Part 6

The duke was satisfied that his earlier suspicions concerning his son’s complicity were without foundation; still he could not resist the temptation to taunt Martial anent his intimacy with the ex-steward of Sairmeuse. But, despite the bitterness of the situation, it proved a fruitless effort. Martial knew very well that he had been duped, but he did not think of resentment. “If Lacheneur has been captured,” he murmured to himself, “if he were condemned to death, and if I could only save him, then Marie-Anne would have nothing to refuse me.”

XV.

When the Baron d’Escorval divined the reason of his son’s frequent absences from home, he studiously avoided speaking on the matter to his wife; and, indeed, he did not even warn her of his purpose when he went to ask the Abbe Midon to go with him to Lacheneur’s. This was the first time that he had ever had a secret from the faithful partner of his life; and his silence fully explains the intensity of Madame d’Escorval’s astonishment when at dinner time Maurice was sometimes late; but the baron, like all great workers, was punctuality itself. Hence his non-arrival could only be due to some extraordinary occurrence. Madame d’Escorval’s surprise developed into uneasiness when she ascertained that her husband had started off in the Abbe Midon’s company, that they had harnessed a horse to the cabriolet themselves, driving through the stable-yard into a lane leading to the public road, in lieu of passing through the court-yard in front of the house, as was the usual practice. This strange precaution must necessarily conceal some mystery.

Madame d’Escorval waited, oppressed by vague forebodings. The servants shared her anxiety; for the baron’s affability and kindness had greatly endeared him to all his dependants. Long hours passed by, but eventually, at about ten o’clock in the evening, a peasant returning from Sairmeuse passed by the chateau, and seeing the servants clustering in front of the garden gate he stopped short, and with the loquacity of a man who has just been sacrificing at the altar of Bacchus proceeded to relate the most incredible stories. He declared that all the peasantry for ten leagues around were under arms, and that the Baron d’Escorval was the leader of a revolt organized for the restoration of the Empire. He did not doubt the final success of the movement, boldly stating that Napoleon II., Marie-Louise, and all the marshals were concealed in Montaignac. Alas! it must be confessed that Lacheneur had not hesitated to utter the grossest falsehoods in his anxiety to gain followers to his cause. Madame d’Escorval, before whom this peasant was conducted, could not be deceived by these ridiculous stories, but she could and did believe that the baron was the prime mover in the insurrection. And this belief, which would have carried consternation to many women’s hearts, absolutely reassured her. She had entire, unlimited faith in her husband. She believed him superior to all other men--infallible, in short. Hence, if he had organized a movement, that movement was right. If he had attempted it, it was because he expected to succeed; and if he looked for success, to her mind it was certain.

Impatient, however, to know the result, she despatched the gardener to Sairmeuse with orders to obtain information without awakening suspicion, if possible, and to hasten back as soon as he could learn anything of a positive nature. He returned shortly after midnight, pale, frightened, and in tears. The disaster had already become known, and had been described to him with any amount of exaggeration. He had been told that hundreds of men had been killed, and that a whole army was scouring the country, massacring the defenceless peasants and their families.

While he was telling his story, Madame d’Escorval felt as if she were going mad. She saw--yes, positively, saw her son and her husband, dead--or still worse, mortally wounded, stretched on the public highway--lying with their arms crossed upon their breasts, livid, bloody, their eyes staring wildly--begging for water--a drop of water to assuage their burning thirst. “I will find them!” she exclaimed, in frenzied accents. “I will go to the battlefield and seek for them among the dead, until I find them. Light some torches, my friends, and come with me, for you will aid me, will you not? You loved them; they were so good! You would not leave their dead bodies unburied! Oh! the wretches! The wretches who have killed them!”

The servants were hastening to obey when the furious gallop of a horse and the rapid roll of carriage-wheels were heard. “Here they come!” exclaimed the gardener, “here they come!”

