Part 17
When the Abbe Midon and Martial de Sairmeuse held their conference, to decide upon the arrangements for the Baron de Escorval’s escape, a difficulty presented itself which threatened to break off the negotiations. “Return my letter,” said Martial, “and I will save the baron.”
“Save the baron,” replied the abbe, “and your letter shall be returned.”
The idea that any one should suppose him to be influenced by danger when in reality he was only yielding to Marie-Anne’s tears, angered Martial beyond endurance. “These are my last words, sir,” he retorted, emphatically. “Give me the letter now, and I swear to you, by the honour of my name, that I will do everything that is possible for any human being to do to save the baron. If you distrust my word, good-evening.”
The situation was desperate, the danger imminent, the time limited, and Martial’s tone betrayed an inflexible determination. The abbe could not hesitate. He drew the letter from his pocket and handing it to Martial: “Here it is, sir,” he said, solemnly, “remember that you have pledged the honour of your name.”
“I will remember it, Monsieur le Cure. Go and obtain the ropes.”
Thus the abbe’s sorrow and amazement were intense, when, after the baron’s terrible fall, Maurice declared that the cord had been cut beforehand. And yet the priest could not make up his mind that Martial was guilty of such execrable duplicity, which is rarely found in men under twenty-five years of age. However, no one suspected the abbe’s secret thoughts. It was with perfect composure that he dressed the baron’s wounds and made arrangements for the flight, though not until he saw M. d’Escorval installed in Poignot’s house did he breathe freely. The fact that the baron had been able to endure the journey, proved that he retained a power of vitality for which the priest had scarcely dared to hope. Some way must now be discovered to procur the surgical instruments and pharmaceutical remedies which the wounded man’s condition would necessitate. But where and how could they be procured. The police kept a close watch over all the medical men and druggists in Montaignac, in hopes of discovering the wounded conspirators through one or the other medium. However, the cure had for ten years acted as physician and surgeon for the poor of his parish, and he possessed an almost complete set of surgical instruments, and a well-filled medicine chest. Accordingly at nightfall he put on a long blue blouse, concealed his features under a large slouch hat, and wended his way towards Sairmeuse. There was not a single light in the parsonage; Bibiane, the old housekeeper, having gone out to gossip with some of the neighbours. The priest effected an entrance into the house, by forcing the lock of the garden door; he speedily found the things he wanted and was able to retire without having been perceived. That night the abbe hazarded a cruel but indispensable operation. His heart trembled, but although he had never before attempted so difficult a task, the hand that held the knife was firm. “It is not upon my weak powers that I rely,” he murmured, “I have placed my trust in One who is on High.”
His faith was rewarded. Three days later the wounded man, after a comfortable night, seemed to regain consciousness. His first glance was for his devoted wife, who was sitting by the bedside; his first word was for his son. “Maurice?” he asked.
“Is in safety,” replied the abbe. “He must be on the road to Turin.”
M. d’Escorval’s lips moved as if he were murmuring a prayer; then, in a feeble voice: “We owe you a debt of gratitude which we can never pay,” he murmured, “for I think I shall pull through.”
He did “pull through,” but not without terrible suffering, and not without severe relapses that made those around him tremble with anxiety. Jean Lacheneur was more fortunate, for he was on his legs by the end of the week.
On the evening of the seventeenth of April the abbe was seated in the loft reading a newspaper to the baron when suddenly the door was quietly opened, and one of the Poignot boys looked into the room. He did not speak, however, but merely gave the cure a glance, and then quickly withdrew.
The priest finished the paragraph he was perusing, laid down the paper, and went out on to the landing. “What’s the matter?” he inquired.
“Ah!” answered the young fellow, “M. Maurice, Mademoiselle Lacheneur, and the old corporal have just arrived; they want to come upstairs.”
Three bounds and the abbe reached the ground floor. “You imprudent children!” he exclaimed, addressing the three travellers, “what has induced you to return here?” Then turning to Maurice: “Isn’t it enough that your father has nearly died for you and through you? Are you so anxious for his recapture, that you return here to set our enemies on his track? Be off at once!”
