After the old physician of Vigano had left the Borderie with his
precious burden, Marie-Anne fell into a state of bitter despondency.
Many in her situation would perhaps have experienced a feeling of
relief, for had she not succeeded in concealing the outcome of her
frailty, which none, save perhaps the Abbe Midon, so much as suspected?
Hence, her despondency may at first sight seem to have been uncalled
for. But then, let it be remembered that the sublime instinct of
maternity had been awakened in her breast; and when she saw the
physician leave her, carrying away her child she felt as if her soul and
body were being rent asunder. When might she hope to set her eyes again
on this poor babe who was doubly dear to her by reason of the very
sorrow and anguish he had cost her? Ah, if it had not been for her
promise to Maurice, she would have braved public opinion and kept her
infant son at the Borderie. Had she not braved calumny already? She had
been accused of having three lovers. Chanlouineau, Martial, and Maurice.
The comments of the villagers had not affected her; but she had been
tortured, and was still tortured by the thought that these people didn’t
know the truth. Maurice was her husband, and yet she dare not proclaim
the fact; she was “Mademoiselle Lacheneur” to all around--a maiden--a
living lie. Surely such a situation accounted only too completely for
her despondency and distress. And when she thought of her brother she
positively shuddered with dismal apprehensions.
Having learnt that Jean was roving about the country she sent for him;
but it was not without considerable persuasion that he consented to come
and see her at the Borderie. A glance at his appearance sufficed to
explain all Chupin’s terror. The young fellow’s clothes were in tatters,
and the expression of his weather-stained, unshaven, unkempt face was
ferocious in the extreme. When he entered the cottage, Marie-Anne
recoiled with fear. She did not recognize him until he spoke. “It is I,
sister,” he said gloomily.
“What, you--my poor Jean! you!”
He surveyed himself from head to foot, and with a sneering laugh
retorted, “Well, really, I shouldn’t like to meet myself at dusk in the
forest.”
Marie-Anne fancied she could detect a threat behind this ironical
remark, and her apprehensions were painful in the extreme. “What a life
you must be leading, my poor brother!” she said after a brief pause.
“Why didn’t you come here sooner? Now, I have you here, I shall not let
you go. You will not desert me. I need protection and love so much. You
will remain with me?”
“That’s impossible, Marie-Anne.”
“And why?”
Jean averted his glance; his face coloured, and it was with evident
hesitation that he replied--”Because I’ve a right to dispose of my own
life, but not of yours. We can’t be anything to each other any longer. I
deny you to-day, so that you may be able to deny me to-morrow. Yes,
although you are now the only person on earth I love. I must and do
renounce you. Your worst enemies haven’t slandered you more foully than
I have done, for before numerous witnesses I have openly declared that I
would never set my foot inside a house given you by Chanlouineau.”
“What, you said that--you, Jean--you, my brother?”
“Yes, I said it, and with a purpose; for it must be supposed that there
is a deadly feud between us, so that neither you nor Maurice d’Escorval
may be accused of complicity in any deed of mine.”
Marie-Anne gazed at her brother wonderingly. “He is mad!” she murmured,
and then with a burst of energy, she added, “What do you mean to do?
Tell me; I must know.”
“Nothing! leave me to myself.”
“Jean!”
“Leave me to myself,” he repeated roughly.
Marie-Anne felt that her apprehensions were correct. “Take care, take
care,” she said entreatingly. “Do not tamper with such matters. God’s
justice will punish those who have wronged us.”
But nothing could move Jean Lacheneur, or divert him from his purpose.
With a hoarse, discordant laugh, he clapped his hand on his gun and
retorted, “That’s my justice!”
Marie-Anne almost tottered as she heard these words. She discerned in
her brother’s mind the same fixed, fatal idea which had lured her father
on to destruction--the idea for which he had sacrificed
everything--family, friends, fortune, and even his daughter’s honour,
the idea which had caused so much bloodshed, which had cost the lives of
so many innocent men, and had finally led him to the scaffold himself.
“Jean,” she murmured, “remember our father.”
The young fellow’s face turned livid; and instinctively he clenched his
fists. But the words he uttered were the more impressive as his voice
was calm and low. “It is just because I do remember my father that I am
determined justice shall be done. Ah! these wretched nobles wouldn’t
display such audacity if all sons had my will and determination. A
scoundrel like the Duke de Sairmeuse would hesitate before he attacked
an honest man if he were only obliged to say to himself: ‘If I wrong
this man, and even should I kill him, I cannot escape retributive
justice, for his children will surely call me to account. Their
vengeance will fall on me and mine; they will pursue us by day and
night, at all hours and in all seasons. We must ever fear their hatred
for they will be implacable and merciless. I shall never leave my house
without fear of a bullet; never lift food to my lips without dread of
poison. And until I and mine have succumbed, these avengers will prowl
round about our home threatening us at every moment with death,
dishonour, ruin, infamy, and misery!’” The young fellow paused, laughed
nervously, and then, in a still slower voice, he added: “That is what
the Sairmeuses and the Courtornieus have to expect from me.” It was
impossible to mistake the import of these words. Jean Lacheneur’s
threats were not the wild ravings of anger. His was a cold, deep-set
premeditated desire for vengeance which would last as long as he
lived--and he took good care that his sister should understand him, for
between his teeth he added: “Undoubtedly these people are very high, and
I am very low; but when a tiny insect pierces the root of a giant oak,
that tree is doomed.”
