Part 16
The offer was at once accepted, and half-an-hour later the baron was lying in a small loft, where Jean Lacheneur was already installed. From the window, the Abbe Midon and Madame d’Escorval watched the little party, organized for the purpose of deceiving the Duke de Sairmeuse’s spies, as it moved rapidly away. Corporal Bavois, with his head bound up with blood-stained linen, had taken the baron’s place on the litter carried by the retired officers. These latter only knew the baron by name and reputation. But then he was the friend of their former ruler--the friend of that great captain whom they had made their idol, and they rejoiced with all their hearts when they saw him reposing under Father Poignot’s roof in comparative security. After this, there was the task of misleading the government emissaries, and they took various skilful precautions, not knowing that they were quite unnecessary. Public sentiment had declared itself in an unmistakable manner, and the police did not ascertain a single detail of the escape. They did not even hear of the little party that travelled nearly three leagues in the full light of day, bearing a wounded man upon a litter. Among the two thousand peasants who believed that this wounded man was the Baron d’Escorval, there was not one who turned informer, or made an indiscreet remark.
The fugitives were ignorant of this willing connivance, and on approaching the frontier, which they had heard was strictly guarded, they became extremely cautious. They waited until nightfall before presenting themselves at a lonely inn, where they hoped to procure a guide to lead them through the mountain passes. Sad news awaited them there, for the inn-keeper informed them of the executions that had taken place that day at Montaignac, giving the particulars as he had heard them from an eye witness. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he knew nothing of M. d’Escorval’s flight or of M. Lacheneur’s arrest. But he was well acquainted with Chanlouineau, and was quite inconsolable concerning the death of that “handsome young fellow, the best farmer in the country.”
Finding this man’s views so favourable, the officers, who had left the litter a short distance from the inn, decided to confide in him, at least in some degree. “We are carrying one of our wounded comrades,” they said. “Can you guide us across the frontier to-night?”
The inn-keeper replied that he would do so willingly, that he could promise to take them safely past the military posts; but that he could not think of starting before the moon rose. At midnight the fugitives were on their way; and at daybreak they set foot on the territory of Piedmont. They had dismissed their guide some time before. They now proceeded to break the litter in pieces; and handful by handful cast the wool of the mattress to the wind.
“Our task is accomplished,” said one of the officers to Maurice. “We will now return to France. May God protect you! Farewell!”
It was with tears in his eyes that Maurice parted from these brave fellows who had proved so instrumental in saving his father’s life. Now he was the sole protector of Marie-Anne, who, pale and overcome with fatigue and emotion trembled on his arm. But no--for Corporal Bavois still lingered by his side. “And you, my friend,” he asked, sadly, “what are you going to do?”
“Follow you,” replied the old soldier. “I have a right to a home with you; that was agreed between your father and myself! so don’t hurry, for the young lady does not seem well, and I can see a village only a short distance off.”
XXV.
Essentially a woman in grace and beauty, as well as in devotion and tenderness, Marie-Anne, as we have shown, was moreover capable of truly virile bravery. Her energy and coolness during those trying days had been the admiration and astonishment of all around her. But human endurance has its limits, and after excessive efforts there invariably comes a moment when the shrinking flesh fails the firmest will. Thus, when Marie-Anne tried to resume her journey she found that her strength was exhausted; her swollen feet and limbs scarcely supported her, her head whirled, and she shivered feverishly. Maurice and the old soldier were both obliged to support her, almost to carry her; but fortunately they were not far from a village, as was evident from an old church tower just discernible through the morning mist. Soon, however, they distinguished several cottages, and with the prospect of speedy rest before them they were hastening forward, when suddenly Bavois stopped short, “A thousand thunderclaps!” he exclaimed; “why, I’m in uniform! It would excite suspicion at once if I went into the village dressed like this; before we had a chance to sit down, the Piedmontese gendarmes would arrest us.” He reflected for a moment, twirling his moustache furiously; then, in a tone that would have made a passer-by tremble, he remarked, “All things are fair in love and war. The next person who passes----”
“But I have money with me,” interrupted Maurice, unbuckling a belt filled with gold, which he had put on under his clothing on the night of the revolt.