Utterly abashed, it was as much as Maurice could do to falter his excuses; uncertainty, he said, had seemed worse to him than death; he had heard of M. Lacheneur’s execution; he had started off at once without reflection and only asked to see his father and embrace his mother before leaving again.
The priest was inflexible. “The slightest emotion might kill your father,” he declared; “and I should cause your mother the greatest anxiety if I told her of your return, and the dangers to which you have foolishly exposed yourself. Come, go at once, and cross the frontier again this very night.”
The scene had been witnessed by Jean Lacheneur, who now approached. “The time has come for me to take _my_ leave,” said he, “I shall go with Maurice. But I scarcely think that the highway’s the right place for my sister. You would cap all your kindness, Monsieur le Cure, if you would only persuade Father Poignot to let her remain here, and if you would watch over her yourself.”
The abbe deliberated for a moment, and then hurriedly replied: “So be it; but go at once; your name is not on the proscribed list. You will not be pursued.”
Suddenly separated from his wife in this fashion, Maurice wished to confer with her, to give her some parting advice; but the abbe did not allow him an opportunity to do so. “Go, go at once,” he insisted. “Farewell!”
The priest’s intentions were excellent, no doubt, but in point of fact he was too hasty. At the very moment when Maurice stood sorely in need of wise and temperate counsel he was handed over to Jean Lacheneur’s pernicious influence. Scarcely were they outside the house, than the latter remarked: “We have to thank the Sairmeuses and the Marquis de Courtornieu for all this. I don’t even know where they have thrown my father’s corpse. I, his son, was even debarred from embracing him before he was traitorously murdered.” He spoke in a harsh, bitter voice, laughing the while in a strange discordant fashion. “And yet,” he continued, “if we climbed that hill we should be able to see the Chateau de Sairmeuse brightly illuminated. They are celebrating the marriage of Martial de Sairmeuse and Blanche de Courtornieu. We are friendless outcasts, succourless and shelterless, but they are feasting and making merry.”
Less than this would have sufficed to rekindle Maurice’s wrath. Yes, these Sairmeuses and these Courtornieus had killed the elder Lacheneur, and they had betrayed the Baron d’Escorval, and delivered him up--a mangled corpse--to his suffering relatives. It would be a rightful vengeance to disturb their merrymaking now, and in the midst of hundreds of assembled guests denounce their cruelty and perfidy. “I will start at once,” exclaimed Maurice, “I will challenge Martial in the presence of the revellers.”
But Jean interrupted him. “No, don’t do that! The cowards would arrest you. Write to the young marquis, and I will take your letter.”
Corporal Bavois, who heard the conversation, did not make the slightest attempt to oppose this foolish enterprise. Indeed, he thought the undertaking quite natural, under the circumstances, and esteemed his young friends all the more for their rashness. They all three entered the first wine shop they came across, and Maurice wrote the challenge which was confided to Jean Lacheneur.
The only object which Jean had in view was to disturb the bridal ball at the Chateau de Sairmeuse. He merely hoped to provoke a scandal which would disgrace Martial and his relatives in the eyes of all their friends; for he did not for one moment imagine that the young marquis would accept Maurice’s challenge. While waiting for Martial in the hall of the chateau, he sought to compose a fitting attitude, striving to steel himself against the sneering scorn with which he expected the young nobleman would receive him. Martial’s kindly greeting was so unlooked for that Jean was at first quite disconcerted, and he did not recover his assurance until he perceived how cruelly Maurice’s insulting letter made the marquis suffer. When the latter seized him by the arm and led him upstairs, he offered no resistance; and as they crossed the brightly-lighted drawing-rooms and passed through the throng of astonished guests, his surprise was so intense that he forgot both his heavy shoes and peasant’s blouse. Breathless with anxiety, he wondered what was coming. Then standing on the threshold of the little saloon leading out of the grand hall he heard Martial read Maurice d’Escorval’s letter aloud, and finally saw him frantic with passion, throw the missive in his father-in-law’s face. It might have been supposed that these incidents did not in the least affect Jean Lacheneur, who stood by cold and unmoved, with compressed lips and downcast eyes. However, appearances were deceitful, for in reality his heart throbbed with exultation; and if he lowered his eyes, it was only to conceal the joy that sparkled in them. He had not hoped for so prompt and so terrible a revenge.
