Part 11

“Ah, you little wretch, you hussy, you little viper!” interrupted the duke in a passionate rage. “You want to drive me mad! Yes, you know that I have enemies and rivals who would gladly give anything for this execrable letter. And if they obtain it they will demand an investigation, and then farewell to the rewards due to my services. It will be shouted from the housetops that Chanlouineau, in the presence of the tribunal, declared that you, marquis, were his leader and his accomplice. You will be obliged to submit to the scrutiny of physicians, who, finding a freshly-healed wound, will require you to state how and where you received it, and why you concealed it. And then, of course, I shall be accused! It will be said I expedited matters in order to silence the voices raised against my son. Perhaps my enemies will even say that I secretly favoured the insurrection. I shall be vilified in the newspapers. And remember that it is you, you alone, marquis, who have ruined the fortunes of our house, our brilliant prospects, in this foolish fashion. You pretend to believe in nothing, to doubt everything--you are cold, sceptical, disdainful. But only let a pretty woman make her appearance on the scene, and you grow as wild as a school-boy, and you are ready to commit any act of folly. It is you that I am speaking to, marquis. Don’t you hear me? Speak! what have you to say?”

Martial had listened to this tirade with unconcealed scorn, and without even attempting to interrupt it. But now he slowly replied, “I think, sir, that if Mademoiselle Lacheneur _had_ any doubts of the value of the document she possesses, she certainly can have them no longer.”

This answer fell upon the duke’s wrath like a bucket of iced water. He instantly realised his folly; and frightened by his own words, stood literally stupefied with astonishment.

Without deigning to speak any further to his father, the marquis turned to Marie-Anne. “Will you be kind enough to explain what is required in exchange for this letter?” he said.

“The life and liberty of M. d’Escorval.”

The duke started as if he had received an electric shock. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “I knew they would ask for something that was impossible!” He sank back into an arm chair; and his despair now seemed as deep as his frenzy had been violent. He hid his face in his hands, evidently seeking for some expedient. “Why didn’t you come to me before judgment was pronounced?” he murmured. “Then, I could of done anything--now, my hands are bound. The commission has spoken, and the sentence must be executed--” He rose, and added in the tone of a man who is utterly resigned: “Decidedly, I should risk more in attempting to save the baron”--in his anxiety he gave M. d’Escorval his title--”a thousand times more than I have to fear from my enemies. So, mademoiselle”--he no longer said, “my good girl”--”you can utilize your document.”

Having spoken, he was about to leave the room, when Martial detained him, “Think again before you decide,” said the marquis. “Our situation is not without a precedent. Don’t you remember that a few months ago the Count de Lavalette was condemned to death. Now the king wished to pardon him, but the ministers had contrary views. No doubt his majesty was the master; still what did he do? He effected to remain deaf to all the supplications made on the prisoner’s behalf. The scaffold was even erected, and yet Lavalette was saved! And no one was compromised--yes, a jailer lost his position; but he is living on his pension now.”

Marie-Anne caught eagerly at the idea which Martial had so cleverly presented. “Yes,” she exclaimed, “the Count de Lavalette was favoured by royal connivance, and succeeded in making his escape.”

The simplicity of the expedient, and the authority of the example, seemed to make a vivid impression on the duke. He remained silent for a moment, but Marie-Anne fancied she could detect an expression of relief steal over his face. “Such an attempt would be very hazardous,” he murmured; “yet, with care, and if one were sure that it would remain a secret--”

“Oh! the secret will be religiously kept, sir,” interrupted Marie-Anne.

With a glance Martial recommended her to remain silent then turning to his father, he said: “We can always consider this expedient, and calculate the consequences--that won’t bind us. When is this sentence to be carried into effect?”

“To-morrow,” replied the duke. Terrible as this curt answer seemed, it did not alarm Marie-Anne. She had perceived by the duke’s acute anxiety that she had good grounds for hope, and she was now aware that Martial would favour her designs.

