Essentially a woman in grace and beauty, as well as in devotion and
tenderness, Marie-Anne, as we have shown, was moreover capable of truly
virile bravery. Her energy and coolness during those trying days had
been the admiration and astonishment of all around her. But human
endurance has its limits, and after excessive efforts there invariably
comes a moment when the shrinking flesh fails the firmest will. Thus,
when Marie-Anne tried to resume her journey she found that her strength
was exhausted; her swollen feet and limbs scarcely supported her, her
head whirled, and she shivered feverishly. Maurice and the old soldier
were both obliged to support her, almost to carry her; but fortunately
they were not far from a village, as was evident from an old church
tower just discernible through the morning mist. Soon, however, they
distinguished several cottages, and with the prospect of speedy rest
before them they were hastening forward, when suddenly Bavois stopped
short, “A thousand thunderclaps!” he exclaimed; “why, I’m in uniform! It
would excite suspicion at once if I went into the village dressed like
this; before we had a chance to sit down, the Piedmontese gendarmes
would arrest us.” He reflected for a moment, twirling his moustache
furiously; then, in a tone that would have made a passer-by tremble, he
remarked, “All things are fair in love and war. The next person who
passes----”
“But I have money with me,” interrupted Maurice, unbuckling a belt
filled with gold, which he had put on under his clothing on the night of
the revolt.
“Eh! then we are fortunate!” cried Bavois. “Give me some, and I will
soon find a shop where I can purchase a change of clothing.”
He started; and it was not long before he re-appeared clad in peasant’s
garb, his thin weazened countenance well-nigh hidden by a large
broad-brimmed slouching hat. “Now, steady, forward, march!” he said to
Maurice and Marie-Anne, who scarcely recognized him in this disguise.
What they had taken to be a mere village proved to be almost a small
town, called Saliente, as they almost immediately afterwards ascertained
from a sign-post. The fourth house they met with was a hostelry, the
Traveller’s Rest. They went in, and at once asked the hostess to take
the young lady to a room, and to assist her in undressing. While these
instructions were being complied with, Maurice and the corporal
proceeded to the dining-room, and ordered something to eat. Refreshments
were served at once, but the glances cast upon the new arrivals were by
no means friendly. They were evidently regarded with suspicion. A tall
man, who was apparently the landlord, hovered round them, and at last
embraced a favourable opportunity to ask their names. “My name is
Dubois,” replied Maurice, without the slightest hesitation. “I am
travelling on business, and this man with me is a farmer of mine.”
The landlord seemed somewhat reassured by this reply. “And what is your
business?” he enquired.
“I have come into this land of inquisitive people to buy mules,” laughed
Maurice, striking his belt of money.
On hearing the jingle of the coin the landlord deferentially raised his
cap. Breeding mules was the chief industry of the district. This
would-be purchaser was very young, but he had a well-filled purse, and
that was enough. “You will excuse me,” resumed the landlord, in quite a
different tone. “You see, we are obliged to be very careful. There has
been some trouble at Montaignac.”
The imminence of the peril and the responsibility devolving upon him,
gave Maurice unusual assurance; and it was in the most careless,
off-hand manner possible that he concocted quite a plausible story to
explain his early arrival on foot with his wife, who had been taken
poorly on the way. 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’ rest would set
Marie-Anne right again. But they were both mistaken. She could not move,
but remained in a state of torpor from which it was impossible to rouse
her. When she was spoken to she made no reply, and it seemed very
doubtful whether she could even hear and understand. Fortunately the
landlord’s mother proved to be a good, kind-hearted old woman, who would
not leave the so-called Madame Dubois’s bed-side, but nursed her with
the greatest care during three long days, while Marie-Anne remained in
this strange and alarming condition. When at last she spoke, Maurice
could at first scarcely understand the import of her words. “Poor girl!”
she sighed; “poor, wretched girl!” In point of fact she was alluding to
herself. By a phenomenon which often manifests itself after a crisis in
which reason has been temporarily imperilled, it seemed to her that it
was some one else who had been the victim of all these misfortunes, the
recollection of which gradually returned to her like the memory of a
painful dream. What strange and terrible events had taken place since
that August Sunday when, on leaving church with her father, she first
heard of the Duke de Sairmeuse’s return to France. And that was only
nine months ago. What a difference between the past--when she lived
happy and envied in that beautiful Chateau de Sairmeuse, of which she
believed herself the mistress--and the present, 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 protectors than her
proscribed lover, and an old soldier--a deserter, whose life was in
constant peril. Hope, fortune, and future happiness, had all been
wrecked, and she had not even saved her honour. But was she alone
responsible? Who was it that had forced her to play that odious part
with Maurice, Martial, and Chanlouineau? As this last name darted
through her mind, she recalled with startling clearness all the
incidents of her last meeting with the young farmer. She saw him at her
feet in that dingy cell of the citadel at Montaignac; she felt his
first and only kiss upon her cheek, and remembered that he had given her
a second letter, saying as he did so: “You will read this when I am
dead.”
She might read it now, for he had already cruelly expiated his share in
her father’s enterprise. But then what had become of it? She had not
given it a thought till now; but at present, raising herself up in bed,
she exclaimed in an eager, imperious voice: “My dress, give me my
dress.”
The old nurse obeyed her, and Marie-Anne could not restrain an
exclamation of delight when, on examining the pocket, she found the
letter there. She opened it and read it slowly, then, sinking back on
her pillows, she burst into tears. Maurice hastily approached her. “What
is the matter?” he inquired anxiously. Her only reply was to hand him
the missive.
Chanlouineau, it should be remembered, was only a poor peasant. Scarcely
possessing the rudiments of education, as his letter (written on common
paper and closed with a huge wafer, specially purchased from a grocer in
Sairmeuse) evinced plainly enough. The heavy, laboured, distorted
characters, had evidently been traced by a man who was more at home when
guiding a plough than a pen. There was but one straight line, and every
third word, at least, was mis-spelt. And yet the thoughts expressed were
noble and generous, well worthy of the true heart that had beat in the
young farmer’s breast. “Marie-Anne,”--So the letter began. “The outbreak
is at hand, and whether it succeeds or fails, at all events, I shall
die. I decided that on the day when I learned that you could marry no
other man than Maurice d’Escorval. The conspiracy cannot succeed; and I
understand your father well enough to know that he will not survive
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, everything that I
possess: My house, the Borderie, with its gardens and vineyards, the
woodland and pastures of Berarde, and five lots of lands at Valrollier.
An inventory of this property, and of the other possessions I leave to
you is deposited with the notary at Sairmeuse. You can accept this
bequest without fear; for I have no relatives, and am at liberty to
dispose of my belongings as I please. If you do not wish to remain in
France, the property can be sold for at least forty thousand francs. But
it would, it seems to me, be better for you to remain in your own
province. The house on the Borderie is comfortable and convenient, for I
have had it thoroughly repaired. Upstairs you will find a room that has
been fitted up by the best upholsterer in Montaignac. I intended it for
you. Under the hearth-stone in this same room I have deposited 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 finish, 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, perhaps, you will be obliged to
ask his consent in order to accept my gift. I hope that he will not
refuse his permission. One is not jealous of the dead! Besides, he knows
well enough that you scarcely ever vouchsafed a glance to the poor
peasant who loved you so much. Do not be offended at anything I have
said, I am in such agony that I cannot weigh my words. Farewell,
Marie-Anne. Farewell for ever.