XXVIII.

In the country, news flies from mouth to mouth with inconceivable

rapidity, and, strange as it may seem, the scene at the Chateau de

Sairmeuse was known of at Father Poignot’s farm-house that same night.

After Maurice, Jean Lacheneur, and Bavois left the farm, promising to

recross the frontier as quickly as possible the Abbe Midon decided not

to acquaint M. d’Escorval either with his son’s return, or Marie-Anne’s

presence in the house. The baron’s condition was so critical that the

merest trifle might turn the scale. At about ten o’clock he fell asleep,

and the abbe and Madame d’Escorval then went downstairs to talk with

Marie-Anne. They were sitting together when Poignot’s eldest son came

home in a state of great excitement. He had gone out after supper with

some of his acquaintances to admire the splendours of the Sairmeuse

_fete_, and he now came rushing back to relate the strange events of the

evening to his father’s guests. “It is inconceivable!” murmured the abbe

when the lad had finished his narrative. The worthy ecclesiastic fully

understood that these strange events would probably render their

situation more perilous than ever. “I cannot understand,” added he, “how

Maurice could commit such an act of folly after what I had just said to

him. The baron has no worse enemy than his own son.”

In the course of the following day the inmates of the farm heard of the

meeting at La Reche; a peasant who had witnessed the preliminaries of

the duel from a distance being able to give them the fullest details. He

had seen the two adversaries take their places, and had then perceived

the soldiers hasten to the spot. After a brief parley with the young

Marquis de Sairmeuse, they had started off in pursuit of Maurice, Jean,

and Bavois, fortunately, however, without overtaking them; for this

peasant had met the same troopers again five hours later, when they were

harassed and furious; the officer in command declaring that their

failure was due to Martial, who had detained them. That same day,

moreover, Father Poignot informed the abbe that the Duke de Sairmeuse

and the Marquis de Courtornieu were at variance. Their quarrel was the

talk of the district. The marquis had returned home with his daughter,

and the duke had gone to Montaignac. The abbe’s anxiety on receiving

this intelligence was so intense that, strive as he might, he could not

conceal it from the Baron d’Escorval. “You have heard some bad news, my

friend,” said the latter.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing.”

“Some new danger threatens us.”

“None, none at all.”

But the priest’s protestations did not convince the wounded man. “Oh,

don’t deny it!” he exclaimed. “On the night before last, when you came

into my room after I woke up, you were paler than death, and my wife had

certainly been crying. What does all this mean?” As a rule, when the

cure did not wish to reply to his patient’s questions, it sufficed to

tell him that conversation and excitement would retard his recovery; but

this time the baron was not so docile. “It will be very easy for you to

restore my peace of mind,” he continued. “Confess now, you are afraid

they may discover my retreat. This fear is torturing me also. Very well,

swear to me that you will not let them take me alive, and then my mind

will be at rest.”

“I can’t take such an oath as that,” said the cure, turning pale.

“And why not?” insisted M. d’Escorval. “If I am recaptured, what will

happen? They will nurse me, and then, as soon as I can stand on my feet,

they will shoot me down again. Would it be a crime to save me from such

suffering? You are my best friend; swear you will render me this supreme

service. Would you have me curse you for saving my life?”

The abbe offered no verbal reply; but his eye, voluntarily or

involuntarily, turned with a peculiar expression to the medicine chest

standing upon the table near by. Did he wish to be understood as saying:

“I will do nothing myself, but you will find a poison there?”

At all events M. d’Escorval understood him so; and it was in a tone of

gratitude that he murmured: “Thanks!” He breathed more freely now that

he felt he was master of his life, and from that hour his condition, so

long desperate, began steadily to improve.

Day after day passed by, and yet the abbe’s gloomy apprehensions were

not realised. Instead of fomenting reprisals, the scandal at the Chateau

de Sairmeuse, and the imprudent temerity of which Maurice and Jean

Lacheneur had been guilty, seemed actually to have frightened the

authorities into increased indulgence; and it might have been reasonably

supposed that they quite had forgotten, and wished every one else to

forget, all about Lacheneur’s conspiracy, and the slaughter which had

followed it. The inmates of the farm soon learnt that Maurice and his

friend the corporal had succeeded in reaching Piedmont; though nothing

was heard of Jean Lacheneur, who had probably remained in France.

