Part 21

Jean averted his glance; his face coloured, and it was with evident hesitation that he replied--”Because I’ve a right to dispose of my own life, but not of yours. We can’t be anything to each other any longer. I deny you to-day, so that you may be able to deny me to-morrow. Yes, although you are now the only person on earth I love. I must and do renounce you. Your worst enemies haven’t slandered you more foully than I have done, for before numerous witnesses I have openly declared that I would never set my foot inside a house given you by Chanlouineau.”

“What, you said that--you, Jean--you, my brother?”

“Yes, I said it, and with a purpose; for it must be supposed that there is a deadly feud between us, so that neither you nor Maurice d’Escorval may be accused of complicity in any deed of mine.”

Marie-Anne gazed at her brother wonderingly. “He is mad!” she murmured, and then with a burst of energy, she added, “What do you mean to do? Tell me; I must know.”

“Nothing! leave me to myself.”

“Jean!”

“Leave me to myself,” he repeated roughly.

Marie-Anne felt that her apprehensions were correct. “Take care, take care,” she said entreatingly. “Do not tamper with such matters. God’s justice will punish those who have wronged us.”

But nothing could move Jean Lacheneur, or divert him from his purpose. With a hoarse, discordant laugh, he clapped his hand on his gun and retorted, “That’s my justice!”

Marie-Anne almost tottered as she heard these words. She discerned in her brother’s mind the same fixed, fatal idea which had lured her father on to destruction--the idea for which he had sacrificed everything--family, friends, fortune, and even his daughter’s honour, the idea which had caused so much bloodshed, which had cost the lives of so many innocent men, and had finally led him to the scaffold himself. “Jean,” she murmured, “remember our father.”

The young fellow’s face turned livid; and instinctively he clenched his fists. But the words he uttered were the more impressive as his voice was calm and low. “It is just because I do remember my father that I am determined justice shall be done. Ah! these wretched nobles wouldn’t display such audacity if all sons had my will and determination. A scoundrel like the Duke de Sairmeuse would hesitate before he attacked an honest man if he were only obliged to say to himself: ‘If I wrong this man, and even should I kill him, I cannot escape retributive justice, for his children will surely call me to account. Their vengeance will fall on me and mine; they will pursue us by day and night, at all hours and in all seasons. We must ever fear their hatred for they will be implacable and merciless. I shall never leave my house without fear of a bullet; never lift food to my lips without dread of poison. And until I and mine have succumbed, these avengers will prowl round about our home threatening us at every moment with death, dishonour, ruin, infamy, and misery!’” The young fellow paused, laughed nervously, and then, in a still slower voice, he added: “That is what the Sairmeuses and the Courtornieus have to expect from me.” It was impossible to mistake the import of these words. Jean Lacheneur’s threats were not the wild ravings of anger. His was a cold, deep-set premeditated desire for vengeance which would last as long as he lived--and he took good care that his sister should understand him, for between his teeth he added: “Undoubtedly these people are very high, and I am very low; but when a tiny insect pierces the root of a giant oak, that tree is doomed.”

Marie-Anne realized that all her entreaties would fail to turn her brother from his purpose, and yet she could not allow him to leave, without making one more effort it was with clasped hands and in a supplicating voice that she begged him to renounce his projects, but he still remained obdurate, and when changing her tactics she asked him to remain with her, at least that evening and share her frugal supper, adding in trembling tones that it might be the last time they would see each other for long years, he again repeated, “You ask me an impossibility!” And yet he was visibly moved, and if his voice was stern, a tear trembled in his eye. She was clinging to him imploringly, when, yielding for one moment to the impulse of nature, he took her in his arms and pressed her to his heart. “Poor sister--poor Marie-Anne,” he said, “you will never know what it costs me to refuse your supplications. But I cannot yield to them. I have been most imprudent in coming here at all. You don’t realize the danger to which you may be exposed if folks suspect that there is any connection between us. I trust that you and Maurice may lead a calm and happy life. It would be a crime for me to mix you up with my wild schemes. Think of me sometimes, but don’t try to see me, or even to find out what has become of me. A man like me struggles, triumphs, or perishes alone.” He kissed Marie-Anne passionately, and freed himself from her detaining hands. “Farewell!” he cried; “when you see me again, our father will be avenged!”

Then with one bound he reached the door. She sprang out after him, meaning to call him back, but he had already disappeared. “It is all over,” murmured the wretched girl; “my brother is lost. Nothing will restrain him now.” And a vague, inexplicable, dread invaded her heart. She felt as if she were being slowly but surely drawn into a whirlpool of passion, rancour, vengeance, and crime, and a voice whispered that she would be crushed.