“Eh! then we are fortunate!” cried Bavois. “Give me some, and I will soon find a shop where I can purchase a change of clothing.”
He started; and it was not long before he re-appeared clad in peasant’s garb, his thin weazened countenance well-nigh hidden by a large broad-brimmed slouching hat. “Now, steady, forward, march!” he said to Maurice and Marie-Anne, who scarcely recognized him in this disguise.
What they had taken to be a mere village proved to be almost a small town, called Saliente, as they almost immediately afterwards ascertained from a sign-post. The fourth house they met with was a hostelry, the Traveller’s Rest. They went in, and at once asked the hostess to take the young lady to a room, and to assist her in undressing. While these instructions were being complied with, Maurice and the corporal proceeded to the dining-room, and ordered something to eat. Refreshments were served at once, but the glances cast upon the new arrivals were by no means friendly. They were evidently regarded with suspicion. A tall man, who was apparently the landlord, hovered round them, and at last embraced a favourable opportunity to ask their names. “My name is Dubois,” replied Maurice, without the slightest hesitation. “I am travelling on business, and this man with me is a farmer of mine.”
The landlord seemed somewhat reassured by this reply. “And what is your business?” he enquired.
“I have come into this land of inquisitive people to buy mules,” laughed Maurice, striking his belt of money.
On hearing the jingle of the coin the landlord deferentially raised his cap. Breeding mules was the chief industry of the district. This would-be purchaser was very young, but he had a well-filled purse, and that was enough. “You will excuse me,” resumed the landlord, in quite a different tone. “You see, we are obliged to be very careful. There has been some trouble at Montaignac.”
The imminence of the peril and the responsibility devolving upon him, gave Maurice unusual assurance; and it was in the most careless, off-hand manner possible that he concocted quite a plausible story to explain his early arrival on foot with his wife, who had been taken poorly on the way. He congratulated himself upon his address, but the old corporal was far from satisfied. “We are too near the frontier to bivouac here,” he grumbled. “As soon as the young lady is on her feet again we must hurry on.”
He believed, and Maurice hoped, that twenty-four hours’ rest would set Marie-Anne right again. But they were both mistaken. She could not move, but remained in a state of torpor from which it was impossible to rouse her. When she was spoken to she made no reply, and it seemed very doubtful whether she could even hear and understand. Fortunately the landlord’s mother proved to be a good, kind-hearted old woman, who would not leave the so-called Madame Dubois’s bed-side, but nursed her with the greatest care during three long days, while Marie-Anne remained in this strange and alarming condition. When at last she spoke, Maurice could at first scarcely understand the import of her words. “Poor girl!” she sighed; “poor, wretched girl!” In point of fact she was alluding to herself. By a phenomenon which often manifests itself after a crisis in which reason has been temporarily imperilled, it seemed to her that it was some one else who had been the victim of all these misfortunes, the recollection of which gradually returned to her like the memory of a painful dream. What strange and terrible events had taken place since that August Sunday when, on leaving church with her father, she first heard of the Duke de Sairmeuse’s return to France. And that was only nine months ago. What a difference between the past--when she lived happy and envied in that beautiful Chateau de Sairmeuse, of which she believed herself the mistress--and the present, when she found herself lying in the comfortless room of a miserable country inn, attended by an old woman whom she did not know, and with no other protectors than her proscribed lover, and an old soldier--a deserter, whose life was in constant peril. Hope, fortune, and future happiness, had all been wrecked, and she had not even saved her honour. But was she alone responsible? Who was it that had forced her to play that odious part with Maurice, Martial, and Chanlouineau? As this last name darted through her mind, she recalled with startling clearness all the incidents of her last meeting with the young farmer. She saw him at her feet in that dingy cell of the citadel at Montaignac; she felt his first and only kiss upon her cheek, and remembered that he had given her a second letter, saying as he did so: “You will read this when I am dead.”