“We have, then, only the night before us,” resumed the marquis. “Fortunately, it is only half-past seven, and until ten o’clock my father can visit the citadel without exciting suspicion.” He paused, and seemed embarrassed. The fact was, he had just realised the existence of a difficulty which might thwart all his plans. “Have we any intelligent men in the citadel?” he murmured. “A jailer or a soldier’s assistance is indispensable.” Turning to his father, he abruptly asked him: “Have you any man whom one can trust?”

“I have three or four spies--they can be bought--”

“No! the wretch who betrays his comrade for a few sous would betray you for a few louis. We must have an honest man who sympathizes with Baron d’Escorval’s opinions--an old soldier who fought under Napoleon, if possible.”

“I know the man you require!” exclaimed Marie-Anne with sudden inspiration, and noticing Martial’s surprise. “Yes, a man at the citadel.”

“Take care,” observed the marquis. “Remember he will have a great deal to risk, for should this be discovered the accomplices must be sacrificed.”

“The man I speak of is the one you need. I will be responsible for him. His name is Bavois, and he is a corporal in the first company of grenadiers.”

“Bavois,” repeated Martial, as if to fix the name in his memory; “Bavois. Very well, I will confer with him. My father will find some pretext for having him summoned here.”

“It is easy to find a pretext,” rejoined Marie-Anne. “He was left on guard at Escorval after the searching party left the house.”

“That’s capital,” said Martial, walking towards his father’s chair. “I suppose,” he continued, addressing the duke, “that the baron has been separated from the other prisoners.”

“Yes, he is alone, in a large, comfortable room, on the second floor of the corner tower.”

“The corner tower!” said Martial, “is that the very tall one, built on the edge of the cliff, where the rock rises almost perpendicularly?”

“Precisely,” answered M. de Sairmeuse, whose promptness plainly implied that he was ready to risk a good deal to enable the prisoner to escape.

“What kind of a window is there in the baron’s room?” inquired Martial.

“Oh, a tolerably large one, with a double row of iron bars, securely riveted into the stone walls. It overlooks the precipice.”

“The deuce! The bars can easily be cut through, but that precipice is a serious difficulty, and yet, in one respect, it is an advantage, for no sentinels are stationed there, are they?”

“No, never. Between the walls and the citadel and the edge of the rock there is barely standing room. The soldiers don’t venture there even in the day time.”

“There is one more important question. What is the distance from M. d’Escorval’s window to the ground?”

“I should say it is about forty feet from the base of the tower.”

“Good! And from the base of the tower to the foot of the cliff--how far is that?”

“I really scarcely know. However, I should think fully sixty feet.”

“Ah, that’s terribly high; but fortunately the baron is still pretty vigorous.”

The duke was growing impatient. “Now,” said he to his son, “will you be so kind as to explain your plan?”

“My plan is simplicity itself,” replied Martial. “Sixty and forty are one hundred; so it is necessary to procure a hundred feet of strong rope. It will make a very large bundle; but no matter. I will twist it round me, wrap myself up in a large cloak, and accompany you to the citadel. You will send for Corporal Bavois, leave me alone with him in a quiet place; and I will explain our wishes to him.”

The Duke de Sairmeuse shrugged his shoulders. “And how will you procure a hundred feet of rope at this hour in Montaignac? Will you go about from shop to shop? You might as well trumpet your project all over France at once.”

“I shall attempt nothing of the kind. What I can’t do, the friends of the D’Escorval family will do.” Then seeing that the duke was about to offer some fresh objections, Martial earnestly added: “Pray don’t forget the danger that threatens us, nor the little time that is left us. I have made a blunder, let me repair it.” And turning to Marie-Anne: “You may consider the baron saved,” he pursued; “but it is necessary for me to confer with one of his friends. Return at once to the Hotel de France and tell the cure to meet me on the Place d’Armes, where I shall go at once and wait for him.”

XX.