Some days had elapsed after this incident, when one evening, while she was preparing her supper, she heard a rustling sound outside. She turned and looked: some one had slipped a letter under the front door. Without a moments hesitation, she raised the latch and courageously sprang out on to the threshold. No one could be seen. The gloom was well nigh impenetrable, and when she listened not a sound broke the stillness. With a trembling hand she picked up the letter, walked towards the lamp burning on her supper table, and looked at the address. “From the Marquis de Sairmeuse!” she exclaimed, in amazement, as she recognized Martial’s hand-writing. So he had written to her! He had dared to write to her! Her first impulse was to burn the letter; and she was already holding it over the stove, when she suddenly thought of her friends concealed at Father Poignot’s farm. “For their sake,” she thought, “I must read it, and see if they are threatened with danger.”

Then hastily opening the missive, she found that it was as follows: “My dear Marie-Anne--Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has given an entirely new and certainly surprising turn to events. Perhaps you have also understood the motives that guided him. In that case I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you can no longer refuse me your esteem. But my work of reparation is not yet perfect. I have prepared everything for a revision of the judgment that condemned the Baron d’Escorval to death, or for having him pardoned. You must know where the baron is concealed. Acquaint him with my plans and ascertain whether he prefers a revision of judgment, or a simple pardon. If he wishes for a new trial, I will give him a letter of licence from the king. I await your reply before acting. MARTIAL DE SAIRMEUSE.”

Marie-Anne’s head whirled. This was the second time that Martial had astonished her by the chivalrous spirit of his love. How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, had proved themselves to be. One of them Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, had sought to protect her from beyond the grave. The other, Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the connections and prejudices of his caste, and hazarded with noble recklessness the political fortunes of his house, so as to insure as far as possible her own happiness and that of those she loved. And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Maurice d’Escorval, had not given as much as a sign of life since he left her five months before. But suddenly and without reason, Marie-Anne passed from profound admiration to deep distrust. “What if Martial’s offer were only a trap?” This was the suspicion that darted through her mind. “Ah!” she thought, “the Marquis de Sairmeuse would be a hero if he were sincere!” And she did not wish him to be a hero.

The result of her suspicions was that she hesitated five days before repairing to the meeting place where Father Poignot usually awaited her. When she did go, in lieu of the worthy farmer she found the Abbe Midon, who had been greatly alarmed by her prolonged absence. It was night time, but Marie-Anne, fortunately, knew Martial’s letter by heart. The abbe made her repeat it twice, the second time very slowly, and when she had concluded, he remarked: “This young man no doubt has the prejudices of his rank and his education; but his heart is noble and generous.” And when Marie-Anne disclosed her suspicions: “You are wrong, my child,” he added, “the marquis is certainly sincere, and it would be unwise not to take advantage of his generosity. Such, at least, is my opinion. Entrust this letter to me. I will consult the baron, and to-morrow you shall know our decision.”

Four and twenty hours later the abbe and Marie-Anne met again at the same spot. “M. d’Escorval,” said the priest, “agrees with me that we must trust ourselves to the Marquis de Sairmeuse. Only the baron, being innocent, cannot, will not, accept a pardon. He demands a revision of the iniquitous judgment which condemned him--in one word, a new trial.”

Marie-Anne had foreseen this determination, and yet she could not help exclaiming: “What! M. d’Escorval means to give himself up to his enemies! To risk his life on the chance of acquittal?” The priest nodded assent, and then knowing that it was quite useless to attempt arguing the point Marie-Anne submissively remarked: “In this case, I must ask you for a rough draft of the letter I ought to write to the marquis.”

For a moment the priest did not reply. He evidently had some misgivings. At last, summoning all his courage, he answered. “It would be better not to write.”

“But----”

“It is not that I distrust the marquis, not by any means, but a letter is dangerous; it doesn’t always reach the person it’s addressed to. You must see M. de Sairmeuse.”

Marie-Anne recoiled. “Never! never!” she exclaimed.

The abbe did not seem surprised. “I understand your repugnance, my child,” he said, gently; “your reputation has suffered greatly through the marquis’s attentions. But duty calls, and this is not the time to hesitate. You know that the baron is innocent, and you know, alas, that your father’s mad enterprise has ruined him. You must, at least, make this atoning sacrifice.” He then explained to her everything she would have to say, and did not leave her until she had promised to see the marquis in person.