She might read it now, for he had already cruelly expiated his share in her father’s enterprise. But then what had become of it? She had not given it a thought till now; but at present, raising herself up in bed, she exclaimed in an eager, imperious voice: “My dress, give me my dress.”
The old nurse obeyed her, and Marie-Anne could not restrain an exclamation of delight when, on examining the pocket, she found the letter there. She opened it and read it slowly, then, sinking back on her pillows, she burst into tears. Maurice hastily approached her. “What is the matter?” he inquired anxiously. Her only reply was to hand him the missive.
Chanlouineau, it should be remembered, was only a poor peasant. Scarcely possessing the rudiments of education, as his letter (written on common paper and closed with a huge wafer, specially purchased from a grocer in Sairmeuse) evinced plainly enough. The heavy, laboured, distorted characters, had evidently been traced by a man who was more at home when guiding a plough than a pen. There was but one straight line, and every third word, at least, was mis-spelt. And yet the thoughts expressed were noble and generous, well worthy of the true heart that had beat in the young farmer’s breast. “Marie-Anne,”--So the letter began. “The outbreak is at hand, and whether it succeeds or fails, at all events, I shall die. I decided that on the day when I learned that you could marry no other man than Maurice d’Escorval. The conspiracy cannot succeed; and I understand your father well enough to know that he will not survive defeat. And if Maurice and your brother should both be killed, what would become of you? Oh, my God, would you not be reduced to beggary? The thought has haunted me continually. I have reflected, and this is my last will: I give and bequeath to you all my property, everything that I possess: My house, the Borderie, with its gardens and vineyards, the woodland and pastures of Berarde, and five lots of lands at Valrollier. An inventory of this property, and of the other possessions I leave to you is deposited with the notary at Sairmeuse. You can accept this bequest without fear; for I have no relatives, and am at liberty to dispose of my belongings as I please. If you do not wish to remain in France, the property can be sold for at least forty thousand francs. But it would, it seems to me, be better for you to remain in your own province. The house on the Borderie is comfortable and convenient, for I have had it thoroughly repaired. Upstairs you will find a room that has been fitted up by the best upholsterer in Montaignac. I intended it for you. Under the hearth-stone in this same room I have deposited a box containing three hundred and twenty-seven louis d’or and one hundred and forty-six livres. If you refuse this gift, it will be because you scorn me even after I am dead. Accept it, if not for your own sake, for the sake of--I dare not finish, but you will understand my meaning only too well. If Maurice is not killed, and I shall try my best to stand between him and danger, he will marry you. Then, perhaps, you will be obliged to ask his consent in order to accept my gift. I hope that he will not refuse his permission. One is not jealous of the dead! Besides, he knows well enough that you scarcely ever vouchsafed a glance to the poor peasant who loved you so much. Do not be offended at anything I have said, I am in such agony that I cannot weigh my words. Farewell, Marie-Anne. Farewell for ever.
CHANLOUINEAU.”
* * * * *
Maurice read this letter carefully, at times pausing with suppressed emotion. After finishing its perusal he remained silent for a moment, and then in a husky voice exclaimed: “You cannot refuse; it would be wrong.” Then, fearing lest he might betray his feelings, he hastily left the room. Chanlouineau’s words had evidently made a deep impression on his mind. This noble peasant had saved their lives at the Croix d’Arcy, he had wrested the Baron d’Escorval from the hands of the executioner, and he had never allowed either a complaint or a reproach to escape his lips. His abnegation had been sublime; and yet, as if what he had done in life were not sufficient, he sought to protect the woman he loved, even after he was dead. When Maurice recalled all that he and Marie-Anne owed to Chanlouineau, he could not help reproaching himself with inferiority and unworthiness. But, good heavens! what if this same comparison should arise in Marie-Anne’s mind as well? How could he compete with the memory of such nobility of soul and such self-sacrifice? Ay, Chanlouineau was mistaken; one may, perhaps, be jealous of the dead! However, Maurice took good care to conceal his anxiety, and when he returned to Marie-Anne’s room his face was calm and even cheerful.
