It will be recollected that of all those who witnessed the Baron
d’Escorval’s terrible fall over the precipice below the citadel of
Montaignac, the Abbe Midon was the only one who did not despair. He set
about his task with more than courage, with a reverent faith in the
protection of providence, remembering Ambroise Pare’s sublime phrase--”I
dress the wound--God heals it.” That he was right to hope was
conclusively shown by the fact that after six months sojourn in Father
Poignot’s house, the baron was able to sit up and even to limp about
with the aid of crutches. On reaching this stage of recovery, however,
when it was essential he should take some little exercise, he was
seriously inconvenienced by the diminutive proportions of Poignot’s
loft, so that he welcomed with intense delight the prospect of taking up
his abode at the Borderie with Marie-Anne; and when indeed the abbe
fixed the day for moving, he grew as impatient for it to arrive, as a
schoolboy is for the holidays. “I am suffocating here,” he said to his
wife, “literally suffocating. The time passes so slowly. When will the
happy day come!”
It came at last. The morning was spent in packing up such things as they
had managed to procure, during their stay at the farm; and soon after
nightfall Poignot’s elder son began carrying them away. “Everything is
at the Borderie,” said the honest fellow, on returning from his last
trip, “and Mademoiselle Lacheneur bids the baron bring a good appetite.”
“I shall have one, never fear!” responded M. d’Escorval gaily. “We shall
all have one.”
Father Poignot himself was busy harnessing his best horse to the cart
which was to convey the baron to his new home. The worthy man felt sad
as he thought that these guests, for whose sake he had incurred such
danger, were now going to leave him. He felt he should acutely miss
them, that the house would seem gloomy and deserted after they had left.
He would allow no one else to arrange the mattress intended for M.
d’Escorval comfortably in the cart; and when he had done this to his
satisfaction, he murmured, with a sigh, “It’s time to start!” and turned
to climb the narrow staircase leading to the loft.
M. d’Escorval with a patient’s natural egotism had not thought of the
parting. But when he saw the honest farmer, coming to bid him good-bye,
with signs of deep emotion on his face, he forgot all the comforts that
awaited him at the Borderie, in the remembrance of the royal and
courageous hospitality he had received in the house he was about to
leave. The tears sprang to his eyes. “You have rendered me a service
which nothing can repay, Father Poignot,” he said, with intense feeling.
“You have saved my life.”
“Oh! we won’t talk of that, baron. In my place, you would have done the
same--neither more nor less.”
“I shall not attempt to express my thanks, but I hope to live long
enough to show my gratitude.”
The staircase was so narrow that they had considerable difficulty in
carrying the baron down; but finally they had him stretched comfortably
on his mattress in the cart; a few handfuls of straw being scattered
over his limbs so as to hide him from the gaze of any inquisitive
passers-by. The latter was scarcely to be expected it is true, for it
was now fully eleven o’clock at night. Parting greetings were exchanged,
and then the cart which young Poignot drove with the utmost caution
started slowly on its way.
On foot, some twenty paces in the rear came Madame d’Escorval, leaning
on the abbe’s arm. It was very dark, but even if they had been in the
full sunshine, the former cure of Sairmeuse might have encountered any
of his old parishioners without the least danger of detection. He had
allowed his hair and beard to grow; his tonsure had entirely
disappeared, and his sedentary life had caused him to become much
stouter. He was clad like all the well-to-do peasants of the
neighbourhood, his face being partially hidden by a large slouch hat. He
had not felt so much at ease for months past. Obstacles which had
originally seemed to him insurmountable, had now vanished, and in the
near future he saw the baron’s innocence proclaimed by an impartial
tribunal, while he himself was re-installed in the parsonage of
Sairmeuse. If it had not been for his recollection of Maurice he would
have had nothing to trouble his mind. Why had young d’Escorval given no
sign of life? It seemed impossible for him to have met with any
misfortune without hearing of it, for there was brave old Corporal
Bavois who would have risked anything to come and warn them, if Maurice
had been in danger. The abbe was so absorbed in these reflections, that
he did not notice Madame d’Escorval was leaning more heavily on his arm
and gradually slackening her pace. “I am ashamed to confess it,” she
said at last, “but I can go no farther. It is so long since I was out
of doors, that I have almost forgotten how to walk.”