Directly the Baron d’Escorval was arrested, although he was unarmed and although he had taken no part in the insurrection, he fully realised the fact that he was a lost man. He knew how hateful he was to the royalist party, and having made up his mind that he would have to die, he turned all his attention to the danger threatening his son. The unfortunate blunder he made in contradicting Chupin’s evidence was due to his preoccupation, and he did not breathe freely until he saw Maurice led from the hall by the Abbe Midon and the friendly officers; for he feared that his son would be unable to restrain himself, that he would declare his guilt all to no purpose since the commission in its blind state would never forgive the father, but rather satisfy its rancour by ordering the execution of the son as well. When Maurice was eventually got away, the baron became more composed, and with head erect, and steadfast eye, he listened to his sentence. In the confusion that ensued in removing the prisoners from the hall M. d’Escorval found himself beside Chanlouineau, who had begun his noisy lamentations. “Courage, my boy,” he said, indignant at such apparent cowardice.

“Ah! it is easy to talk,” whined the young farmer, who seeing that he was momentarily unobserved, leant towards the baron, and whispered; “It is for you that I am working. Save all your strength for to-night.”

Chanlouineau’s words and his burning glance surprised M. d’Escorval, but he attributed both to fear. When the guards took him back to his cell, he threw himself on to his pallet, and became absorbed in that vision of the last hour, which is at once the hope and despair of those who are about to die. He knew the terrible laws that govern a military commission. The next day--in a few hours--at dawn, perhaps, he would be taken from his cell, and placed in front of a squad of soldiers, an officer would lift his sword, and then all would be over. All over! ay, but what would become of his wife and son? His agony on thinking of those he loved was terrible. He was alone; he wept. But suddenly he started up, ashamed of his weakness. He must not allow these thoughts to unnerve him. Had he not already determined to meet death without flinching? Resolved to shake off this fit of melancholy, he walked round and round his cell forcing his mind to occupy itself with material objects.

The room which had been allotted to him was very large. It had once communicated with an adjoining apartment, but the door had long since been walled up. The cement which held the stone together had crumbled away, leaving crevices through which one might look from one room into the other. M. d’Escorval mechanically applied his eye to one of these crevices. Perhaps he had a friend for a neighbour, some wretched man who was to share his fate. No. He could not see anyone. He called, first in a whisper, and then louder; but no voice replied. “If I could only tear down this thin partition,” he thought. He trembled, then shrugged his shoulders. And if he did, what then? He would only find himself in another apartment similar to his own, and communicating like his with a corridor full of guards, whose monotonous tramp he could plainly hear as they passed to and fro. What folly to think of escape! He knew that every possible precaution must have been taken to guard against it. Yes, he knew this, and yet he could not refrain from examining his window. Two rows of iron bars protected it. These were placed in such a way that it was impossible for him to protrude his head and see how far he was above the ground. The height, however, must be considerable, judging from the extent of the view. The sun was setting; and through the violet haze the baron could discern an undulating line of hills, the culminating point of which must be the waste land of La Reche. The dark mass of foliage that he saw on the right was probably the forest of Sairmeuse. On the left, he divined rather than saw, nestling between the hills, the valley of the Oiselle and Escorval. Escorval, that lovely retreat where he had known such happiness, where he had hoped to die in peace. And remembering past times, and thinking of his vanished dreams, his eyes once more filled with tears. But he quickly dried them as he heard some one draw back the bolts securing the door of his room.

Two soldiers entered, one of whom carried a torch, while the other had with him one of those long baskets divided into compartments which are used in carrying meals to officers on guard. These men were evidently deeply moved, and yet, obeying a sentiment of instinctive delicacy, they affected a semblance of gaiety. “Here is your dinner, sir,” said one soldier, “it ought to be good, since it comes from the commander’s kitchen.”

M. d’Escorval smiled sadly. Some attentions have a sinister significance coming from your jailer. Still, when he seated himself before the little table prepared for him, he found that he was really hungry. He ate with a relish, and was soon chatting quite cheerfully with the soldiers. “Always hope for the best, sir,” said one of these worthy fellows. “Who knows? Stranger things have happened!”

