The ledge of rock on which the Baron d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois
rested on descending from the tower was not more than a yard and a half
across its widest part. It sloped down towards the edge of the
precipice, and its surface was so rugged and uneven that it was
considered very imprudent to stand there, even in the day-time. Thus it
will be understood that the task of lowering a man from this ledge, at
dead of night, was perilous in the extreme. Before allowing the baron to
descend, Bavois took every possible precaution to save himself from
being dragged over the verge of the precipice by his companion’s weight.
He fixed his crowbar firmly in a crevice of the rock, seated himself,
braced his feet against the bar, threw his shoulders well back, and then
feeling that his position was secure he bid the baron let himself down.
The sudden parting of the rope hurled the corporal against the tower
wall, and then he rebounded forward on his knees. For an instant he hung
suspended over the abyss, his hands clutching at the empty air. A hasty
movement, and he would have fallen. But he possessed a marvellous power
of will, and had faced danger so often in his life that he was able to
restrain himself. Prudently, but with determined energy, he screwed his
feet and knees into the crevices of the rock, feeling with his hands for
some point of support; then gradually sinking on to one side, he at last
succeeded in dragging himself from the verge of the precipice.
The effort had been a terrible one, his limbs were quite cramped, and he
was obliged to sit down and rest himself. He fully believed that the
baron had been killed by his fall, but this catastrophe did not produce
much effect upon the old soldier, who had seen so many comrades fall by
his side on fields of battle. What did amaze him, however, was the
breaking of the rope--a rope so thick that one would have supposed it
capable of sustaining the weight of ten men like the baron. It was too
dark to examine the fragment remaining in his possession, but on feeling
it at the lower end with his finger, the corporal was surprised to find
it quite smooth and even, not rough and ragged as is usual after a
break. “It must have been cut--yes cut nearly through,” exclaimed Bavois
with an oath. And at the same time a previous incident recurred to his
mind. “This,” thought he, “explains the noise which the poor baron heard
in the next room! And I said to him: ‘Nonsense! it is a rat!’”
With the view of verifying his conjectures, Bavois passed the cord round
about the crowbar and pulled at it with all his strength. It parted in
three places. The discovery appalled him. A part of the rope had fallen
with the baron, and it was evident that the remaining fragments even if
tied together would not be long enough to reach the base of the rock.
What was to be done? How could he escape? If he could not descend the
precipice he must remain on the ledge from which there was no other mode
of escape. “It’s all up, corporal,” he murmured to himself. “At daybreak
they will find the baron’s cell empty. They will poke their heads out of
the window, and see you here perched like a stone saint on his pedestal.
Of course you’ll be captured, tried, and condemned, and have to take
your turn in the ditches. Ready! Aim! Fire! That’ll be the end of your
story.”
He stopped short, for a vague idea had just entered his mind, which he
felt might lead to salvation. It had come to him in touching the rope
which he and the baron had used in their descent from the latter’s cell
to the rocky ledge, and which, firmly attached to the bars above hung
down the side of the tower. “If you had that rope which hangs there,
corporal,” said he, you could tie it to these bits, and then the cord
would be long enough to take you down the precipice. But how can one
obtain it? If one goes back after it, one can’t bring it down and come
down again ones’ self at the same time. He pondered for a moment and
then began talking to himself again. “Attention, corporal,” said he.
“You are going to knot the five pieces of rope you’ve got here together,
and you’re going to fasten them to your waist; next you’re going to
climb up to that window, hand over hand. Not an easy matter! A staircase
would be preferable. But no matter, you mustn’t be finical, corporal. So
you will climb up and find yourself in the cell again. What are you
going to do there? A mere nothing. You will unfasten the cord secured to
the window bars, you will tie it to this one 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, you will tie the two ends together, and
then the rope will be doubled. Next you must let yourself down here
again, and when you are here, you will only have to untie one of the
knots, and the rope will be 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, having successfully
accomplished the dangerous feat which he had planned. Not without a
terrible effort, however, not without torn and bleeding hands and knees.
Still he had succeeded in obtaining the rope, and now he was certain
that he could make his escape from his dangerous position. He was
chuckling gleefully at the prospect when suddenly he bethought himself
of M. d’Escorval whom he had forgotten first in his anxiety, and then in
his joy. “Poor baron,” murmured the corporal remorsefully. “I shall
succeed in saving my miserable life, for which no one cares, but I was
unable to save his. No doubt, by this time his friends have carried him
away.”