Nor was this all. After brutally pushing Blanche, his newly-wedded wife, aside when she attempted to detain him, Martial again seized Jean Lacheneur’s arm. “Now,” said he, “follow me!”
Jean still obeyed him without uttering a word. They again crossed the grand hall, and on passing out into an ante-room, Martial took a candle burning on a side table, and opened a little door leading to a private staircase. “Where are you taking me?” inquired Jean.
Martial, in his haste, was already a third of the way up the flight. “Are you afraid?” he asked, turning round.
The other shrugged his shoulders. “If you put it in that way, let us go on,” he coldly replied.
They entered the room which Martial had occupied since taking possession of the chateau. It was the same room that had once belonged to Jean Lacheneur; and nothing in it had been changed. The whilom steward’s son recognized the brightly-flowered curtains, the figures on the carpet, and even an old arm-chair ensconced wherein he had read many a novel in secret. Martial hastened to a small writing-desk, and drew therefrom a folded paper which he slipped into his pocket. “Now,” said he, “let us be off. We must avoid another scene. My father and my wife will be looking for me. I will explain everything when we are outside.”
They hastily descended the staircase, passed through the gardens, and soon reached the long avenue. Then Jean Lacheneur suddenly paused. “After all,” said he, “it was scarcely necessary for me to wait so long for a simple yes or no. Have you decided? What answer am I to give Maurice d’Escorval?”
“None at all! You will take me to him. I must see him and speak with him in order to justify myself. Let us proceed!”
But Jean did not move. “What you ask is impossible!” he replied.
“Why so?”
“Because Maurice is pursued. If he is captured, he will be tried and undoubtedly condemned to death. He is now in a safe retreat, and I have no right to disclose it.” In point of fact, Maurice’s safe retreat, for the time being, was only a neighbouring wood, where, in the corporal’s company, he was waiting for Jean’s return. But the latter could not resist the temptation to make this insinuating remark, which by reason of its covert character, was far more insulting than if he had simply said: “We fear informers!”
Strange as it may appear, and proud and violent as was Martial’s nature, he did not resent the insult. “So you distrust me!” he merely said. Jean Lacheneur was silent--another insult. “And yet,” insisted Martial, “after what you’ve just seen and heard you can’t possibly suspect me of having cut the ropes I carried to the baron.”
“No! I’m convinced that _you_ didn’t do it.”
“You saw how I punished the man who had dared to compromise my honour. And this man is the father of the girl I married to-day.”
“Oh, I saw and heard everything, but as for taking you to Maurice, I must still reply: ‘Impossible.’”
No doubt the younger Lacheneur’s severity was unjust; however, Martial did not rebel against it. He merely drew from his pocket the paper which he had taken from his desk a few minutes previously, and handed it to Jean. “You doubt my word,” he said grimly. “I shall not forget to punish those whose fault it is. However, here is a proof of my sincerity which I expect you to give to Maurice, and which must convince even you.”
“What proof is it?”
“Why, the very letter in exchange for which we facilitated the baron’s escape. A presentiment I can’t explain prevented me from burning it, and now I’m very glad I didn’t. Take it, and do what you choose with it.”
Any one but Jean Lacheneur would have appreciated the young marquis’s candour, and have been touched by the confidence he displayed. But Jean’s hatred was implacable, and the more humble his enemy showed himself, the more determined he was to carry out the project of vengeance maturing in his brain. His only reply to Martial’s last remark was a promise to give the letter to Maurice.
“It should be a bond of alliance, it seems to me,” said Martial, gently.
“A bond of alliance!” rejoined Jean with a threatening gesture. “You are too fast, Monsieur le Marquis! Have you forgotten all the blood that flows between us? You didn’t cut the ropes; but who condemned the Baron d’Escorval to death? Wasn’t it your father, the Duke de Sairmeuse? An alliance! why, you must have forgotten that you and yours sent my father to the scaffold! How have you rewarded the man whose honesty gave you back a fortune? By murdering him and ruining his daughter’s reputation.”