It must not be supposed that Marie-Anne’s aversion to this interview was due to the reason which the abbe assigned. Her reputation! Alas, she knew that it was lost for ever. A fortnight before the prospect of such a meeting would have in no wise disquieted her. Then, though she no longer hated Martial, she thought of him with indifference, whereas now---- Perhaps, in choosing the Croix d’Arcy for the rendezvous, she hoped that this spot with its cruel memories would restore aversion to her heart. As she walked along towards the meeting place, she said to herself that no doubt Martial would wound her feelings by his usual tone of careless gallantry. But in this she was mistaken. The young marquis was greatly agitated, but he did not utter a word unconnected with the purport of the meeting. It was only when the conference was over, and he had consented to all the conditions suggested by the abbe, that he sadly remarked: “We are friends, are we not?”

And in an almost inaudible voice she answered, “Yes.”

And that was all. He remounted his horse, which had been held by a servant, and galloped off in the direction of Montaignac. Breathless, with cheeks on fire, Marie-Anne watched him as bending low in the saddle he urged his horse onward over the dusty highway, until at last a bend and some projecting trees finally hid him from view. Then, all of a sudden, she became as it were conscious of her thoughts. “Ah, wretched woman that I am,” she exclaimed, “is it possible I could ever love any other man than Maurice, my husband, the father of my child?”

Her voice was still trembling with emotion when she related the particulars of the interview to the abbe. But he did not perceive her trouble, his thoughts being busy with the baron’s interests. “I felt sure,” said he, “that Martial would agree to our conditions. I was, indeed, so certain that I even made every arrangement for the baron to leave the farm. He will leave it to-morrow night and wait at your house till we receive the letters of licence from the king. The heat and bad ventilation of Poignot’s loft are certainly retarding his recovery. One of Poignot’s boys will bring our baggage to-morrow evening, and at eleven o’clock or so we will place M. d’Escorval in a vehicle and all sup together at the Borderie.”

“Heaven comes to my aid!” murmured Marie-Anne as she walked home, reflecting that now she would no longer be alone. With Madame d’Escorval at her side to talk to her of Maurice, and the cheerful presence of her other friends, she would soon be able to chase away those thoughts of Martial, now haunting her.

When she awoke the next morning she was in better spirits than she had been for months, and once, while putting her little house in order, she was surprised to find herself singing at her work. Just as eight o’clock in the evening was striking she heard a peculiar whistle. This was a signal from the younger Poignot, who soon appeared laden with an arm-chair for the sick man, the abbe’s medicine chest, and a bag of books. They were all placed in the room upstairs--the room which Chanlouineau had decorated at such cost, and which Marie-Anne now intended for the baron. Young Poignot told her that he had several other things to bring, and nearly an hour afterwards, fancying that he might be overloaded, she ventured out to meet him. The night was very dark, and as she hastened on, Marie-Anne failed to notice two figures stooping behind a clump of lilac bushes in her little garden.

XXXII.

Chupin was at first quite crestfallen when Blanche told him of Martial’s meeting with Marie-Anne at the Croix d’Arcy. He was detected with a falsehood on his lips, and feared that the discovery of his duplicity would for ever wreck his prospects. He must say good-bye to a safe and pleasant retreat at Courtornieu, and good-bye also to frequent gifts which had enabled him to spare his hoarded treasure, and even to increase it. However, his discomfiture only lasted for a moment. It seemed best to put a bold face on the matter, and accordingly raising his head, he remarked with an affection of frankness, “I may be stupid no doubt, but I wouldn’t deceive a child. I scarcely fancy your information can be correct. Some one must have told you falsely.”

Blanche shrugged her shoulders. “I obtained my information from two persons, who were ignorant of the interest it possessed for me.”

“As truly as the sun is in the heavens I swear----”

“Don’t swear; simply confess that you have been very negligent.”

Blanche spoke so authoritatively that Chupin considered it best to change his tactics. With an air of abject humility, he admitted that he had relaxed his surveillance on the previous day; he had been very busy in the morning; then one of his boys had injured his foot; and finally, he had met some friends who persuaded him to go with them to a wine-shop, where he had taken more than usual, so that----. He told his story in a whining tone, frequently interrupting himself to affirm his repentance and cover himself with reproaches. “Old drunkard!” he said, “this will teach you not to neglect your duties.”

But far from reassuring Blanche, his protestations only made her more suspicious. “All this is very good, Father Chupin,” she said, dryly, “but what are you going to do now to repair your negligence?”