As he uttered these words he leant forward, and to his intense amazement
perceived a faint light moving here and there in the depths below. What
could have happened? Something extraordinary, that was evident; or else
intelligent men like the baron’s friends would never have displayed this
light, which, if noticed from the citadel, would betray their presence
and ruin them. However, the corporal’s time was 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 backwards to the verge of the precipice. The spirit was strong,
but the flesh shuddered. To march upon a battery had been a mere pastime
for him in days of imperial glory; but to face an unknown peril, to
suspend one’s life upon a cord, was a very 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 over the edge of the
precipice, and that the slightest movement would now launch him into
space. Still he did not hesitate, but allowed himself to glide on,
murmuring: “If there is a God who watches over honest people let Him
open His eyes this instant!”
Providence was watching; and Bavois arrived at the end of his dangerous
journey alive and safe. He fell like a mass of rock; and groaned aloud
when at last, after a swift flight through space, he sank heavily on to
the rugged soil below. For a minute he lay stunned and dizzy on the
ground. He was rising when he felt himself seized by either arm. “No
foolishness,” he cried quickly. “It is I, Bavois.”
But his captors did not loosen their hold. “How does it happen,” asked
one of them in a threatening tone, “that the Baron d’Escorval is
precipitated half way down the cliff, and that you alight in safety a
few moments later?”
The old soldier was too shrewd not to understand the import of this
insinuation; and the indignation he felt, gave him sufficient strength
to free himself with a violent jerk from his captor’s hand. “A thousand
thunderclaps!” he cried, “so I pass for a traitor, do I! No, it is
impossible, well, just listen to me.” Then rapidly, but with great
clearness, he recounted all the phases of his escape, his despair, his
perilous situation, and the almost insurmountable obstacles which he had
overcome. His tone was so sincere, the details he gave so
circumstantial, that his questioners--two of the retired officers who
had been waiting for the baron--at once held out their hands, sorry that
they had wounded the feelings of a man so worthy of their respect and
gratitude. “Forgive us, corporal,” said one of them sadly. “Misery makes
men suspicious and unjust, and we are very unhappy.”
“No offence,” he growled. “If I had trusted poor M. d’Escorval, he would
be alive now.”
“The baron still breathes,” observed one of the officers.
This was such astounding news that for a moment Bavois was utterly
confounded. “Ah! I will give my right hand, if necessary, to save him!”
he exclaimed, at last.
“If it is possible to save him, he will be saved, my friend. That worthy
priest whom you see there, is an excellent physician. He is examining M.
d’Escorval’s wounds at this moment. It was by his order that we procured
and lighted that candle, which may bring 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
only distinguish a confused group of moving figures. On stepping
forward, however, he perceived that Marie-Anne was holding a candle over
the baron who lay stretched upon the ground, his head reclining on his
wife’s knees. His face was not disfigured; but he was extremely pale,
and his eyes were closed at intervals. He shuddered, and then the blood
would trickle from his mouth. His clothing was hacked--literally hacked
to pieces; and it was easy to see that he had been frightfully mauled
and wounded. Kneeling beside the unconscious man, the Abbe Midon was
dexterously staunching the blood and applying bandages, torn from the
linen of those present. Maurice and one of the officers were assisting
him. “Ah! if I had my hands on the scoundrel who cut the rope,” cried
the corporal, with passionate indignation; “but patience. I shall have
him yet.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“Only too well!” He said no more. The abbe had done all it was possible
to do, and was now lifting the wounded man a little higher on Madame
d’Escorval’s knees. This change of position elicited a moan which
betrayed the baron’s intense sufferings. He opened his eyes and faltered
a few words--the first he had uttered. “Firmin!” he murmured, “Firmin!”
This was the name of his former secretary, a devoted helpmate who had
been dead for several years. It was evident that the baron’s mind was
wandering. Still he had some vague idea of his terrible situation, for
in a stifled, almost inaudible voice, he added: “Oh! how I suffer!
Firmin, I will not fall into the hands of the Marquis de Courtornieu
alive. I would rather kill myself.”