“Fortunately we are almost there,” replied the priest; and indeed a
moment afterwards young Poignot drew up at the corner of the foot-path
leading to the Borderie. Telling the baron that the journey was ended he
gave a low whistle, like that which had warned Marie-Anne of his arrival
a few hours before. No one appeared or replied, so he whistled again, in
a louder key, and then a third time with all his might--still there was
no response. Madame d’Escorval and the abbe had now overtaken the cart,
“It’s very strange that Marie-Anne doesn’t hear me,” remarked young
Poignot, turning to them. “We can’t take the baron to the house until we
have seen her. She knows that very well. Shall I run up and warn her?”
“She’s asleep, perhaps,” replied the abbe; “stay with your horse, my
boy, and I’ll go and wake her.”
He certainly did not feel the least uneasiness. All was calm and still
outside, and a bright light shone through the windows of the upper
floor. Still, when he perceived the open door, a vague presentiment of
evil stirred his heart. “What can this mean?” he thought. There was no
light in the lower rooms, and he had to feel for the staircase with his
hands. At last he found it and went up. Another open door was in front
of him; he stepped forward and reached the threshold. Then, so suddenly
that he almost fell backward--he paused horror-stricken at the sight
before him. Poor Marie-Anne was lying on the floor. Her eyes, which were
wide open, were covered with a white film; her tongue was hanging black
and swollen from her mouth. “Dead!” faltered the priest; “dead!” But
this could not be. The abbe conquered his weakness, and approaching the
poor girl, he took her by the hand. It was icy cold; and her arm was as
rigid as iron. “Poisoned!” he murmured: “poisoned with arsenic.” He rose
to his feet, and was casting a bewildered glance around the room, when
his eyes fell on his medicine chest, standing open on a side-table. He
rushed towards it, took out a vial, uncorked it, and turned it over on
the palm of his hand--it was empty. “I was not mistaken!” he exclaimed.
But he had no time to lose in conjectures. The first thing to be done
was to induce the baron to return to the farm-house without telling him
of the terrible misfortune which had occurred. It would not be very
difficult to find a pretext. Summoning all his courage the priest
hastened back to the waggon, and with well-affected calmness told M.
d’Escorval that it would be impossible for him to take up his abode at
the Borderie at present, that several suspicious-looking characters had
been seen prowling about, and that they must be more prudent than ever
now, so as not to render Martial’s intervention useless. At last, but
not without considerable reluctance, the baron yielded. “As you desire
it, cure,” he sighed, “I must obey. Come, Poignot, my boy, drive me back
to your father’s house.”
Madame d’Escorval took a seat in her cart beside her husband. The priest
stood watching them as they drove off, and it was not until the sound of
the wheels had died away in the distance that he ventured to return to
the Borderie. He was climbing the stairs again when he heard a faint
moan in the room where Marie-Anne was lying. The sound sent all his
blood wildly rushing to his heart, and with one bound he had reached the
upper floor. Beside the corpse a young man was kneeling, weeping
bitterly. The expression of his face, his attitude, his sobs betrayed
the wildest despair. He was so lost in grief that he did not observe the
abbe’s entrance. Who was this mourner who had found his way to the house
of death? At last, however, though he did not recognize him, the priest
divined who he must be. “Jean!” he cried, “Jean Lacheneur!” The young
fellow sprang to his feet with a pale face and threatening look. “Who
are you?” he asked vehemently. “What are you doing here? What do you
want with me?”
The former cure of Sairmeuse was so effectually disguised by his peasant
dress and long beard, that he had to name himself. “You, Monsieur abbe,”
exclaimed Jean. “It is God who has sent you here! Marie-Anne cannot be
dead! You, who have saved so many others, will save her.” But as the
priest sadly pointed to heaven, the young fellow paused, and his face
became most ghastly looking than before. He understood now that there
was no hope. “Ah!” he murmured in a desponding tone, “fate shows us no
mercy. I have been watching over Marie-Anne, from a distance; and this
evening I was coming to warn her to be cautious, for I knew she was in
great danger. An hour ago, while I was eating my supper in a wine-shop
at Sairmeuse, Grollet’s son came in. ‘Is that you, Jean?’ said he. ‘I
just saw Chupin hiding near your sister’s house; when he observed me he
slunk away.’ When I heard that, I hastened here like a crazy man. I ran,
but when fate is against you, what can you do? I arrived too late!”
The abbe reflected for a moment. “Then you suppose it was Chupin?” he
asked.
“I don’t suppose; I feel certain that it was he--the miserable
traitor!--who committed this foul deed.”
“Still, what motive could he have had?”