Madame d’Escorval, followed by the servants, rushed to the gate just in time to see a cabriolet enter the courtyard, and the panting horse, flecked with foam, miss his footing, and fall. The Abbe Midon and Maurice had already sprung to the ground and were removing an apparently lifeless body from the vehicle. Even Marie-Anne’s great energy had not been able to resist so many successive shocks. The last trial had overwhelmed her. Once in the carriage, all immediate danger having disappeared, the excitement which had sustained her fled. She became unconscious, and all efforts had hitherto failed to restore her. Madame d’Escorval, however, did not recognize Mademoiselle Lacheneur in her masculine attire. She only saw that the body Maurice and the priest were carrying was not her husband, and turning to her son exclaimed in a stifled voice. “And your father--your father where is he?”

Until that moment, Maurice and the cure had comforted themselves with the hope that M. d’Escorval would reach home before them. They were now cruelly undeceived. Maurice tottered, and almost dropped his precious burden. The abbe perceived his anguish and made a sign to two servants who gently lifted Marie-Anne, and bore her to the house. Then turning to Madame d’Escorval the cure exclaimed at hazard. “The baron will soon be here, madame, he fled first--”

“The baron d’Escorval could not have fled,” she interrupted. “A general does not desert when he is face to face with the enemy. If a panic seizes his soldiers, he rushes to the front, and either leads them back to combat, or sacrifices his own life.”

“Mother!” faltered Maurice; “mother!”

“Oh! do not try to deceive me. My husband was the organizer of this conspiracy--If his confederates have been beaten and dispersed they must have proved themselves cowards. Heaven have mercy upon me, my husband is dead!”

In spite of the abbe’s quickness of perception, he could not understand these assertions on the part of the baroness; and feared that sorrow and terror had tampered with her mind. “Ah! madame,” he exclaimed, “the baron had nothing to do with this movement: far from it--” He paused; they were standing in the court-yard, in the full glare of the torches lighted by the servants a moment previously. Any one passing along the public road could hear and see everything; and in the present situation such imprudence might have fatal results. “Come, Madame,” accordingly resumed the priest, leading the baroness toward the house “and you Maurice, come as well!”

Madame d’Escorval and her son passively obeyed the summons. The former seemed crushed by unspeakable anguish, but on entering the drawing-room she instinctively glanced at the seemingly lifeless form extended on the sofa. This time she recognized Marie-Anne. “What, Mademoiselle Lacheneur!” she faltered, “here in this costume? dead?”

One might indeed believe that the poor girl was dead, to see her lying there rigid, cold, and as white as if the last drop of blood had been drained from her veins. Her beautiful face had the motionless pallor of marble; her half-open colourless lips disclosed her teeth, clenched convulsively, and a large dark blue circle surrounded her closed eyelids. Her long black hair, which she had rolled up closely, so as to slip it under her peasant’s hat was now unwound, and fell confusedly over the sofa and her shoulders.

“There is no danger,” declared the abbe, after he had examined her. “She has only fainted, and it will not be long before she regains consciousness.” And then, rapidly but clearly, he gave the necessary directions to the servants, who were as astonished as their mistress.

“What a night!” murmured Madame d’Escorval, as staring on the scene with dilated eyes she mechanically wiped her forehead, covered with cold perspiration.

“I must remind you, madame,” said the priest sympathizingly, but firmly, “that reason and duty alike forbid your yielding to despair! Wife, where is your energy? Christian, what has become of your confidence in a just and protecting providence!”

“Oh! I have courage left,” faltered the wretched woman. “I am brave!”

The abbe led her to a large arm-chair and compelled her to sit down. Then in a gentler tone, he resumed: “Besides, why should you despair, madame? Your son is with you in safety. Your husband has not compromised himself; he has done nothing more than I have done myself.” And briefly, but with rare precision, the priest explained the part which he and the baron had played during this unfortunate evening.

Instead of reassuring the baroness, however, his recital seemed to increase her anxiety. “I understand you,” she interrupted, “and I believe you. But I also know that all the people in the country round about are convinced that my husband commanded the rebels. They believe it, and they will say it.”