When the baron had finished his meal, he asked for pen, ink, and paper, which were almost immediately brought to him. He found himself again alone; but his conversation with the soldiers had been of service, for his weakness had passed away, his self-possession had returned, and he could not reflect. He was surprised that he had heard nothing from his wife or son. Had they been refused admittance to the prison? No, that could not be; he could not imagine his judges sufficiently cruel to prevent him from pressing his wife and son to his heart, in a last embrace. Yet, how was it that neither the baroness nor Maurice had made an attempt to see him! Something must have prevented them from doing so. What could it be? He imagined the worst misfortunes. He saw his wife writhing in agony, perhaps dead. He pictured Maurice, wild with grief, on his knees at his mother’s bedside. Still they might come yet, for on consulting his watch, he found that it was only seven o’clock. But alas, he waited in vain. No one came. At last, he took up his pen, and was about to write, when he heard a bustle in the corridor outside. The clink of spurs resounded over the flagstones, and he heard the sharp clink of a musket as the sentinel presented arms. Trembling in spite of himself, the baron sprang up. “They have come at last!” he exclaimed.

But he was mistaken; the footsteps died away in the distance, and he reflected that this must have been some round of inspection. At the same moment, however, two objects thrown through the little grated opening in the door of his cell, fell on to the floor in the middle of the room. M. d’Escorval caught them up. Somebody had thrown him two files. His first feeling was one of distrust. He knew that there were jailers who left no means untried to dishonour their prisoners before delivering them over to the executioner. Who had sent him these instruments of deliverance, a friend or an enemy? Chanlouineau’s last words and the look that accompanied them recurred to his mind, perplexing him still more. He was standing with knitted brows, turning and re-turning the files in his hands, when he suddenly noticed on the floor a scrap of paper which at first had escaped his attention. He picked it up, unfolded it, and read: “Your friends are at work. Everything is prepared for your escape. Make haste and saw the bars of your window. Maurice and his mother embrace you. Hope, courage!” Beneath these few lines was the letter M.

But the baron did not need this initial to feel assured, for he had at once recognized the Abbe Midon’s handwriting. “Ah! he is a true friend,” he murmured. “And this explains why neither my wife nor son came to visit me; and yet I doubted their energy--and was complaining of their neglect!” Intense joy filled his heart, he raised the letter that promised him life and liberty to his lips, and enthusiastically exclaimed: “To work! to work!”

He had chosen the finest of the two files which were both well tempered, and was about to attack the bars, when he fancied he heard some one open the door of the next room. Some one had opened it, certainly, and had closed it again, but without locking it. The baron could hear this person moving cautiously about. What did it all mean? Were they incarcerating some fresh prisoner, or were they stationing a spy there? Holding his breath and listening with the greatest attention, the baron now heard a singular sound, the cause of which it was quite impossible to explain. He stealthily advanced to the door that had been walled up, knelt down and peered through one of the crevices in the masonry. The sight that met his eyes amazed him. A man was standing in a corner of the room, and the baron could see the lower part of his body by the light of a large lantern which he had deposited on the floor at his feet. He was turning quickly round and round, thus unwinding a long rope which had been twined round his body as thread is wound about a bobbin. M. d’Escorval rubbed his eyes as if to assure himself that he was not dreaming. Evidently this rope was intended for him. It was to be attached to the broken bars. But how had this man succeeded in gaining admission to this room? Who could it be that enjoyed such liberty in the prison? He was not a soldier--or, at least, he did not wear a uniform. Unfortunately, the highest crevice was so situated that the baron could not see the upper part of the man’s body; and despite all his efforts, he failed to distinguish the features of this friend--he judged him to be such--whose boldness verged on folly. Unable to resist his intense curiosity, M. d’Escorval was on the point of rapping against the wall to question him, when the door of the room where this man stood was impetuously thrown open. Another man entered, but his lineaments also were beyond the baron’s range of vision. However, his voice could be heard quite plainly, and M. d’Escorval was seized with despair when this new comer ejaculated in a tone of intense astonishment: “Good heavens! what are you about?”