With a discordant laugh that almost seemed a yell, Jean answered: “Oh,
you may be certain that the daughter’s blood will yield him a richer
reward than did the father’s. Chupin has been the instrument; but it was
not he who conceived the crime. You will have to seek higher for the
culprit, much higher, in the finest chateau of the country, in the midst
of an army of retainers at Sairmeuse.”
“Wretched man, what do you mean?”
“What I say.” And he coldly added: “Martial de Sairmeuse is the
assassin.”
The priest recoiled. “You are mad!” he said severely.
But Jean gravely shook his head. “If I seem so to you, sir,” he replied,
“it is only because you are ignorant of Martial’s wild passion for
Marie-Anne. He wanted to make her his mistress. She had the audacity to
refuse the honour; and that was a crime for which she must be punished.
When the Marquis de Sairmeuse became convinced that Lacheneur’s daughter
would never be his, he poisoned her that she might not belong to any one
else.” All efforts to convince Jean of the folly of his accusations
would at that moment have been vain. No proofs would have convinced him.
He would have closed his eyes to all evidence.
“To-morrow, when he is more calm, I will reason with him,” thought the
abbe; and then he added aloud: “We can’t allow the poor girl’s body to
remain here on the floor. Help me, and we will place it on the bed.”
Jean trembled from head to foot, and his hesitation was perceptible; but
at last, after a severe struggle, he complied. No one had ever yet slept
on this bed which Chanlouineau had destined for Marie-Anne, saying to
himself that it should be for her, or for no one. And Marie-Anne it was
who rested there the first--sleeping the sleep of death. When the sad
task was accomplished, Jean threw himself into the same arm-chair in
which Marie-Anne had breathed her last, and with his face buried in his
hands, and his elbows resting on his knees, he sat there as silent and
motionless as the statues of sorrow placed above the last resting places
of the dead.
In the meanwhile, the abbe knelt by the bed-side, and began reciting the
prayers for the departed, entreating God to grant peace and happiness in
heaven to her who had suffered so much on earth. But he prayed only with
his lips, for in spite of all his efforts, his mind would persist in
wandering. He was striving to solve the mystery that enshrouded
Marie-Anne’s death. Had she been murdered? Was it possible that she had
committed suicide? The latter idea occurred to him without his having
any great faith in it; but, on the other hand, how could her death
possibly be the result of crime? He had carefully examined the room, and
had discovered nothing that betrayed a stranger’s visit. All he could
prove was that his vial of arsenic was empty, and that Marie-Anne had
been poisoned by absorbing it in the broth a few drops of which were
left in the bowl standing on the mantelpiece. “When morning comes,”
thought the abbe, “I will look outside.”
Accordingly, at daybreak he went into the garden, and made a careful
examination of the premises. At first he saw nothing that gave him the
least clue, and he was about to abandon his investigations, when on
entering the little grove, he espied a large dark stain on the grass a
few paces off. He went nearer--it was blood! In a state of great
excitement, he summoned Jean to inform him of the discovery.
“Some one has been murdered here,” said young Lacheneur; “and only last
night, for the blood has scarcely had time to dry.”
“The victim must have lost a great deal of blood,” remarked the priest;
“it might be possible to discover who he was by following these stains.”
“Yes, I will try,” replied Jean with alacrity. “Go into the house, sir;
I will soon be back again.”
A child might have followed the trail of the wounded man, for the blood
stains left along his line of route were so frequent and distinct. These
tell-tale marks led to Chupin’s hovel, the door of which was closed.
Jean rapped, however, without the slightest hesitation, and when the old
poacher’s eldest son opened the door, he perceived a very singular
spectacle. The dead body had been thrown on to the ground, in a corner
of the hut, the bedstead was overturned and broken, all the straw had
been torn from the mattress, and the dead man’s wife and sons armed with
spades and pick-axes were wildly overturning the beaten soil that formed
the hovel’s only floor. They were seeking for the hidden treasure, for
the 20,000 francs in gold, paid for Lacheneur’s betrayal! “What do you
want?” asked the widow, roughly.
“I want to see Father Chupin.”
“Can’t you see that he’s been murdered,” replied one of the sons. And
brandishing his pick close to Jean’s head, he added: “And you’re the
murderer, perhaps. But that’s for justice to determine. Now, decamp; if
you don’t want me to do for you.”
Jean could scarcely restrain himself from punishing young Chupin for his
threat, but under the circumstances a conflict was scarcely permissible.
Accordingly, he turned without another word hastened back to the
Borderie. Chupin’s death upset all his plans, and greatly irritated him.