Marie-Anne realized that all her entreaties would fail to turn her
brother from his purpose, and yet she could not allow him to leave,
without making one more effort it was with clasped hands and in a
supplicating voice that she begged him to renounce his projects, but he
still remained obdurate, and when changing her tactics she asked him to
remain with her, at least that evening and share her frugal supper,
adding in trembling tones that it might be the last time they would see
each other for long years, he again repeated, “You ask me an
impossibility!” And yet he was visibly moved, and if his voice was
stern, a tear trembled in his eye. She was clinging to him imploringly,
when, yielding for one moment to the impulse of nature, he took her in
his arms and pressed her to his heart. “Poor sister--poor Marie-Anne,”
he said, “you will never know what it costs me to refuse your
supplications. But I cannot yield to them. I have been most imprudent in
coming here at all. You don’t realize the danger to which you may be
exposed if folks suspect that there is any connection between us. I
trust that you and Maurice may lead a calm and happy life. It would be a
crime for me to mix you up with my wild schemes. Think of me sometimes,
but don’t try to see me, or even to find out what has become of me. A
man like me struggles, triumphs, or perishes alone.” He kissed
Marie-Anne passionately, and freed himself from her detaining hands.
“Farewell!” he cried; “when you see me again, our father will be
avenged!”
Then with one bound he reached the door. She sprang out after him,
meaning to call him back, but he had already disappeared. “It is all
over,” murmured the wretched girl; “my brother is lost. Nothing will
restrain him now.” And a vague, inexplicable, dread invaded her heart.
She felt as if she were being slowly but surely drawn into a whirlpool
of passion, rancour, vengeance, and crime, and a voice whispered that
she would be crushed.
Some days had elapsed after this incident, when one evening, while she
was preparing her supper, she heard a rustling sound outside. She turned
and looked: some one had slipped a letter under the front door. Without
a moments hesitation, she raised the latch and courageously sprang out
on to the threshold. No one could be seen. The gloom was well nigh
impenetrable, and when she listened not a sound broke the stillness.
With a trembling hand she picked up the letter, walked towards the lamp
burning on her supper table, and looked at the address. “From the
Marquis de Sairmeuse!” she exclaimed, in amazement, as she recognized
Martial’s hand-writing. So he had written to her! He had dared to write
to her! Her first impulse was to burn the letter; and she was already
holding it over the stove, when she suddenly thought of her friends
concealed at Father Poignot’s farm. “For their sake,” she thought, “I
must read it, and see if they are threatened with danger.”
Then hastily opening the missive, she found that it was as follows: “My
dear Marie-Anne--Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has given an
entirely new and certainly surprising turn to events. Perhaps you have
also understood the motives that guided him. In that case I am amply
repaid for my efforts, for you can no longer refuse me your esteem. But
my work of reparation is not yet perfect. I have prepared everything for
a revision of the judgment that condemned the Baron d’Escorval to death,
or for having him pardoned. You must know where the baron is concealed.
Acquaint him with my plans and ascertain whether he prefers a revision
of judgment, or a simple pardon. If he wishes for a new trial, I will
give him a letter of licence from the king. I await your reply before
acting. MARTIAL DE SAIRMEUSE.”
Marie-Anne’s head whirled. This was the second time that Martial had
astonished her by the chivalrous spirit of his love. How noble the two
men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, had proved themselves
to be. One of them Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, had sought to
protect her from beyond the grave. The other, Martial de Sairmeuse had
sacrificed the connections and prejudices of his caste, and hazarded
with noble recklessness the political fortunes of his house, so as to
insure as far as possible her own happiness and that of those she loved.
And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Maurice
d’Escorval, had not given as much as a sign of life since he left her
five months before. But suddenly and without reason, Marie-Anne passed
from profound admiration to deep distrust. “What if Martial’s offer were
only a trap?” This was the suspicion that darted through her mind. “Ah!”
she thought, “the Marquis de Sairmeuse would be a hero if he were
sincere!” And she did not wish him to be a hero.
The result of her suspicions was that she hesitated five days before
repairing to the meeting place where Father Poignot usually awaited her.
