* * * * *
Maurice read this letter carefully, at times pausing with suppressed
emotion. After finishing its perusal he remained silent for a moment,
and then in a husky voice exclaimed: “You cannot refuse; it would be
wrong.” Then, fearing lest he might betray his feelings, he hastily left
the room. Chanlouineau’s words had evidently made a deep impression on
his mind. This noble peasant had saved their lives at the Croix d’Arcy,
he had wrested the Baron d’Escorval from the hands of the executioner,
and he had never allowed either a complaint or a reproach to escape his
lips. His abnegation had been sublime; and yet, as if what he had done
in life were not sufficient, he sought to protect the woman he loved,
even after he was dead. When Maurice recalled all that he and Marie-Anne
owed to Chanlouineau, he could not help reproaching himself with
inferiority and unworthiness. But, good heavens! what if this same
comparison should arise in Marie-Anne’s mind as well? How could he
compete with the memory of such nobility of soul and such
self-sacrifice? Ay, Chanlouineau was mistaken; one may, perhaps, be
jealous of the dead! However, Maurice took good care to conceal his
anxiety, and when he returned to Marie-Anne’s room his face was calm and
even cheerful.
Although, as we have seen, Marie-Anne had recovered the full possession
of her mental faculties, her strength had not yet returned. She was
almost unable to sit up; and Maurice had to relinquish all thought of
leaving Saliente for the present. The so-called Madame Dubois’
persistent weakness began to astonish the old nurse, and her faith in
herbs, gathered by moonlight, was considerably shaken. Fortunately,
however, Bavois had succeeded in finding a medical man in the
neighbourhood--a physician of great ability, who, after being at one
time attached to Prince Eugene Beauharnais’ vice-regal court at Milan
had, for political reasons, been forced to take refuge in this secluded
spot. The corporal’s discovery was a happy one, for in these days the
smaller towns and villages of Italy rarely possessed any other doctors
than some ignorant barber, who invariably treated all complaints with a
lancet and a stock of leeches. Bavois’ physician was at once summoned,
and he promptly made his appearance. He was a man of uncertain age, with
a furrowed brow and a keen and piercing glance. After visiting the
sick-room, he drew Maurice aside. “Is this young lady really your wife,
Monsieur--Dubois?” he asked, hesitating so strangely over this name,
Dubois, that Maurice’s face crimsoned 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 for a farmer’s. And when I spoke to
this young lady about her husband, she turned scarlet. The man who
accompanies you, moreover, has terrible moustaches for a farmer, and
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 was
the use of denial? At times it is only prudent to confess, and extreme
confidence often meets with sympathy and protection. He weighed these
considerations in his mind, and then in an anxious voice replied: “You
are not mistaken, monsieur. My friend and myself are both fugitives,
undoubtedly condemned to death in France by this time.” And then,
without giving the doctor an opportunity to respond, he briefly narrated
the terrible events that had recently happened at Sairmeuse. He neither
concealed his own name nor Marie-Anne’s, and when his recital was
completed, the physician, whom his confidence had plainly touched,
warmly shook his hand.
“It is just as I supposed,” said the medical man. “Believe me, Monsieur
Dubois, you must not tarry here. What I have discovered others will
discover as well. And, above everything, don’t warn the hotel-keeper of
your departure. He has not been deceived by your explanation.
Self-interest alone has kept his mouth shut. 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,” exclaimed Maurice, “have you considered the advice you offer
me? How can I, a proscribed man--a man condemned to death perhaps--how
can I obtain, how can I display the proofs of identity necessary for
marriage.”
“Excuse me,” observed the physician shaking his head, “but 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?” exclaimed Maurice.
“Yes, if you can find a consenting priest, when he has inscribed your
name on his parish register and given you a certificate, you will be so
undoubtedly married, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and yourself, that the court
of Rome would never grant you a divorce.”
“That may be,” said Maurice hesitatingly, “but how could I find a
priest----”
The physician was silent, and it might have been supposed he was blaming
himself for meddling with matters that did not concern him. Suddenly,
however, he abruptly said: “Listen to me attentively, Monsieur
d’Escorval. I am about to take my leave, but before I go, I shall find
occasion to recommend your wife to take as much exercise as possible--I
will do this in the landlord’s presence. Consequently, on the day after
to-morrow, Wednesday, you must hire mules, and you, Mademoiselle
Lacheneur and your old friend, the soldier, must start from the hotel as
if you were going on a pleasure excursion. You will push on to Vigano,
three leagues from here, where I live. Then I will take you to a priest,
one of my friends; and upon my recommendation, he will perform the
marriage ceremony. Now, reflect, shall I expect you on Wednesday?”
“Oh, yes, yes. How can I ever thank you sufficiently?”
“By not thanking me at all. See, here is the innkeeper; you are M.
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. However, he did not speak to her on the
matter, fearing lest something might occur to interfere with the
project. But the old physician had not spoken lightly, and everything
took place as he had promised. The priest at Vigano blessed the marriage
of Maurice d’Escorval and Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and after inscribing
their names upon the church register, he gave them a certificate, which
the physician and Corporal Bavois signed as witnesses. That same evening
the mules were sent back to Saliente, and the fugitives resumed their
journey. The Abbe Midon had advised them to reach Turin as quickly as
possible. “It is a large city,” he had said, when bidding them good-bye
near Father Poignot’s house, “you will be lost in the crowd. I have
several friends there, whose names and addresses are on this paper. Go
to them, for through them I will try to send you news of M. d’Escorval.”
So it was towards Turin that Maurice, Marie-Anne, and Corporal Bavois
directed their steps. Their progress was slow, however, for they were
obliged to avoid the more frequented roads, and renounce all ordinary
modes of transport. Still the fatigue of travel, instead of exhausting
Marie-Anne, seemed to revive her, and when five or six days had elapsed
the colour came back to her cheeks, and her strength had fully returned.
“Fate seems to have abandoned the pursuit,” said Maurice one day. “Who
knows but what the future may have many compensations in store for us!”
But he was mistaken. Fate far from forgetting them had merely granted
them a short respite. One April morning the fugitives stopped to
breakfast at an inn in the outskirts of a large town. Maurice had
finished eating, and was just leaving the table to settle with the
landlady, when Marie-Anne uttered a loud shriek and fell back on her
chair. She held in her hand a French newspaper about a fortnight old,
which she had found lying on the sideboard where some traveller had
probably left it. Maurice seized the print rapidly, and read as follows,
“Lacheneur, the leader of the revolt in Montaignac, was executed
yesterday. The miserable mischief-maker exhibited on the scaffold the
audacity for which he had 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 it is true, for the old soldier trembled at the
thought that they might suspect him of being afraid. But Maurice would
not listen. He shuddered. He did not know what had transpired since
their flight, but it seemed to him that the Baron d’Escorval must have
been discovered and re-arrested at the same time that Lacheneur was
captured. Accordingly they at once procured a vehicle 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 with tears in his eyes entreated her to conceal it.
“Our marriage certificate will not silence those who are disposed
against us,” said he. “Let us keep our secret for the present. No doubt
we shall only remain in France for a few days.” Unfortunately,
Marie-Anne yielded. “Since you wish it,” said she, “I will obey you. No
one shall know of it.”
It was the evening of the seventeenth of April, the same day that
Martial was married to Blanche, when the fugitives at last reached
Father Poignot’s house. Maurice and Corporal Bavois were disguised as
peasants and the old soldier had made a sacrifice that drew tears from
his eyes; he had shaved off his moustaches.