“I swore that the wretch who betrayed my father should perish by my
hand,” he murmured; “and now I am deprived of my vengeance. Some one has
cheated me out of it. Who could it be? Can Martial have assassinated
Chupin after he murdered Marie-Anne? The best way to assure one’s self
of an accomplice’s silence is certainly to kill him.”
Jean had reached the Borderie, and was on the point of going up-stairs,
when he fancied he heard some one talking in the back room. “That’s
strange,” he said to himself. “Who can it be?” And yielding to the
impulse of curiosity, he tapped against the communicating door.
The abbe instantly made his appearance, hurriedly closing the door
behind him. He was very pale and agitated.
“Who’s there?” inquired Jean, eagerly.
“Why, Maurice d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois.”
“My God!”
“And it’s a miracle that Maurice has not been up stairs.”
“But whence does he come from? Why have we had no news of him?”
“I don’t know. He has only been here five minutes. Poor boy! after I
told him his father was safe, his first words were: ‘And Marie-Anne!’ He
loves her more devotedly than ever. He comes home with his heart full of
her, confident and hopeful; and I tremble--I fear to tell him the
truth.”
“Yes, it’s really too terrible!”
“Now I have warned you; be prudent--and come in.” They entered the room
together; and both Maurice and the old soldier greeted Jean warmly. They
had not seen one another since the duel at La Reche, interrupted by the
arrival of the soldiers; and when they separated that day they scarcely
expected to meet again.
Now Maurice, however, was in the best of spirits, and it was with a
smile on his face that he remarked: “I am glad you’ve come. There’s
nothing to fear now.” Then turning to the abbe, he remarked: “But I just
promised to let you know the reason of my long silence. Three days after
we crossed the frontier--Corporal Bavois and I--we reached Turin. We
were tired out. We went to a small inn, and they gave us a room with two
beds. While we were undressing, the corporal said to me: ‘I am quite
capable of sleeping two whole days without waking,’ while I promised
myself at least a good twelve hours’ rest; but we reckoned without our
host, as you’ll see. It was scarcely daybreak when we were suddenly woke
up. There were a dozen men in our room, one or two of them in some
official costume. They spoke to us in Italian, and ordered us to dress
ourselves. They were so numerous that resistance was useless, so we
obeyed; and an hour after we were both in prison, confined in the same
cell. You may well imagine what our thoughts were. The corporal remarked
to me, in that cool way of his: ‘It will require four days to obtain our
extradition, and three days to take us back to Montaignac--that’s seven,
then there’ll be one day more to try us, so we’ve in all just eight days
to live.’ Bavois said that at least a hundred times during the first
five or six days of our confinement, but five months passed by, and
every night we went to bed expecting they’d come for us on the following
morning. But they didn’t come. We were kindly treated. They did not take
away my money; and they willingly sold us various little luxuries. We
were allowed two hours of exercise every day in the courtyard, and the
keepers even lent us several books to read. In short, I shouldn’t have
had any particular cause for complaint, if I had only been allowed to
receive or to forward letters, or if I had been able to communicate with
my father or Marie-Anne. But we were in the secret cells, and were not
allowed to have any intercourse with the other prisoners. At length our
detention seemed so strange and became so insupportable that we resolved
to obtain some explanation of it at any cost. We changed our tactics. We
had hitherto been quiet and submissive: but now we became as violent and
unmanageable as possible. The whole prison resounded with our cries and
protestations; we were continually sending for the superintendent, and
claiming the intervention of the French ambassador. These proceedings at
last had the desired effect. One fine afternoon the governor of the jail
released us, not without expressing his regret at being deprived of the
society of such amiable and charming guests. Our first act, as you may
suppose, was to hasten to the ambassador. We didn’t see that dignitary,
but his secretary received us. He knit his brows when I told my story,
and became excessively grave. I remember each word of his reply. ‘Sir,’
said he, ‘I can assure you most positively that any proceedings
instituted against you in France have had nothing whatever to do with
your detention here.’ And I expressed my astonishment frankly. ‘One
moment,’ he added, ‘I will give you my opinion. One of your enemies--I
leave you to discover which--must exert a powerful influence in Turin.
You were in his way, perhaps, and he had you imprisoned by the
Piedmontese police.”
Jean Lacheneur struck the table beside him with his clenched fist. “Ah!
the secretary was right!” he exclaimed. “Maurice, it was Martial de
Sairmeuse who caused your arrest----”
“Or the Marquis de Courtornieu,” interrupted the abbe, with a warning
glance at Jean.