Although, as we have seen, Marie-Anne had recovered the full possession of her mental faculties, her strength had not yet returned. She was almost unable to sit up; and Maurice had to relinquish all thought of leaving Saliente for the present. The so-called Madame Dubois’ persistent weakness began to astonish the old nurse, and her faith in herbs, gathered by moonlight, was considerably shaken. Fortunately, however, Bavois had succeeded in finding a medical man in the neighbourhood--a physician of great ability, who, after being at one time attached to Prince Eugene Beauharnais’ vice-regal court at Milan had, for political reasons, been forced to take refuge in this secluded spot. The corporal’s discovery was a happy one, for in these days the smaller towns and villages of Italy rarely possessed any other doctors than some ignorant barber, who invariably treated all complaints with a lancet and a stock of leeches. Bavois’ physician was at once summoned, and he promptly made his appearance. He was a man of uncertain age, with a furrowed brow and a keen and piercing glance. After visiting the sick-room, he drew Maurice aside. “Is this young lady really your wife, Monsieur--Dubois?” he asked, hesitating so strangely over this name, Dubois, that Maurice’s face crimsoned to the roots of his hair.
“I do not understand your question,” he retorted, angrily.
“I beg your pardon, of course, but you seem very young for a married man, and your hands are too soft for a farmer’s. And when I spoke to this young lady about her husband, she turned scarlet. The man who accompanies you, moreover, has terrible moustaches for a farmer, and besides, you must remember that there have been troubles across the frontier at Montaignac.”
From crimson Maurice had turned white. He felt that he was discovered--that he was in this man’s power. What should he do? What was the use of denial? At times it is only prudent to confess, and extreme confidence often meets with sympathy and protection. He weighed these considerations in his mind, and then in an anxious voice replied: “You are not mistaken, monsieur. My friend and myself are both fugitives, undoubtedly condemned to death in France by this time.” And then, without giving the doctor an opportunity to respond, he briefly narrated the terrible events that had recently happened at Sairmeuse. He neither concealed his own name nor Marie-Anne’s, and when his recital was completed, the physician, whom his confidence had plainly touched, warmly shook his hand.
“It is just as I supposed,” said the medical man. “Believe me, Monsieur Dubois, you must not tarry here. What I have discovered others will discover as well. And, above everything, don’t warn the hotel-keeper of your departure. He has not been deceived by your explanation. Self-interest alone has kept his mouth shut. He has seen your money, and so long as you spend it at his house he will hold his tongue; but if he discovers that you are going away, he will probably betray you.”
“Ah! sir, but how is it possible for us to leave this place?”
“In two days the young lady will be on her feet again,” interrupted the physician. “And take my advice. At the next village, stop and give your name to Mademoiselle Lacheneur.”
“Ah! sir,” exclaimed Maurice, “have you considered the advice you offer me? How can I, a proscribed man--a man condemned to death perhaps--how can I obtain, how can I display the proofs of identity necessary for marriage.”
“Excuse me,” observed the physician shaking his head, “but you are no longer in France, Monsieur d’Escorval, you are in Piedmont.”
“Another difficulty!”
“No, because in this country, people marry, or at least they can marry, without all the formalities that cause you so much anxiety.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Maurice.
“Yes, if you can find a consenting priest, when he has inscribed your name on his parish register and given you a certificate, you will be so undoubtedly married, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and yourself, that the court of Rome would never grant you a divorce.”
