When the Abbe Midon and Martial de Sairmeuse held their conference, to
decide upon the arrangements for the Baron de Escorval’s escape, a
difficulty presented itself which threatened to break off the
negotiations. “Return my letter,” said Martial, “and I will save the
baron.”
“Save the baron,” replied the abbe, “and your letter shall be returned.”
The idea that any one should suppose him to be influenced by danger when
in reality he was only yielding to Marie-Anne’s tears, angered Martial
beyond endurance. “These are my last words, sir,” he retorted,
emphatically. “Give me the letter now, and I swear to you, by the honour
of my name, that I will do everything that is possible for any human
being to do to save the baron. If you distrust my word, good-evening.”
The situation was desperate, the danger imminent, the time limited, and
Martial’s tone betrayed an inflexible determination. The abbe could not
hesitate. He drew the letter from his pocket and handing it to Martial:
“Here it is, sir,” he said, solemnly, “remember that you have pledged
the honour of your name.”
“I will remember it, Monsieur le Cure. Go and obtain the ropes.”
Thus the abbe’s sorrow and amazement were intense, when, after the
baron’s terrible fall, Maurice declared that the cord had been cut
beforehand. And yet the priest could not make up his mind that Martial
was guilty of such execrable duplicity, which is rarely found in men
under twenty-five years of age. However, no one suspected the abbe’s
secret thoughts. It was with perfect composure that he dressed the
baron’s wounds and made arrangements for the flight, though not until he
saw M. d’Escorval installed in Poignot’s house did he breathe freely.
The fact that the baron had been able to endure the journey, proved that
he retained a power of vitality for which the priest had scarcely dared
to hope. Some way must now be discovered to procur the surgical
instruments and pharmaceutical remedies which the wounded man’s
condition would necessitate. But where and how could they be procured.
The police kept a close watch over all the medical men and druggists in
Montaignac, in hopes of discovering the wounded conspirators through one
or the other medium. However, the cure had for ten years acted as
physician and surgeon for the poor of his parish, and he possessed an
almost complete set of surgical instruments, and a well-filled medicine
chest. Accordingly at nightfall he put on a long blue blouse, concealed
his features under a large slouch hat, and wended his way towards
Sairmeuse. There was not a single light in the parsonage; Bibiane, the
old housekeeper, having gone out to gossip with some of the neighbours.
The priest effected an entrance into the house, by forcing the lock of
the garden door; he speedily found the things he wanted and was able to
retire without having been perceived. That night the abbe hazarded a
cruel but indispensable operation. His heart trembled, but although he
had never before attempted so difficult a task, the hand that held the
knife was firm. “It is not upon my weak powers that I rely,” he
murmured, “I have placed my trust in One who is on High.”
His faith was rewarded. Three days later the wounded man, after a
comfortable night, seemed to regain consciousness. His first glance was
for his devoted wife, who was sitting by the bedside; his first word was
for his son. “Maurice?” he asked.
“Is in safety,” replied the abbe. “He must be on the road to Turin.”
M. d’Escorval’s lips moved as if he were murmuring a prayer; then, in a
feeble voice: “We owe you a debt of gratitude which we can never pay,”
he murmured, “for I think I shall pull through.”
He did “pull through,” but not without terrible suffering, and not
without severe relapses that made those around him tremble with anxiety.
Jean Lacheneur was more fortunate, for he was on his legs by the end of
the week.
On the evening of the seventeenth of April the abbe was seated in the
loft reading a newspaper to the baron when suddenly the door was quietly
opened, and one of the Poignot boys looked into the room. He did not
speak, however, but merely gave the cure a glance, and then quickly
withdrew.
The priest finished the paragraph he was perusing, laid down the paper,
and went out on to the landing. “What’s the matter?” he inquired.
“Ah!” answered the young fellow, “M. Maurice, Mademoiselle Lacheneur,
and the old corporal have just arrived; they want to come upstairs.”