“And what of that?”

“If he has been arrested, as you give me to understand may be the case, he will be summoned before a court-martial. Was he not one of the emperor’s friends? That alone is a crime, as you know very well yourself. He will be convicted and sentenced to death.”

“No, madame, no! Am I not here? I will go to the tribunal, and say: ‘I have seen and know everything.’”

“But they will arrest you as well, for you are not a priest after their cruel hearts. They will throw you into prison, and you will meet him on the scaffold.”

Maurice had been listening with a pale, haggard face. “Ah, I shall have been the cause of the death of my father,” he exclaimed, as he heard these last words, and then despite all the abbe’s attempts to silence him, he continued. “Yes, I shall have killed him. He was ignorant even of the existence of this conspiracy desired by Lacheneur; but I knew of it, and wished to succeed, because on it the success, the happiness of my life depended. And then--wretch that I was!--at times when I wished to gain a waverer to our ranks, I mentioned the honoured name of D’Escorval. Ah! I was mad!--I was mad! And yet, even now, I have not the courage to curse my folly! Oh, mother, mother, if you knew----”

The young fellow paused, the sobs which convulsively rose in his throat, choking all further utterances. Just then a faint moan was heard. Marie-Anne was slowly regaining consciousness. She seemed intensely puzzled by the scene around her, and passed her hands before her wandering eyes as if to ascertain whether she were really awake or not. At one moment she opened her mouth as if to speak, but the Abbe Midon checked her with a hasty gesture. Maurice’s confession, and his mother’s remarks had fully enlightened the priest as to the danger threatening the D’Escorvals. How could it be averted? There was no time for reflection. He must decide, and act at once. Accordingly he darted to the door, and summoned the servants still clustering in the hall and on the staircase. “Listen to me attentively,” said he, in that quick imperious voice which unhesitatingly impresses the hearer with the certainty of approaching peril, “and remember that your master’s life depends, perhaps, upon your discretion. We can rely upon you, can we not?”

Simultaneously the little group of dependents raised their hands, as if to call upon heaven to witness their fidelity.

“In less than an hour,” continued the priest, “the soldiers sent in pursuit of the fugitives will be here. Not a word must be said concerning what has happened this evening. Whoever questions you must be led to suppose that I went away with the baron, and returned alone. Not one of you must have seen Mademoiselle Lacheneur. We are going to conceal her. Remember, my friends that all is lost if the slightest suspicion of her presence here is roused. Should the soldiers question you, try and convince them that M. Maurice has not left the house this evening.” The priest paused for a moment, trying to think if he had forgotten any other precaution that human prudence could suggest; then he added again. “One word more; to see you standing about at this hour of the night will awaken suspicion at once. However, we must plead in justification the alarm we feel at the baron’s prolonged absence. Besides, Madame d’Escorval is ill and that will furnish another excuse. She must go to bed at once, for by this means she may escape all awkward questioning. As for you, Maurice, run and change your clothes; and above all, wash your hands, and sprinkle some scent over them.”

Those who heard the abbe were so impressed with the imminence of the danger, that they were more than willing to obey his orders. As soon as Marie-Anne could be moved, she was carried to a tiny garret under the roof; while Madame d’Escorval retired to her own room, and the servants went back to the kitchen. Maurice and the abbe remained alone in the drawing-room. They were both cruelly oppressed by anxiety, and shared the opinion that the Baron d’Escorval had been made a prisoner. In that event, the abbe Midon felt that all he could usefully attempt, was to try and save Maurice from any charge of complicity. “And who knows,” he muttered, “the son’s freedom may save the father’s life.”

At that moment, his meditations were interrupted by a violent pull at the bell of the front gate. The gardener could be heard hastening to answer the summons, the gate grated on its hinges, and then the measured tread of soldiers resounded over the gravel. Half-a-minute later a loud voice commanded: “Halt!”