In a moment Maurice’s eyes gleamed brilliantly, then, shrugging his
shoulders carelessly, he said, “Never mind; I don’t wish to trouble
myself any more about the past. My father is well again--that is the
main thing. We can easily find some way of getting him safely across the
frontier. And then Marie-Anne and I--we will tend him so devotedly that
he will soon forget it was my rashness that almost cost him his life. He
is so good, so indulgent for the faults of others. We will go and reside
in Italy or Switzerland, and you shall accompany us, Monsieur the Abbe,
and you as well, Jean. As for you, corporal, it’s already decided that
you belong to our family.”
While Maurice spoke in this fashion, so hopefully, so confidently, Jean
and the abbe, realising the bitter truth, sought to avert their faces;
but they could not conceal their agitation from young D’Escorval’s
searching glance. “What is the matter?” he asked, with evident surprise.
They trembled, hung their heads, but did not say a word. Maurice’s
astonishment changed to a vague, inexpressible fear. He enumerated all
the misfortunes which could possibly have befallen him.
“What has happened?” he asked in a husky voice. “My father is safe is he
not? You said that my mother would want nothing more, if I were only by
her side again. Is it Marie-Anne then----” He hesitated.
“Courage, Maurice,” murmured the abbe. “Courage!”
The young fellow tottered as if he were about to fall. He had turned
intensely pale. “Marie-Anne is dead!” he exclaimed.
Jean and the abbe were silent.
“Dead!” repeated Maurice; “and no secret voice warned me! Dead! When?”
“She died only last night,” replied Jean.
Maurice rose. “Last night?” said he. “In that case, then, she is still
here. Where?--upstairs?” And without waiting for a reply, he darted
toward the staircase so quickly that neither Jean nor the abbe had time
to intercept him. With three bounds he reached the room above; he walked
straight to the bed, and with a firm hand turned back the sheet that hid
his loved one’s face. But at the same moment he recoiled with a
heart-broken cry. What! was this the beautiful, the radiant
Marie-Anne--she whom he had loved so fervently! He did not recognize
her. He could not recognize these distorted features--that swollen,
discoloured face--these eyes, now almost hidden by the purple swelling
round them. When Jean and the priest entered the room they found him
standing with his head thrown back, his eyes dilated with terror, his
right arm rigidly extended toward the corpse. “Maurice,” said the
priest, gently, “be calm. Courage!”
The young fellow turned with an expression of complete bewilderment upon
his features. “Yes,” he faltered; “that is what I need--courage!” He
staggered as he spoke, and they were obliged to support him to an
arm-chair.
“Be a man,” continued the priest. “Where is your energy? To live is to
suffer.”
He listened, but did not seem to understand. “Live!” he murmured; “why
should I live since she is dead?”
His eyes gleamed so strangely that the abbe was alarmed. “If he does not
weep, he will most certainly lose his reason!” thought the priest. Then
in a commanding voice he added aloud, “You have no right to despair; you
owe a sacred duty to your child.”
The same remembrance which had given Marie-Anne strength to hold even
death itself at bay for a moment, saved Maurice from the dangerous
trance into which he was sinking. He shuddered as if he had received an
electric shock, and springing from his chair, “That is true,” he cried.
“Take me to my child!”
“Not just now, Maurice; wait a little.”
“Where is it? Tell me where it is.”
“I cannot; I do not know.”
An expression of unspeakable anguish stole over Maurice’s face, and in a
broken voice he said: “What! you don’t know? Did she not confide in
you?”
“No. I suspected her secret. I, alone----”
“You, alone! Then the child is perhaps dead. Even if it is living, who
can tell where it is?”
“We shall no doubt find a clue.”
“You are right,” faltered Maurice. “When Marie-Anne knew that her life
was in danger, she could not have forgotten her little one. Those who
cared for her in her last moments must have received some message for
me. I must see those who watched over her. Who were they?” The priest
averted his face. “I asked you who was with her when she died,”
repeated Maurice, in a sort of frenzy. And, as the abbe remained silent,
a terrible light dawned on the young fellow’s mind. He understood the
cause of Marie-Anne’s distorted features now. “She perished the victim
of a crime!” he exclaimed. “Some monster killed her. If she died such a
death, our child is lost for ever! And it was I who recommended, who
commanded the greatest precautions! Ah! we are all of us cursed!” He
sank back in his chair, overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, and with
big tears rolling slowly down his cheeks.
“He is saved!” thought the abbe, whose heart bled at the sight of such
intense sorrow.