“I offered my name and fortune to your sister.”
“I would have killed her with my own hand had she accepted your offer. Take that as a proof that I don’t forget; and if any great disgrace ever tarnishes the proud name of Sairmeuse, think of Jean Lacheneur. My hand will be in it.” He was so frantic with passion that he forgot his usual caution. However, after a great effort he re covered his self-possession, and added in calmer tones “If you are so desirous of seeing Maurice, be at La Reche to-morrow at noon. He will be there.” With these words he turned abruptly aside, sprang over the fence skirting the avenue, and vanished into the darkness.
“Jean,” cried Martial, in almost supplicating tones; “Jean, come back--listen to me!” There was no reply. The young marquis stood bewildered in the middle of the road; and little short of a miracle prevented his being run over by a horseman galloping in the direction of Montaignac. The latter’s shouts to get out of the way awakened him from his dream, and as the cold night breeze fanned his forehead he was able to collect his thoughts and judge his conduct. Ah, there was no denying it. He, the professed sceptic, a man who, despite his youth, boasted of his indifference and insensibility, had forgotten all self-control. He had acted generously, no doubt, but after all he had created a terrible scandal, all to no purpose. When Blanche, his wife, had accused Marie-Anne of being the cause of his frenzy, she had not been entirely wrong. For though Martial might regard all other opinions with disdain, the thought that Marie-Anne despised him, and considered him a traitor and a coward, had, in truth, made him perfectly frantic. It was for her sake, that on the impulse of the moment he had resorted to such a startling justification. And if he had begged Jean to lead him to Maurice d’Escorval, it was because he hoped to find Marie-Anne not far off, and to say to her, “Appearances were against me, but I am innocent; and have proved it by unmasking the real culprit.” It was to Marie-Anne that he wished Chanlouineau’s circular to be given, thinking that she, at least, would be surprised at his generosity. And yet all his expectations had been disappointed. “It will be the devil to arrange!” he thought; “but nonsense! it will be forgotten in a month. The best way is to face those gossips at once: I will return immediately.” He said: “I will return,” in the most deliberate manner; but his courage grew weaker at each successive step he took in the direction of the chateau. The guests must have already left, and Martial concluded that he would probably find himself alone with his young wife, his father and the Marquis de Courtornieu, whose reproaches, tears, and threats he would be obliged to encounter. “No,” muttered he. “After all, let them have a night to calm themselves. I will not appear until to-morrow.”
But where should he sleep? He was in evening dress and bare-headed, and the night was chilly. On reflection he recollected his father’s house at Montaignac. “I shall find a bed there,” he thought, “servants, a fire, and a change of clothing--and to-morrow, a horse to come back again.” The walk was a long one, no doubt; however, in his present mood, this circumstance did not displease him. The servant who came to open the door when he knocked, was at first speechless with astonishment. “You, Monsieur le Marquis!” he exclaimed at last.
“Yes, it’s I. Light a good fire in the drawing-room, and bring me a change of clothes.” The valet obeyed, and soon Martial found himself alone, stretched on a sofa in front of the blazing logs. “It would be a good thing to sleep and forget my troubles,” he thought; and accordingly he tried to do so, but it was almost dawn when at last he fell into a feverish slumber.
He woke up again at nine o’clock, gave the necessary instructions for breakfast, and was eating with a good appetite, when suddenly he remembered his rendezvous with Maurice. He ordered a horse and set out at once, reaching La Reche at half-past eleven o’clock. The others had not yet arrived; so he fastened his horse by the bridle to a tree near by, and leisurely climbed to the summit of the hill. It was here that Lacheneur’s cottage had formerly stood, and the four walls still remained standing, blackened by fire. Martial was gazing at the ruins, not without a feeling of emotion, when he heard the branches crackle in the adjacent cover. He turned, and perceived that Maurice, Jean, and Corporal Bavois were approaching. The old soldier carried under his arm, in a piece of green serge, a couple of swords which Jean Lacheneur had borrowed from a retired officer at Montaignac during the night. “We are sorry to have kept you waiting,” began Maurice, “but you will observe that it is not yet noon. Since we scarcely expected to see you----”
“I was too anxious to justify myself not to be here early,” interrupted Martial.