When she did go, in lieu of the worthy farmer she found the Abbe Midon,
who had been greatly alarmed by her prolonged absence. It was night
time, but Marie-Anne, fortunately, knew Martial’s letter by heart. The
abbe made her repeat it twice, the second time very slowly, and when she
had concluded, he remarked: “This young man no doubt has the prejudices
of his rank and his education; but his heart is noble and generous.” And
when Marie-Anne disclosed her suspicions: “You are wrong, my child,” he
added, “the marquis is certainly sincere, and it would be unwise not to
take advantage of his generosity. Such, at least, is my opinion. Entrust
this letter to me. I will consult the baron, and to-morrow you shall
know our decision.”
Four and twenty hours later the abbe and Marie-Anne met again at the
same spot. “M. d’Escorval,” said the priest, “agrees with me that we
must trust ourselves to the Marquis de Sairmeuse. Only the baron, being
innocent, cannot, will not, accept a pardon. He demands a revision of
the iniquitous judgment which condemned him--in one word, a new trial.”
Marie-Anne had foreseen this determination, and yet she could not help
exclaiming: “What! M. d’Escorval means to give himself up to his
enemies! To risk his life on the chance of acquittal?” The priest nodded
assent, and then knowing that it was quite useless to attempt arguing
the point Marie-Anne submissively remarked: “In this case, I must ask
you for a rough draft of the letter I ought to write to the marquis.”
For a moment the priest did not reply. He evidently had some misgivings.
At last, summoning all his courage, he answered. “It would be better not
to write.”
“But----”
“It is not that I distrust the marquis, not by any means, but a letter
is dangerous; it doesn’t always reach the person it’s addressed to. You
must see M. de Sairmeuse.”
Marie-Anne recoiled. “Never! never!” she exclaimed.
The abbe did not seem surprised. “I understand your repugnance, my
child,” he said, gently; “your reputation has suffered greatly through
the marquis’s attentions. But duty calls, and this is not the time to
hesitate. You know that the baron is innocent, and you know, alas, that
your father’s mad enterprise has ruined him. You must, at least, make
this atoning sacrifice.” He then explained to her everything she would
have to say, and did not leave her until she had promised to see the
marquis in person.
It must not be supposed that Marie-Anne’s aversion to this interview was
due to the reason which the abbe assigned. Her reputation! Alas, she
knew that it was lost for ever. A fortnight before the prospect of such
a meeting would have in no wise disquieted her. Then, though she no
longer hated Martial, she thought of him with indifference, whereas
now---- Perhaps, in choosing the Croix d’Arcy for the rendezvous, she
hoped that this spot with its cruel memories would restore aversion to
her heart. As she walked along towards the meeting place, she said to
herself that no doubt Martial would wound her feelings by his usual tone
of careless gallantry. But in this she was mistaken. The young marquis
was greatly agitated, but he did not utter a word unconnected with the
purport of the meeting. It was only when the conference was over, and he
had consented to all the conditions suggested by the abbe, that he sadly
remarked: “We are friends, are we not?”
And in an almost inaudible voice she answered, “Yes.”
And that was all. He remounted his horse, which had been held by a
servant, and galloped off in the direction of Montaignac. Breathless,
with cheeks on fire, Marie-Anne watched him as bending low in the saddle
he urged his horse onward over the dusty highway, until at last a bend
and some projecting trees finally hid him from view. Then, all of a
sudden, she became as it were conscious of her thoughts. “Ah, wretched
woman that I am,” she exclaimed, “is it possible I could ever love any
other man than Maurice, my husband, the father of my child?”
Her voice was still trembling with emotion when she related the
particulars of the interview to the abbe. But he did not perceive her
trouble, his thoughts being busy with the baron’s interests. “I felt
sure,” said he, “that Martial would agree to our conditions. I was,
indeed, so certain that I even made every arrangement for the baron to
leave the farm. He will leave it to-morrow night and wait at your house
till we receive the letters of licence from the king. The heat and bad
ventilation of Poignot’s loft are certainly retarding his recovery. One
of Poignot’s boys will bring our baggage to-morrow evening, and at
eleven o’clock or so we will place M. d’Escorval in a vehicle and all
sup together at the Borderie.”
“Heaven comes to my aid!” murmured Marie-Anne as she walked home,
reflecting that now she would no longer be alone. With Madame d’Escorval
at her side to talk to her of Maurice, and the cheerful presence of her
other friends, she would soon be able to chase away those thoughts of
Martial, now haunting her.
When she awoke the next morning she was in better spirits than she had
been for months, and once, while putting her little house in order, she
was surprised to find herself singing at her work. Just as eight o’clock
in the evening was striking she heard a peculiar whistle. This was a
signal from the younger Poignot, who soon appeared laden with an
arm-chair for the sick man, the abbe’s medicine chest, and a bag of
books. They were all placed in the room upstairs--the room which
Chanlouineau had decorated at such cost, and which Marie-Anne now
intended for the baron. Young Poignot told her that he had several other
things to bring, and nearly an hour afterwards, fancying that he might
be overloaded, she ventured out to meet him. The night was very dark,
and as she hastened on, Marie-Anne failed to notice two figures stooping
behind a clump of lilac bushes in her little garden.