“All is discovered!” thought the baron, growing sick at heart; while to his increased surprise the man he believed to be his friend calmly continued unwinding the rope, and quietly replied: “As you see, I am freeing myself from this burden, which I find extremely uncomfortable. There are at least sixty yards of it, I should think--and what a bundle it makes! I feared they would discover it under my cloak.”

“And what are you going to do with all this rope?” inquired the newcomer.

“I am going to hand it to the Baron d’Escorval, to whom I have already given a file. He must make his escape to-night.”

The scene was so improbable that the baron could not believe his own ears. “I can’t be awake; I must be dreaming,” he thought.

But the new-comer uttered a terrible oath, and, in an almost threatening tone, exclaimed: “We will see about that! If you have gone mad, thank God I still possess my reason! I will not permit----”

“Excuse me!” interrupted the other, coldly, “you will permit it. This is merely the result of your own--credulity. The time to say, ‘I won’t permit it,’ was when Chanlouineau asked you to allow him to receive a visit from Mademoiselle Lacheneur. Do you know what that cunning fellow wanted? Simply to give Mademoiselle Lacheneur a letter of mine, so compromising in its nature, that if it ever reaches the hands of a certain person of my acquaintance, my father and I will be obliged to reside in London for the future. Then good-bye to all our projects of an alliance between our two families!” The newcomer heaved a mighty sigh, followed by a half angry, half sorrowful exclamation; but the man with the rope, without giving him any opportunity to reply, resumed: “You, yourself, marquis, would no doubt be compromised. Were you not a chamberlain during Bonaparte’s reign? Ah, marquis! how could a man of your experience, so subtle, penetrating, and acute, allow himself to be duped by a low, ignorant peasant?”

Now M. d’Escorval understood everything. He was not dreaming; it was the Marquis de Courtornieu and Martial de Sairmeuse who were talking on the other side of the wall. The former had been so crushed by Martial’s revelation that he made no effort to oppose him. “And this terrible letter?” he groaned.

“Marie-Anne Lacheneur gave it to the Abbe Midon, who came to me and said: ‘Either the baron will escape, or this letter will be taken to the Duke de Richelieu.’ I voted for the baron’s escape, I assure you. The abbe procured all that was necessary; he met me at a rendezvous I appointed in a quiet place; he coiled all this rope round my body, and here I am.”

“Then you think that if the baron escapes they will give you back your letter?”

“Most assuredly I do.”

“You deluded man! Why, as soon as the baron is safe, they will demand the life of another prisoner, with the same threats.”

“By no means.”

“You will see.”

“I shall see nothing of the kind, for a very simple reason. I have the letter now in my pocket. The abbe gave it to me in exchange for my word of honour.”

M. de Courtornieu uttered an ejaculation which showed that he considered the abbe to be an egregious fool. “What!” he exclaimed. “You hold the proof, and---- But this is madness! Burn this wretched letter in your lantern, and let the baron go where his slumbers will be undisturbed.”

Martial’s silence betrayed something like stupefaction. “Ah! so that’s what you would do?” he asked at last.

“Certainly--and without the slightest hesitation.”

“Ah well! I can’t say that I quite congratulate you.”

The sneer was so apparent that M. de Courtornieu was sorely tempted to make an angry reply. But he was not a man to yield to his first impulse--this ex-Imperial chamberlain now a _grand prevot_ under His Majesty King Louis XVIII. He reflected. Should he, on account of a sharp word, quarrel with Martial--with the only suitor who had ever pleased his daughter? A quarrel and he would be left without any prospect of a son-in-law! When would heaven send him such another? And how furious Blanche would be! He concluded to swallow the bitter pill; and it was in a tone of paternal indulgence that he remarked: “I see that you are very young, my dear Martial.”

The baron was still kneeling beside the partition, holding his breath in an agony of suspense, and with his right ear against one of the crevices.

“You are only twenty, my dear Martial,” pursued the Marquis de Courtornieu; “you are imbued with all the enthusiasm and generosity of youth. Complete your undertaking; I shall not oppose you; but remember that all may be discovered--and then----”