Maurice shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “This is not a question of self-justification, but one of fighting,” he abruptly replied.
Insulting as were the words and the gesture that accompanied them, Martial never so much as winced. “Grief has made you unjust,” said he, gently, “or M. Lacheneur has not told you everything.”
“Yes, Jean has told me everything.”
“Well, then?”
Martial’s coolness drove Maurice frantic. “Well,” he replied, with extreme violence, “my hatred is unabated even if my scorn is diminished. I have waited for this occasion ever since the day we met on the square at Sairmeuse in Mademoiselle Lacheneur’s presence. You said to me then, ‘We shall meet again.’ And now here we stand face to face. What insults must I heap upon you to decide you to fight?”
With a threatening gesture Martial seized one of the swords which Bavois offered him, and assumed an attitude of defence. “You will have it so,” said he in a husky voice. “The thought of Marie-Anne can no longer save you.”
But the blades had scarcely crossed before a cry from Jean arrested the combat. “The soldiers!” he exclaimed; “we are betrayed.” A dozen gendarmes were indeed approaching at full speed.
“Ah! I spoke the truth!” exclaimed Maurice. “The coward came, but the guards accompanied him.” He bounded back, and breaking his sword over his knee, hurled the fragments in Martial’s face. “Here, miserable wretch!” he cried.
“Wretch!” repeated Jean and Corporal Bavois, “traitor! coward!” And then they fled, leaving Martial literally thunderstruck.
He struggled hard to regain his composure. The soldiers were swiftly approaching; he ran to meet them, and addressing the officer in command, imperiously enquired, “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” replied the brigadier, respectfully, “you are the Duke de Sairmeuse’s son.”
“Very well! I forbid you to follow those men.”
The brigadier hesitated at first; then, in a decided tone he replied: “I can’t obey you, sir. I have my orders.” And turning to his men, he added, “Forward!”
He was about to set the example, when Martial seized him by the arm: “At least you will not refuse to tell me who sent you here?”
“Who sent us? The colonel, of course, in obedience to orders from the grand provost, M. d’Courtornieu. He sent the order last night. We have been hidden near here ever since daybreak. But thunder! let go your hold, I must be off.”
He galloped away, and Martial, staggering like a drunken man, descended the slope, and remounted his horse. But instead of repairing to the Chateau of Sairmeuse, he returned to Montaignac, and passed the remainder of the afternoon in the solitude of his own room. That evening he sent two letters to Sairmeuse--one to his father, and the other to his wife.
XXVII.
Martial certainly imagined that he had created a terrible scandal on the evening of his marriage; but he had no conception of the reality. Had a thunderbolt burst in these gilded halls, the guests at Sairmeuse could not have been more amazed and horrified than they were by the scene presented to their view. The whole assembly shuddered when Martial, in his wrath, flung the crumpled letter full in the Marquis de Courtornieu’s face. And when the latter sank back into an arm-chair, several young ladies of extreme sensibility actually fainted away. The young marquis had departed, taking Jean Lacheneur with him, and yet the guests stood as motionless as statues, pale, mute, and stupefied. It was Blanche who broke the spell. While the Marquis de Courtornieu was panting for breath--while the Duke de Sairmeuse stood trembling and speechless with suppressed anger--the young marchioness made an heroic attempt to save the situation. With her hand still aching from Martial’s brutal clasp, her heart swelling with rage and hatred, and her face whiter than her bridal veil, she yet had sufficient strength to restrain her tears and force her lips to smile. “Really this is placing too much importance on a trifling misunderstanding which will be explained to-morrow,” she said, almost gaily, to those nearest her. And stepping into the middle of the hall she made a sign to the musicians to play a country-dance.