The priest looked at Maurice and saw that he was as pale as death. “Be calm,” he entreated, “don’t be alarmed. Don’t lose your self-possession--and, above all, don’t forget my instructions.”

“Let them come,” replied Maurice. “I am prepared.”

Scarcely had he spoken than the drawing-room door was flung violently open, and a captain of grenadiers entered the apartment. He was a young fellow of five-and-twenty, tall, fair-haired, with blue eyes, and a little, carefully waxed moustache. No doubt on ordinary occasions this military dandy’s features wore the coxcomb’s usual look of self-complacency, but for the time being he had a really ferocious air. The soldiers by whom he was accompanied awaited his orders in the hall. After glancing suspiciously round the apartment, he asked in a harsh voice; “Who is the master of this house?”

“The Baron d’Escorval, my father, who is absent,” replied Maurice.

“Where is he?”

The abbe, who had hitherto remained seated, now rose to his feet. “On hearing of the unfortunate outbreak of this evening,” he replied, “the baron and myself went after the peasants in the hope of inducing them to relinquish their foolish undertaking. They would not listen to us. In the confusion that ensued, I became separated from the baron; I returned here very anxious, and am now waiting for his return.”

The captain twisted his moustache with a sneering air. “Not a bad invention!” said he. “Only I don’t believe a word of it.”

A threatening light gleamed in the priest’s eyes, and his lips trembled for a moment. However, he prudently held his peace.

“Who are you?” rudely asked the officer.

“I am the cure of Sairmeuse.”

“Honest men ought to be in bed at this hour. And you are racing about the country after rebellious peasants. Really, I don’t know what prevents me from ordering your arrest.”

What did prevent him was the priestly robe, all powerful under the Restoration. With Maurice, however, the swaggering swashbuckler was more at ease. “How many are there in this family of yours?” he asked.

“Three; my father, my mother--ill at this moment--and myself.”

“And how many servants?”

“Seven--four men and three women.”

“You haven’t housed or concealed any one here this evening?”

“No one.”

“It will be necessary to prove that,” rejoined the captain; and turning towards the door he called, “Corporal Bavois, step here!”

This corporal proved to be one of the old soldiers who had followed the emperor all over Europe. Two tiny, but piercing grey eyes lighted his tanned, weather-beaten face, and an immense hooked nose surmounted a heavy, bristling moustache. “Bavois,” commanded the officer, “take half a dozen men and search this house from top to bottom. You are an old fox, and if there be any hiding-place here, you will be sure to discover it. If you find any one concealed here, bring the person to me. Go, and make haste!”

The corporal saluted and turned on his heels; while the captain walked towards Maurice: “And now,” said he, “what have you been doing this evening?”

The young man hesitated for a moment: then, with well-feigned indifference, replied: “I have not put my head out of doors.”

“Hum! that must be proved. Let me see your hands.”

The soldier’s tone was so offensive that Maurice felt the blood rise to his forehead. Fortunately a warning glance from the abbe made him restrain himself. He offered his hands for inspection, and the captain, after examining them carefully on either side, took the final precaution to smell them. “Ah!” quoth he, “these hands are too white and smell too sweet to have been dabbling with powder.”

At the same time he was somewhat surprised that this young man should have so little courage as to remain by the fireside at home, while his father was leading the peasants on to battle. “Another thing,” said he: “you must have some weapons here?”

“Yes, a few hunting rifles.”

“Where are they?”

“In a small room on the ground floor.”

“Take me there.”

They conducted him to the room, and on finding that none of the guns had been used, at least for some days, he seemed considerably annoyed. But his disappointment reached a climax when Corporal Bavois returned and stated that he had searched everywhere, without finding anything of a suspicious character.

“Send for the servants,” was the officer’s next order; but all the dependents faithfully confined themselves to the story indicated by the abbe Midon, and the captain perceived that even if a mystery existed, as he suspected, he was not likely to fathom it. Swearing that all the inmates of the house should pay a heavy penalty if they were deceiving him, he again called Bavois and told him that he should resume the search himself. “You,” he added, “will remain here with two men, and I shall expect you to render a strict account of all you see and hear. If M. d’Escorval returns, bring him to me at once; do not allow him to escape. Keep your eyes open and good luck to you!”