Three bounds and the abbe reached the ground floor. “You imprudent
children!” he exclaimed, addressing the three travellers, “what has
induced you to return here?” Then turning to Maurice: “Isn’t it enough
that your father has nearly died for you and through you? Are you so
anxious for his recapture, that you return here to set our enemies on
his track? Be off at once!”
Utterly abashed, it was as much as Maurice could do to falter his
excuses; uncertainty, he said, had seemed worse to him than death; he
had heard of M. Lacheneur’s execution; he had started off at once
without reflection and only asked to see his father and embrace his
mother before leaving again.
The priest was inflexible. “The slightest emotion might kill your
father,” he declared; “and I should cause your mother the greatest
anxiety if I told her of your return, and the dangers to which you have
foolishly exposed yourself. Come, go at once, and cross the frontier
again this very night.”
The scene had been witnessed by Jean Lacheneur, who now approached. “The
time has come for me to take _my_ leave,” said he, “I shall go with
Maurice. But I scarcely think that the highway’s the right place for my
sister. You would cap all your kindness, Monsieur le Cure, if you would
only persuade Father Poignot to let her remain here, and if you would
watch over her yourself.”
The abbe deliberated for a moment, and then hurriedly replied: “So be
it; but go at once; your name is not on the proscribed list. You will
not be pursued.”
Suddenly separated from his wife in this fashion, Maurice wished to
confer with her, to give her some parting advice; but the abbe did not
allow him an opportunity to do so. “Go, go at once,” he insisted.
“Farewell!”
The priest’s intentions were excellent, no doubt, but in point of fact
he was too hasty. At the very moment when Maurice stood sorely in need
of wise and temperate counsel he was handed over to Jean Lacheneur’s
pernicious influence. Scarcely were they outside the house, than the
latter remarked: “We have to thank the Sairmeuses and the Marquis de
Courtornieu for all this. I don’t even know where they have thrown my
father’s corpse. I, his son, was even debarred from embracing him before
he was traitorously murdered.” He spoke in a harsh, bitter voice,
laughing the while in a strange discordant fashion. “And yet,” he
continued, “if we climbed that hill we should be able to see the Chateau
de Sairmeuse brightly illuminated. They are celebrating the marriage of
Martial de Sairmeuse and Blanche de Courtornieu. We are friendless
outcasts, succourless and shelterless, but they are feasting and making
merry.”
Less than this would have sufficed to rekindle Maurice’s wrath. Yes,
these Sairmeuses and these Courtornieus had killed the elder Lacheneur,
and they had betrayed the Baron d’Escorval, and delivered him up--a
mangled corpse--to his suffering relatives. It would be a rightful
vengeance to disturb their merrymaking now, and in the midst of hundreds
of assembled guests denounce their cruelty and perfidy. “I will start at
once,” exclaimed Maurice, “I will challenge Martial in the presence of
the revellers.”
But Jean interrupted him. “No, don’t do that! The cowards would arrest
you. Write to the young marquis, and I will take your letter.”
Corporal Bavois, who heard the conversation, did not make the slightest
attempt to oppose this foolish enterprise. Indeed, he thought the
undertaking quite natural, under the circumstances, and esteemed his
young friends all the more for their rashness. They all three entered
the first wine shop they came across, and Maurice wrote the challenge
which was confided to Jean Lacheneur.
