as birds, and that we
shall arrest no one. More than that, if we can aid you in any way, we
are at your service. The little fool who commands us this evening
thought we were fighting. Look at my gun--I have not fired a shot from
it--and my comrades only fired blank cartridges.” The statement might
possibly be a sincere one, but was scarcely probable. “We have nothing
to conceal,” replied the cautious priest.
The old corporal gave a knowing wink. “Ah! you distrust me!” said he.
“You are wrong, as I’ll show you. It may be easy to gull that fool who
has just left here, but it’s not so easy to deceive Corporal Bavois. And
if you had intended to do so, you shouldn’t have left a gun in the
courtyard, which was certainly never loaded for firing at swallows.”
The cure and Maurice exchanged glances of consternation. Maurice now
recollected, for the first time, that on alighting from the cabriolet on
his return, he had hastily propped the loaded gun against the wall. The
weapon had subsequently escaped the servants’ notice.
“Secondly!” resumed Bavois, “there is some one concealed in the attic. I
have excellent ears. Thirdly, I arranged matters so that no one should
enter the sick lady’s room.”
Maurice needed no further proof. He held out his hand to the corporal,
and, in a voice trembling with emotion, replied: “You are a noble
fellow!”
A few moments later--the three grenadiers having retired to another
room, where they were served with supper--Maurice, the abbe, and Madame
d’Escorval were again deliberating concerning their future action, when
Marie-Anne entered the apartment with a pale face, but firm step. “I
must leave this house,” she said, to the baroness, in a tone of quiet
resolution. “Had I been conscious, I would never have accepted
hospitality which is likely to bring such misfortune on your family.
Your acquaintance with me has cost you too much sorrow already. Don’t
you understand now, why I wished you to look on us as strangers? A
presentiment told me that my family would prove fatal to yours!”
“Poor child!” exclaimed Madame d’Escorval; “where will you go?”
Marie-Anne raised her beautiful eyes to heaven. “I don’t know, madame,”
she replied, “but duty commands me to go. I must learn what has become
of my father and brother, and share their fate.”
“What!” exclaimed Maurice, “still this thought of death. You, who no
longer----” He paused; for a secret which was not his own had almost
escaped his lips. But visited by a sudden inspiration, he threw himself
at his mother’s feet. “Oh, my mother! my dearest mother, do not allow
her to go,” he cried. “I may perish in my attempt to save my father. She
will be your daughter then--she whom I have loved so dearly. She cannot
leave us. You will encircle her with your tender and protecting love;
and may be, after all these trials, happier times will come.”
Touched by her son’s despair, Madame d’Escorval turned to Marie-Anne,
and with her winning words soon prevailed upon her to remain.