This was all; his eyes closed again, and his head fell back a dead
weight. The officers clustering round believed that he had expired, and
it was with poignant anxiety that they drew the abbe aside. “Is it all
over?” they asked. “Is there any hope?”
The priest shook his head sadly, and pointing to heaven: “My hope is in
God!” he said reverently.
The hour, the place, the catastrophe, the present danger, the
threatening future, all combined to impart solemnity to the priest’s few
words; and so profound was the impression that, for a moment, these men,
familiar with death and peril, stood in awed silence. Maurice, who
approached, followed by Corporal Bavois, brought them back to the
exigencies of the situation. “Ought we not to make haste and carry my
father away?” he asked. “Mustn’t we be in Piedmont before evening?”
“Yes!” exclaimed one of the officers, “let us start at once.”
But the priest did not move, and it was in a despondent voice that he
remarked: “Any attempt to carry M. d’Escorval across the frontier in his
present condition would cost him his life.”
This seemed so inevitably a death-warrant for them all, that they
shuddered. “My God! what shall we do?” faltered Maurice. “What course
shall we adopt?”
No one replied. It was clear that they hoped for salvation through the
priest alone. He was lost in thought, and it was some time before he
spoke. “About an hour’s walk from here,” he said, at last, “beyond the
Croix-d’Arcy, lives a peasant on whom I can rely. His name is Poignot;
and he was formerly in M. Lacheneur’s employ. With the assistance of his
three sons, he now tills quite a large farm. We must procure a litter
and carry M. d’Escorval to this honest peasant’s house.”
“What,” interrupted one of the officers, “you want us to procure a
litter at this hour of the night, and in this neighbourhood?”
“It must be done.”
“But won’t it awake suspicion?”
“Most assuredly.”
“The Montaignac police will follow us.”
“I am certain of it.”
“The baron will be recaptured?”
“No.” The abbe spoke in the tone of a man who, having assumed all the
responsibility, feels that he has a right to be obeyed. “When the baron
had been conveyed to Poignot’s house,” he continued, “one of you
gentlemen will take the wounded man’s place on the litter; the others
will carry him, and the party will remain together until you have
reached Piedmontese territory. Then you must separate and pretend to
conceal yourselves, but do it in such a way that you are seen
everywhere.”
The priest’s simple plan was readily understood. The royalist emissaries
must be thrown off the track; and at the very moment when it seemed to
them that the baron was in the mountains, he would be safe in Poignot’s
house.
“One word more,” added the cure. “The party which will accompany the
pretended baron must look as much like the people one would expect to
find with him, as possible. So Mademoiselle Lacheneur will go with you,
and Maurice also. Again, people know that I would not leave the baron;
and as my priestly robe would attract attention, one of you must assume
it. God will forgive the deception on account of its worthy motive.”
It was now necessary to procure the litter; and the officers were trying
to decide where they should go to obtain it, when Corporal Bavois
interrupted them. “Give yourselves no uneasiness,” he remarked; “I know
an inn not far from here where I can procure one.”
He started off on the run, and a few minutes later returned with a small
litter, a thin mattress, and a coverlid. He had thought of everything.
The baron was lifted carefully from the ground and placed on the
mattress--a long and difficult operation which, in spite of extreme
caution, provoked many terrible groans from the wounded man. When
everything was ready, each officer took an end of the litter, and the
little procession, headed by the abbe, started on its way. They were
obliged to proceed slowly as the least jolting increased the baron’s
sufferings. Still they made some progress, and by daybreak they were
about half way to Poignot’s house. They then chanced to meet some
peasants going to their daily toil. The latter paused to look at them,
and when the group had passed by stood gazing curiously after these
strange folks who were apparently carrying a dead body. However, these
meetings did not at all seem to worry the Abbe Midon. At all events, he
made no attempt to avoid them. At last they came in sight of Poignot’s
cottage. There was a little grove not far from the house, and here the
party halted, the priest bidding his companions conceal themselves while
he went forward to reconnoitre and confer with the man upon whose
decision the safety of the whole party depended.