“That may be,” said Maurice hesitatingly, “but how could I find a priest----”
The physician was silent, and it might have been supposed he was blaming himself for meddling with matters that did not concern him. Suddenly, however, he abruptly said: “Listen to me attentively, Monsieur d’Escorval. I am about to take my leave, but before I go, I shall find occasion to recommend your wife to take as much exercise as possible--I will do this in the landlord’s presence. Consequently, on the day after to-morrow, Wednesday, you must hire mules, and you, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and your old friend, the soldier, must start from the hotel as if you were going on a pleasure excursion. You will push on to Vigano, three leagues from here, where I live. Then I will take you to a priest, one of my friends; and upon my recommendation, he will perform the marriage ceremony. Now, reflect, shall I expect you on Wednesday?”
“Oh, yes, yes. How can I ever thank you sufficiently?”
“By not thanking me at all. See, here is the innkeeper; you are M. Dubois, again.”
Maurice was intoxicated with joy. He understood the irregularity of such a marriage, but he knew it would reassure Marie-Anne’s troubled conscience. Poor girl! she was suffering an agony of remorse. It was that which was killing her. However, he did not speak to her on the matter, fearing lest something might occur to interfere with the project. But the old physician had not spoken lightly, and everything took place as he had promised. The priest at Vigano blessed the marriage of Maurice d’Escorval and Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and after inscribing their names upon the church register, he gave them a certificate, which the physician and Corporal Bavois signed as witnesses. That same evening the mules were sent back to Saliente, and the fugitives resumed their journey. The Abbe Midon had advised them to reach Turin as quickly as possible. “It is a large city,” he had said, when bidding them good-bye near Father Poignot’s house, “you will be lost in the crowd. I have several friends there, whose names and addresses are on this paper. Go to them, for through them I will try to send you news of M. d’Escorval.”
So it was towards Turin that Maurice, Marie-Anne, and Corporal Bavois directed their steps. Their progress was slow, however, for they were obliged to avoid the more frequented roads, and renounce all ordinary modes of transport. Still the fatigue of travel, instead of exhausting Marie-Anne, seemed to revive her, and when five or six days had elapsed the colour came back to her cheeks, and her strength had fully returned. “Fate seems to have abandoned the pursuit,” said Maurice one day. “Who knows but what the future may have many compensations in store for us!”
But he was mistaken. Fate far from forgetting them had merely granted them a short respite. One April morning the fugitives stopped to breakfast at an inn in the outskirts of a large town. Maurice had finished eating, and was just leaving the table to settle with the landlady, when Marie-Anne uttered a loud shriek and fell back on her chair. She held in her hand a French newspaper about a fortnight old, which she had found lying on the sideboard where some traveller had probably left it. Maurice seized the print rapidly, and read as follows, “Lacheneur, the leader of the revolt in Montaignac, was executed yesterday. The miserable mischief-maker exhibited on the scaffold the audacity for which he had always been famous.”
“My father has been put to death!” cried Marie-Anne, “and I--his daughter--was not there to receive his last farewell!” She rose, and in an imperious voice: “I will go no farther,” she said; “we must turn back now without losing an instant. I wish to return to France.”
To return to France was to expose themselves to frightful peril. What good would it do? Was not the misfortune irreparable? So Corporal Bavois suggested, very timidly it is true, for the old soldier trembled at the thought that they might suspect him of being afraid. But Maurice would not listen. He shuddered. He did not know what had transpired since their flight, but it seemed to him that the Baron d’Escorval must have been discovered and re-arrested at the same time that Lacheneur was captured. Accordingly they at once procured a vehicle to convey them to the frontier. One important question, however, remained to be decided. Should Maurice and Marie-Anne make their marriage public? She wished to do so, but Maurice with tears in his eyes entreated her to conceal it. “Our marriage certificate will not silence those who are disposed against us,” said he. “Let us keep our secret for the present. No doubt we shall only remain in France for a few days.” Unfortunately, Marie-Anne yielded. “Since you wish it,” said she, “I will obey you. No one shall know of it.”
It was the evening of the seventeenth of April, the same day that Martial was married to Blanche, when the fugitives at last reached Father Poignot’s house. Maurice and Corporal Bavois were disguised as peasants and the old soldier had made a sacrifice that drew tears from his eyes; he had shaved off his moustaches.
XXVI.