The only object which Jean had in view was to disturb the bridal ball at
the Chateau de Sairmeuse. He merely hoped to provoke a scandal which
would disgrace Martial and his relatives in the eyes of all their
friends; for he did not for one moment imagine that the young marquis
would accept Maurice’s challenge. While waiting for Martial in the hall
of the chateau, he sought to compose a fitting attitude, striving to
steel himself against the sneering scorn with which he expected the
young nobleman would receive him. Martial’s kindly greeting was so
unlooked for that Jean was at first quite disconcerted, and he did not
recover his assurance until he perceived how cruelly Maurice’s insulting
letter made the marquis suffer. When the latter seized him by the arm
and led him upstairs, he offered no resistance; and as they crossed the
brightly-lighted drawing-rooms and passed through the throng of
astonished guests, his surprise was so intense that he forgot both his
heavy shoes and peasant’s blouse. Breathless with anxiety, he wondered
what was coming. Then standing on the threshold of the little saloon
leading out of the grand hall he heard Martial read Maurice d’Escorval’s
letter aloud, and finally saw him frantic with passion, throw the
missive in his father-in-law’s face. It might have been supposed that
these incidents did not in the least affect Jean Lacheneur, who stood by
cold and unmoved, with compressed lips and downcast eyes. However,
appearances were deceitful, for in reality his heart throbbed with
exultation; and if he lowered his eyes, it was only to conceal the joy
that sparkled in them. He had not hoped for so prompt and so terrible a
revenge.
Nor was this all. After brutally pushing Blanche, his newly-wedded wife,
aside when she attempted to detain him, Martial again seized Jean
Lacheneur’s arm. “Now,” said he, “follow me!”
Jean still obeyed him without uttering a word. They again crossed the
grand hall, and on passing out into an ante-room, Martial took a candle
burning on a side table, and opened a little door leading to a private
staircase. “Where are you taking me?” inquired Jean.
Martial, in his haste, was already a third of the way up the flight.
“Are you afraid?” he asked, turning round.
The other shrugged his shoulders. “If you put it in that way, let us go
on,” he coldly replied.
They entered the room which Martial had occupied since taking possession
of the chateau. It was the same room that had once belonged to Jean
Lacheneur; and nothing in it had been changed. The whilom steward’s son
recognized the brightly-flowered curtains, the figures on the carpet,
and even an old arm-chair ensconced wherein he had read many a novel in
secret. Martial hastened to a small writing-desk, and drew therefrom a
folded paper which he slipped into his pocket. “Now,” said he, “let us
be off. We must avoid another scene. My father and my wife will be
looking for me. I will explain everything when we are outside.”
They hastily descended the staircase, passed through the gardens, and
soon reached the long avenue. Then Jean Lacheneur suddenly paused.
“After all,” said he, “it was scarcely necessary for me to wait so long
for a simple yes or no. Have you decided? What answer am I to give
Maurice d’Escorval?”
“None at all! You will take me to him. I must see him and speak with him
in order to justify myself. Let us proceed!”
But Jean did not move. “What you ask is impossible!” he replied.
“Why so?”
“Because Maurice is pursued. If he is captured, he will be tried and
undoubtedly condemned to death. He is now in a safe retreat, and I have
no right to disclose it.” In point of fact, Maurice’s safe retreat, for
the time being, was only a neighbouring wood, where, in the corporal’s
company, he was waiting for Jean’s return. But the latter could not
resist the temptation to make this insinuating remark, which by reason
of its covert character, was far more insulting than if he had simply
said: “We fear informers!”
Strange as it may appear, and proud and violent as was Martial’s nature,
he did not resent the insult. “So you distrust me!” he merely said. Jean
Lacheneur was silent--another insult. “And yet,” insisted Martial,
“after what you’ve just seen and heard you can’t possibly suspect me of
having cut the ropes I carried to the baron.”
“No! I’m convinced that _you_ didn’t do it.”
“You saw how I punished the man who had dared to compromise my honour.
And this man is the father of the girl I married to-day.”
“Oh, I saw and heard everything, but as for taking you to Maurice, I
must still reply: ‘Impossible.’”
No doubt the younger Lacheneur’s severity was unjust; however, Martial
did not rebel against it. He merely drew from his pocket the paper which
he had taken from his desk a few minutes previously, and handed it to
Jean. “You doubt my word,” he said grimly. “I shall not forget to punish
those whose fault it is. However, here is a proof of my sincerity which
I expect you to give to Maurice, and which must convince even you.”
“What proof is it?”
“Why, the very letter in exchange for which we facilitated the baron’s
escape. A presentiment I can’t explain prevented me from burning it, and
now I’m very glad I didn’t. Take it, and do what you choose with it.”