However, his safety was scarcely to be feared for, as he was not upon

the proscribed list. Later on it was rumoured that the Marquis de

Courtornieu was ill, and that Blanche his daughter did not leave his

bedside; and then just afterwards Father Poignot returning from an

excursion to Montaignac, reported that the Duke de Sairmeuse had lately

passed a week in Paris, and that he was now on his way home with one

more decoration--a convincing proof that he was still in the enjoyment

of royal favour. What was of more importance was, that his grace had

succeeded in obtaining an order for the release of all the conspirators

still detained in prison. It was impossible to doubt this news which the

Montaignac papers formally chronicled on the following day. The abbe

attributed this sudden and happy change of prospects to the quarrel

between the duke and the Marquis de Courtornieu, and such indeed was the

universal opinion in the neighbourhood. Even the retired officers

remarked: “The duke is decidedly better than he was supposed to be; if

he was so severe, it is only because he was influenced by his colleague

the odious provost marshal.”

Marie-Anne alone suspected the truth. A secret presentiment told her

that it was Martial de Sairmeuse who was working all these changes, by

utilizing his ascendancy over his father’s mind. “And it is for your

sake,” whispered an inward voice, “that Martial is working in this

fashion. He cares nothing for the obscure peasant prisoners, whose names

he does not even know! If he protects them, it is only that he may have

a right to protect you, and those whom you love!” With these thoughts in

her mind she could but feel her aversion for Martial diminish. Was not

his conduct truly noble? She had to confess it was, and yet the thought

of this ardent passion which she had inspired never once quickened the

throbbing of Marie-Anne’s heart. Alas! it seemed as if nothing were

capable of touching her heart now. She was but the ghost of her former

self. She would sit for whole days motionless in her chair, her eyes

fixed upon vacancy, her lips contracted as if by a spasm, while great

tears rolled silently down her cheeks. The Abbe Midon, who was very

anxious on her account, often tried to question her. “You are suffering

my child,” he said kindly one afternoon. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing, Monsieur le Cure. I am not ill.”

“Won’t you confide in me? Am I not your friend? What do you fear?”

She shook her head sadly and replied: “I have nothing to confide.” She

said this, and yet she was dying of sorrow and anguish. Faithful to the

promise she had made to Maurice, she had never spoken of her condition,

or of the marriage solemnized in the little church at Vigano. And she

saw with inexpressible terror the moment, when she could no longer keep

her secret, slowly approaching. Her agony was frightful; but what could

she do! Fly! but where could she go? And by going, would she not lose

all chance of hearing from Maurice, which was the only hope that

sustained her in this trying hour? Still she had almost determined on

flight when circumstances--providentially, it seemed to her--came to her

aid.

Money was needed at the farm. The fugitives were unable to obtain any

without betraying their whereabouts, and Father Poignot’s little store

was almost exhausted. The Abbe Midon was wondering what they could do,

when Marie-Anne told him of the will which Chanlouineau had made in her

favour, and of the money concealed under the hearth-stone in the room on

the first floor. “I might go to the Borderie one night,” she suggested,

“enter the house, which is unoccupied, obtain the money and bring it

here. I have a right to do so, haven’t I?”

“You might be seen,” replied the priest, “and who knows--perhaps

arrested. If you were questioned, what plausible explanation could you

give?”

“What shall I do, then?”

“Act openly; you yourself are not compromised. You must appear at

Sairmeuse to-morrow as if you had just returned from Piedmont; go at

once to the notary, take possession of your property, and install

yourself at the Borderie.”

Marie-Anne shuddered. “What, live in Chanlouineau’s house,” she

faltered. “Live there alone?”

“Heaven will protect you, my dear child. I can only see an advantage in

your living at the Borderie. It will be easy to communicate with you;

and with ordinary precautions there can be no danger. Before you start

we will decide on a meeting place, and two or three times a week you can

join Father Poignot there. And in the course of two or three months you

can be still more useful to us. When people have grown accustomed to

your living at the Borderie, we will take the baron there. Such an

arrangement would hasten his convalescence; for in the narrow loft,

where we are obliged to conceal him now, he is really suffering for want

of light and air.”

Accordingly it was decided that Father Poignot should accompany

Marie-Anne to the frontier that very night; and that she should take the

diligence running between Piedmont and Montaignac, _via_ Sairmeuse.