He added a few words in a low voice, and then left the room as abruptly as he had entered it. Scarcely had the sound of his footsteps died away, than the corporal gave vent to his disgust in a frightful oath. “_Hein!_” said he, to his men, “did you hear that cadet. Listen, watch, arrest, report. So he takes us for spies! Ah! if the Little Corporal only knew how his old soldiers were degraded!”

The two men responded with sullen growls.

“As for you,” pursued the old trooper, addressing Maurice and the abbe, “I Bavois, corporal of the grenadiers, declare in my own name and in that of my comrades here, that you are as free as birds, and that we shall arrest no one. More than that, if we can aid you in any way, we are at your service. The little fool who commands us this evening thought we were fighting. Look at my gun--I have not fired a shot from it--and my comrades only fired blank cartridges.” The statement might possibly be a sincere one, but was scarcely probable. “We have nothing to conceal,” replied the cautious priest.

The old corporal gave a knowing wink. “Ah! you distrust me!” said he. “You are wrong, as I’ll show you. It may be easy to gull that fool who has just left here, but it’s not so easy to deceive Corporal Bavois. And if you had intended to do so, you shouldn’t have left a gun in the courtyard, which was certainly never loaded for firing at swallows.”

The cure and Maurice exchanged glances of consternation. Maurice now recollected, for the first time, that on alighting from the cabriolet on his return, he had hastily propped the loaded gun against the wall. The weapon had subsequently escaped the servants’ notice.

“Secondly!” resumed Bavois, “there is some one concealed in the attic. I have excellent ears. Thirdly, I arranged matters so that no one should enter the sick lady’s room.”

Maurice needed no further proof. He held out his hand to the corporal, and, in a voice trembling with emotion, replied: “You are a noble fellow!”

A few moments later--the three grenadiers having retired to another room, where they were served with supper--Maurice, the abbe, and Madame d’Escorval were again deliberating concerning their future action, when Marie-Anne entered the apartment with a pale face, but firm step. “I must leave this house,” she said, to the baroness, in a tone of quiet resolution. “Had I been conscious, I would never have accepted hospitality which is likely to bring such misfortune on your family. Your acquaintance with me has cost you too much sorrow already. Don’t you understand now, why I wished you to look on us as strangers? A presentiment told me that my family would prove fatal to yours!”

“Poor child!” exclaimed Madame d’Escorval; “where will you go?”

Marie-Anne raised her beautiful eyes to heaven. “I don’t know, madame,” she replied, “but duty commands me to go. I must learn what has become of my father and brother, and share their fate.”

“What!” exclaimed Maurice, “still this thought of death. You, who no longer----” He paused; for a secret which was not his own had almost escaped his lips. But visited by a sudden inspiration, he threw himself at his mother’s feet. “Oh, my mother! my dearest mother, do not allow her to go,” he cried. “I may perish in my attempt to save my father. She will be your daughter then--she whom I have loved so dearly. She cannot leave us. You will encircle her with your tender and protecting love; and may be, after all these trials, happier times will come.”

Touched by her son’s despair, Madame d’Escorval turned to Marie-Anne, and with her winning words soon prevailed upon her to remain.

XVI.

The baroness knew nothing of the secret which Marie-Anne had revealed at the Croix d’Arcy, when she proclaimed her desire to die by her father’s side; but Maurice was scarcely uneasy on that score, for his faith in his mother was so great that he felt sure she would forgive them both when she learnt the truth. Not unfrequently does it happen, that of all women, chaste and loving wives and mothers are precisely the most indulgent towards those whom the voice of passion has led astray. Comforted by this reflection, which reassured him as to the future of the girl he loved, Maurice now turned all his thoughts towards his father.