As the priest approached the house, a short, slim peasant with grey hair
and a sunburnt face emerged from the stable. This was Father Poignot
himself. “What! is this you, Monsieur le Cure!” he exclaimed,
delightedly. “Heavens! how pleased my wife will be. We have a great
favour to ask of you----” And then, without giving the abbe an
opportunity to open his lips, the farmer began to relate his
perplexities. The night of the revolt he had given shelter to a poor
fellow who had received an ugly swordthrust. Neither his wife nor
himself knew how to dress the wound, and he did not dare to send for a
doctor. “And this wounded man,” he added, “is Jean Lacheneur, my old
employer’s son.”
This recital made the priest feel very anxious. This peasant had already
given an asylum to one wounded conspirator, but would he consent to
receive another? He could not say, but his voice trembled as he
presented his petition. The farmer turned very pale and shook his head
gravely more than once, while the priest was speaking. When the abbe had
finished, he coldly asked: “Do you know, sir, that I incur a great risk
by converting my house into a hospital for these rebels?” The abbe dared
not answer. “They told me,” continued Father Poignot, “that I was a
coward, because I would not join in the revolt. Such was not my opinion.
Now, however, I choose to shelter these wounded men. In my opinion, it
requires quite as much courage to do that as to go and fight.”
“Ah! you are a brave fellow!” cried the abbe.
“Never mind about that, but bring M. d’Escorval here. There is no one
but my wife and boys, and they won’t betray him!”
The offer was at once accepted, and half-an-hour later the baron was
lying in a small loft, where Jean Lacheneur was already installed. From
the window, the Abbe Midon and Madame d’Escorval watched the little
party, organized for the purpose of deceiving the Duke de Sairmeuse’s
spies, as it moved rapidly away. Corporal Bavois, with his head bound up
with blood-stained linen, had taken the baron’s place on the litter
carried by the retired officers. These latter only knew the baron by
name and reputation. But then he was the friend of their former
ruler--the friend of that great captain whom they had made their idol,
and they rejoiced with all their hearts when they saw him reposing under
Father Poignot’s roof in comparative security. After this, there was the
task of misleading the government emissaries, and they took various
skilful precautions, not knowing that they were quite unnecessary.
Public sentiment had declared itself in an unmistakable manner, and the
police did not ascertain a single detail of the escape. They did not
even hear of the little party that travelled nearly three leagues in the
full light of day, bearing a wounded man upon a litter. Among the two
thousand peasants who believed that this wounded man was the Baron
d’Escorval, there was not one who turned informer, or made an indiscreet
remark.
The fugitives were ignorant of this willing connivance, and on
approaching the frontier, which they had heard was strictly guarded,
they became extremely cautious. They waited until nightfall before
presenting themselves at a lonely inn, where they hoped to procure a
guide to lead them through the mountain passes. Sad news awaited them
there, for the inn-keeper informed them of the executions that had taken
place that day at Montaignac, giving the particulars as he had heard
them from an eye witness. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he knew nothing
of M. d’Escorval’s flight or of M. Lacheneur’s arrest. But he was well
acquainted with Chanlouineau, and was quite inconsolable concerning the
death of that “handsome young fellow, the best farmer in the country.”
Finding this man’s views so favourable, the officers, who had left the
litter a short distance from the inn, decided to confide in him, at
least in some degree. “We are carrying one of our wounded comrades,”
they said. “Can you guide us across the frontier to-night?”
The inn-keeper replied that he would do so willingly, that he could
promise to take them safely past the military posts; but that he could
not think of starting before the moon rose. At midnight the fugitives
were on their way; and at daybreak they set foot on the territory of
Piedmont. They had dismissed their guide some time before. They now
proceeded to break the litter in pieces; and handful by handful cast the
wool of the mattress to the wind.
“Our task is accomplished,” said one of the officers to Maurice. “We
will now return to France. May God protect you! Farewell!”
It was with tears in his eyes that Maurice parted from these brave
fellows who had proved so instrumental in saving his father’s life. Now
he was the sole protector of Marie-Anne, who, pale and overcome with
fatigue and emotion trembled on his arm. But no--for Corporal Bavois
still lingered by his side. “And you, my friend,” he asked, sadly, “what
are you going to do?”
“Follow you,” replied the old soldier. “I have a right to a home with
you; that was agreed between your father and myself! so don’t hurry, for
the young lady does not seem well, and I can see a village only a short
distance off.”