Before she started, the Abbe Midon gave her minute instructions as to

the story she should tell of her sojourn in foreign lands. The

peasantry, possibly even the authorities, would question her, and all

her answers must tend to prove that the Baron d’Escorval was concealed

near Turin.

The plan was carried out as projected; and at eight o’clock on the

following morning, the people of Sairmeuse were greatly astonished to

see Marie-Anne alight from the passing diligence. “M. Lacheneur’s

daughter has come back again!” they exclaimed. The words flew from lip

to lip with marvellous rapidity, and soon all the villagers stood at

their doors and windows watching the poor girl as she paid the driver,

and entered the local hostelry, followed by a lad carrying a small

trunk. Urban curiosity has some sense of shame, and seeks to hide itself

when prying into other people’s affairs, but country folks are openly

and outrageously inquisitive. Thus when Marie-Anne emerged from the inn,

she found quite a crowd of sightseers awaiting her with gaping mouths

and staring eyes. And fully a score of chattering gossips thought fit to

escort her to the notary’s door. This notary was a man of importance,

and he welcomed Marie-Anne with all the deference due to the heiress of

a house and farm worth from forty to fifty thousand francs. However,

being jealous of his renown for perspicuity, he gave her clearly to

understand that, as a man of experience, he fully divined that love

alone had influenced Chanlouineau in drawing up this last will and

testament. He was no doubt anxious to obtain some information concerning

the young farmer’s passion, and Marie-Anne’s composure and reticence

disappointed him immensely.

“You forget what brings me here,” she said; “you don’t tell me what I

have to do!”

The notary, thus interrupted, made no further attempts at divination.

“Plague on it!” he thought, “she is in a hurry to get possession of her

property--the avaricious creature!” Then he added aloud, “The business

can be finished at once, for the magistrate is at liberty to-day, and

can go with us to break the seals this afternoon.”

So, before evening, all the legal requirements complied with, and

Marie-Anne was formally installed at the Borderie. She was alone in

Chanlouineau’s house, and as the darkness gathered round her, a great

terror seized hold of her heart. She fancied that the doors were about

to open, that this man who had loved her so much would suddenly appear

before her, and that she should hear his voice again as she heard it for

the last time in his grim prison cell. She struggled hard against these

foolish fears, and at last lighting a lamp she ventured to wander

through this house--now her’s--but wherein everything spoke so forcibly

of its former owner. She slowly examined the different rooms on the

ground floor, noting the recent repairs and improvements, and at last

climbed the stairs to the room above which Chanlouineau had designed to

be the altar of his love. Strange as it may seem, it was really

luxuriously upholstered--far more so than Chanlouineau’s letter had led

her to suppose. The young farmer, who for years had breakfasted off a

crust and an onion, had lavished a small fortune on this apartment,

which he meant to be his idol’s sanctuary.

“How he loved me!” murmured Marie-Anne, moved by that emotion, the bare

thought of which had awakened Maurice’s jealousy. But she had neither

the time nor the right to yield to her feelings. At that very moment

Father Poignot was no doubt waiting for her at the appointed meeting

place. Accordingly, she swiftly raised the hearth-stone, and found the

money which Chanlouineau had mentioned. She handed the larger part of it

to Poignot, who in his turn gave it to the abbe on reaching home.

The days that followed were peaceful ones for Marie-Anne, and this

tranquillity, after so many trials, seemed to her almost happiness.

Faithful to the priest’s instructions, she lived alone; but, by

frequent visits to Sairmeuse, she accustomed people to her presence.

Yes, she would have been almost happy if she could only have had some

news of Maurice. What had become of him! Why did he give no sign of

life? She would have given anything in exchange for one word of love and

counsel from him. Soon the time approached when she would require a

confidant; and yet there was no one in whom she dared confide. In her

dire need she at last remembered the old physician at Vigano, who had

been one of the witnesses at her marriage. She had no time to reflect

whether he would be willing or not; but wrote to him immediately,

entrusting her letter to a youth in the neighbourhood. “The gentleman

says you may rely upon him,” said the lad on his return. And that very

evening Marie-Anne was roused by a rap at her door. It was the

kind-hearted old man, who had hastened to her relief. He remained at the

Borderie nearly a fortnight, and when he left one morning before

daybreak, he took away with him under his cloak an infant--a little

boy--whom he had sworn to cherish as his own child.