Jean Lacheneur stood by the priest’s side with gloom upon his face.
Suddenly he drew the Abbe Midon towards one of the windows: “What is
this about a child?” he enquired, harshly.
The priest’s face flushed. “You have heard,” he answered, laconically.
“Am I to understand that Marie-Anne was Maurice’s mistress, and that she
had a child by him? Is that the case? I won’t, I can’t believe it! She
whom I revered as a saint! What! you would have me believe that her eyes
lied--her eyes so chaste, so pure? And he--Maurice--he whom I loved as a
brother! So his friendship was only a cloak which he assumed so as to
rob us of our honour!” Jean hissed these words through his set teeth in
such low tones that Maurice, absorbed in his agony of grief, did not
overhear him. “But how did she conceal her shame?” he continued. “No one
suspected it--absolutely no one. And what has she done with her child?
Did the thought of disgrace frighten her? Did she follow the example of
so many ruined and forsaken women? Did she murder her own child? Ah, if
it be alive I will find it, and in any case Maurice shall be punished
for his perfidy as he deserves.” He paused; the window was open, and the
sound of galloping horses could be plainly heard approaching along the
adjacent highway. Both Jean and the abbe leant forward and looked out.
Two horsemen were riding toward the Borderie--the first some ten yards
in advance of the other. The former halted at the corner of the garden
path, threw his reins to his follower--a groom--and then strode on foot
toward the house. On recognizing this visitor, Jean bounded from the
window with a yell. He clutched Maurice by the shoulders, and, shaking
him violently, exclaimed, “Up! here comes Martial, Marie-Anne’s
murderer! Up! he is coming! He is at our mercy!”
Maurice sprang to his feet, infuriated; but the abbe darted to the door
and intercepted both young fellows as they were about to leave the room.
“Not a word! not a threat!” he said, imperiously. “I forbid it. At least
respect the presence of death!” He spoke with such authority, and his
glance was so commanding, that both Jean and Maurice involuntarily
paused. Before the priest had time to add another word, Martial was
there. He did not cross the threshold. One look and he realised the
situation. He turned very pale, but not a word escaped his lips.
Wonderful as was his usual power of self-control he could not articulate
a syllable; and it was only by pointing to the bed on which Marie-Anne’s
lifeless form was reposing that he asked for an explanation.
“She was infamously poisoned last evening,” sadly replied the abbe.
Then Maurice, forgetting the priest’s demands, stepped forward. “She was
alone and defenseless,” he said vehemently. “I have only been at liberty
during the last two days. But I know the name of the man who had me
arrested at Turin, and thrown into prison. They told me the coward’s
name! Yes, it was you, you infamous wretch! Ah! you dare not deny it;
you confess your guilt, you scoundrel!”
Once again the abbe interposed; He threw himself between the rivals,
fearing lest they should come to blows. But the Marquis de Sairmeuse had
already resumed his usual haughty and indifferent manner. He took a
bulky envelope from his pocket, and threw it on the table. “This,” said
he coldly, “is what I was bringing to Mademoiselle Lacheneur. It
contains, first of all, royal letters of licence from his majesty for
the Baron d’Escorval, who is now at liberty to return to his old home.
He is, in fact, free and saved, for he is granted a new trial, and there
can be no doubt of his acquittal. In the same envelope you will also
find a decree of noncomplicity rendered in favour of the Abbe Midon, and
an order from the bishop of the diocese, reinstating him as cure of
Sairmeuse; and, finally, Corporal Bavois’ discharge from the service,
drawn up in proper form, with the needful memorandum securing his right
to a pension.”
He paused, and as his hearers stood motionless with wonder, he turned
and approached Marie-Anne’s bedside. Then, with his hand raised to
heaven over the lifeless form of her whom he had loved, and in a voice
that would have made the murderess tremble in her innermost soul, he
solemnly exclaimed: “I swear to you, Marie-Anne, that I will avenge
you!” For a few seconds he stood motionless, then suddenly he stooped,
pressed a kiss on the dead girl’s brow, and left the room.
“And you think that man can be guilty!” exclaimed the abbe. “You see,
Jean, that you are mad!”
“And this last insult to my dead sister is an honour, I suppose,” said
Jean, with a furious gesture.
“And the wretch binds my hands by saving my father!” exclaimed Maurice.
From his place by the window, the abbe saw Martial vault into the
saddle. But the marquis did not take the road to Montaignac. It was
towards the Chateau de Courtornieu that he now hastened.