Any one but Jean Lacheneur would have appreciated the young marquis’s
candour, and have been touched by the confidence he displayed. But
Jean’s hatred was implacable, and the more humble his enemy showed
himself, the more determined he was to carry out the project of
vengeance maturing in his brain. His only reply to Martial’s last remark
was a promise to give the letter to Maurice.
“It should be a bond of alliance, it seems to me,” said Martial, gently.
“A bond of alliance!” rejoined Jean with a threatening gesture. “You are
too fast, Monsieur le Marquis! Have you forgotten all the blood that
flows between us? You didn’t cut the ropes; but who condemned the Baron
d’Escorval to death? Wasn’t it your father, the Duke de Sairmeuse? An
alliance! why, you must have forgotten that you and yours sent my father
to the scaffold! How have you rewarded the man whose honesty gave you
back a fortune? By murdering him and ruining his daughter’s reputation.”
“I offered my name and fortune to your sister.”
“I would have killed her with my own hand had she accepted your offer.
Take that as a proof that I don’t forget; and if any great disgrace ever
tarnishes the proud name of Sairmeuse, think of Jean Lacheneur. My hand
will be in it.” He was so frantic with passion that he forgot his usual
caution. However, after a great effort he re covered his
self-possession, and added in calmer tones “If you are so desirous of
seeing Maurice, be at La Reche to-morrow at noon. He will be there.”
With these words he turned abruptly aside, sprang over the fence
skirting the avenue, and vanished into the darkness.
“Jean,” cried Martial, in almost supplicating tones; “Jean, come
back--listen to me!” There was no reply. The young marquis stood
bewildered in the middle of the road; and little short of a miracle
prevented his being run over by a horseman galloping in the direction of
Montaignac. The latter’s shouts to get out of the way awakened him from
his dream, and as the cold night breeze fanned his forehead he was able
to collect his thoughts and judge his conduct. Ah, there was no denying
it. He, the professed sceptic, a man who, despite his youth, boasted of
his indifference and insensibility, had forgotten all self-control. He
had acted generously, no doubt, but after all he had created a terrible
scandal, all to no purpose. When Blanche, his wife, had accused
Marie-Anne of being the cause of his frenzy, she had not been entirely
wrong. For though Martial might regard all other opinions with disdain,
the thought that Marie-Anne despised him, and considered him a traitor
and a coward, had, in truth, made him perfectly frantic. It was for her
sake, that on the impulse of the moment he had resorted to such a
startling justification. And if he had begged Jean to lead him to
Maurice d’Escorval, it was because he hoped to find Marie-Anne not far
off, and to say to her, “Appearances were against me, but I am innocent;
and have proved it by unmasking the real culprit.” It was to Marie-Anne
that he wished Chanlouineau’s circular to be given, thinking that she,
at least, would be surprised at his generosity. And yet all his
expectations had been disappointed. “It will be the devil to arrange!”
he thought; “but nonsense! it will be forgotten in a month. The best way
is to face those gossips at once: I will return immediately.” He said:
“I will return,” in the most deliberate manner; but his courage grew
weaker at each successive step he took in the direction of the chateau.
The guests must have already left, and Martial concluded that he would
probably find himself alone with his young wife, his father and the
Marquis de Courtornieu, whose reproaches, tears, and threats he would be
obliged to encounter. “No,” muttered he. “After all, let them have a
night to calm themselves. I will not appear until to-morrow.”
But where should he sleep? He was in evening dress and bare-headed, and
the night was chilly. On reflection he recollected his father’s house at
Montaignac. “I shall find a bed there,” he thought, “servants, a fire,
and a change of clothing--and to-morrow, a horse to come back again.”
The walk was a long one, no doubt; however, in his present mood, this
circumstance did not displease him. The servant who came to open the
door when he knocked, was at first speechless with astonishment. “You,
Monsieur le Marquis!” he exclaimed at last.