“What do I intend to do?” he exclaimed, feigning the most violent anger. “Oh! you shall see. I will prove that no one can deceive me with impunity. There is a small grove near the Borderie, and I shall station myself there; and may the devil seize me if a cat enters that house without my knowing it.”

Blanche drew her purse from her pocket, and handed three louis to Chupin, saying as she did so, “Take these, and be more careful in future. Another blunder of the kind, and I shall have to obtain some other person’s assistance.”

The old poacher went away whistling contentedly. He felt quite reassured. In this, however, he was wrong, for Blanche’s generosity was only intended to prevent him fancying that she doubted his veracity. In point of fact, she did doubt it. She believed his promises to be on a par with his past conduct, which, as events had shown, had at the very best been negligent in the extreme. This miserable wretch made it his business to betray others--so why shouldn’t he have betrayed her as well? What confidence could she place in his reports. She certainly paid him, but the person who paid him more would unquestionably have the preference. Still, she must know the truth, the whole truth, and how was she to ascertain it? There was but one method--a certain, though a very disagreeable one--she must play the spy herself.

With this idea in her head, she waited impatiently for evening to arrive, and then, directly dinner was over, she summoned Aunt Medea, and requested her company as she was going out for a walk. The impoverished chaperone made a feeble protest concerning the lateness of the hour. But Blanche speedily silenced her, and bade her get ready at once, adding that she did not wish any one in the chateau to know that they had gone out. Aunt Medea had no other resource than to obey, and in the twinkling of an eye she was ready. The marquis had just been put to bed, the servants were at dinner, and Blanche and her companion reached a little gate leading from the grounds into the open fields without being observed. “Good heavens! Where are we going?” groaned the astonished chaperone.

“What does that matter to you? Come along!” replied Blanche, who, as it may have been guessed, was going to the Borderie. She could have followed the banks of the Oiselle, but she preferred to cut across the fields, thinking she would be less likely to meet any one. The night was very dark, and the hedges and ditches often impeded their progress. On two occasions Blanche lost her way, while Aunt Medea stumbled again and again over the rough ground, bruising herself against the stones. She groaned; she almost wept; but her terrible niece was pitiless. “Come along!” she cried, “or else I shall leave you to find your way as best you can.” And so the poor dependent struggled on.

At last, after more than an hour’s tramp, Blanche ventured to breathe. She recognized Chanlouineau’s house, a short distance off, and soon afterwards she paused in the little grove of which Chupin had spoken. Aunt Medea now timidly inquired if they were at their journey’s end--a question which Blanche answered affirmatively. “But be quiet,” she added, “and remain where you are. I wish to look about a little.”

“What! you are leaving me alone?” ejaculated the frightened chaperone. “Blanche, I entreat you! What are you going to do? Good heavens! you frighten me. You do indeed, Blanche!”

But her niece had gone. She was exploring the grove, looking for Chupin, whom she did not find. This convinced her that the old poacher was deceiving her, and she angrily asked herself if Martial and Marie-Anne were not in the house hard by at that very hour, laughing at her credulity. She then rejoined Aunt Medea, whom she found half dead with fright, and they both advanced to the edge of the copse, where they could view the front of the house. A flickering, ruddy light illuminated two windows on the upper floor. There was evidently a fire in the room upstairs. “That’s right,” murmured Blanche, bitterly; “Martial is such a chilly personage.” She was about to approach the house, when a peculiar whistle made her pause. She looked about her, and, through the darkness, she managed to distinguish a man walking towards the Borderie, and carrying a weighty burden. Almost immediately afterwards, a woman, certainly Marie-Anne, opened the door of the house, and the stranger was admitted. Ten minutes later he re-appeared, this time without his burden, and walked briskly away. Blanche was wondering what all this meant, but for the time being she did not venture to approach, and nearly an hour elapsed before she decided to try and satisfy her curiosity by peering through the windows. Accompanied by Aunt Medea, she had just reached the little garden, when the door of the cottage opened so suddenly that Blanche and her relative had scarcely time to conceal themselves behind a clump of lilac-bushes. At the same moment, Marie-Anne crossed the threshold, and walked down the narrow garden path, gained the road, and disappeared. “Wait for me here,” said Blanche to her aunt, in a strained, unnatural voice, “and whatever happens, whatever you hear, if you wish to finish your days at Courtornieu, not a word! Don’t stir from this spot; I will come back again.” Then pressing the frightened spinster’s arm she left her alone and went into the cottage.