“Yes, it’s I. Light a good fire in the drawing-room, and bring me a
change of clothes.” The valet obeyed, and soon Martial found himself
alone, stretched on a sofa in front of the blazing logs. “It would be a
good thing to sleep and forget my troubles,” he thought; and accordingly
he tried to do so, but it was almost dawn when at last he fell into a
feverish slumber.
He woke up again at nine o’clock, gave the necessary instructions for
breakfast, and was eating with a good appetite, when suddenly he
remembered his rendezvous with Maurice. He ordered a horse and set out
at once, reaching La Reche at half-past eleven o’clock. The others had
not yet arrived; so he fastened his horse by the bridle to a tree near
by, and leisurely climbed to the summit of the hill. It was here that
Lacheneur’s cottage had formerly stood, and the four walls still
remained standing, blackened by fire. Martial was gazing at the ruins,
not without a feeling of emotion, when he heard the branches crackle in
the adjacent cover. He turned, and perceived that Maurice, Jean, and
Corporal Bavois were approaching. The old soldier carried under his arm,
in a piece of green serge, a couple of swords which Jean Lacheneur had
borrowed from a retired officer at Montaignac during the night. “We are
sorry to have kept you waiting,” began Maurice, “but you will observe
that it is not yet noon. Since we scarcely expected to see you----”
“I was too anxious to justify myself not to be here early,” interrupted
Martial.
Maurice shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “This is not a question of
self-justification, but one of fighting,” he abruptly replied.
Insulting as were the words and the gesture that accompanied them,
Martial never so much as winced. “Grief has made you unjust,” said he,
gently, “or M. Lacheneur has not told you everything.”
“Yes, Jean has told me everything.”
“Well, then?”
Martial’s coolness drove Maurice frantic. “Well,” he replied, with
extreme violence, “my hatred is unabated even if my scorn is diminished.
I have waited for this occasion ever since the day we met on the square
at Sairmeuse in Mademoiselle Lacheneur’s presence. You said to me then,
‘We shall meet again.’ And now here we stand face to face. What insults
must I heap upon you to decide you to fight?”
With a threatening gesture Martial seized one of the swords which Bavois
offered him, and assumed an attitude of defence. “You will have it so,”
said he in a husky voice. “The thought of Marie-Anne can no longer save
you.”
But the blades had scarcely crossed before a cry from Jean arrested the
combat. “The soldiers!” he exclaimed; “we are betrayed.” A dozen
gendarmes were indeed approaching at full speed.
“Ah! I spoke the truth!” exclaimed Maurice. “The coward came, but the
guards accompanied him.” He bounded back, and breaking his sword over
his knee, hurled the fragments in Martial’s face. “Here, miserable
wretch!” he cried.
“Wretch!” repeated Jean and Corporal Bavois, “traitor! coward!” And then
they fled, leaving Martial literally thunderstruck.
He struggled hard to regain his composure. The soldiers were swiftly
approaching; he ran to meet them, and addressing the officer in command,
imperiously enquired, “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” replied the brigadier, respectfully, “you are the Duke de
Sairmeuse’s son.”
“Very well! I forbid you to follow those men.”
The brigadier hesitated at first; then, in a decided tone he replied: “I
can’t obey you, sir. I have my orders.” And turning to his men, he
added, “Forward!”
He was about to set the example, when Martial seized him by the arm: “At
least you will not refuse to tell me who sent you here?”
“Who sent us? The colonel, of course, in obedience to orders from the
grand provost, M. d’Courtornieu. He sent the order last night. We have
been hidden near here ever since daybreak. But thunder! let go your
hold, I must be off.”
He galloped away, and Martial, staggering like a drunken man, descended
the slope, and remounted his horse. But instead of repairing to the
Chateau of Sairmeuse, he returned to Montaignac, and passed the
remainder of the afternoon in the solitude of his own room. That evening
he sent two letters to Sairmeuse--one to his father, and the other to
his wife.