Chapter XI: Part 11

Her voice grew fainter and fainter. Worn out with suffering, a sensation of drowsiness stole over her. She was falling asleep in the arms of death. But suddenly such a terrible thought found its way into her failing mind that she gasped with agony, “My child!” And then, regaining, by a superhuman effort as much will, energy, and strength, as the poison would allow her, she straitened herself in the arm-chair, and though her features were contracted by mortal anguish, yet with an energy of which no one would have supposed her capable, she exclaimed, “Blanche, listen to me. It is the secret of my life which I am going to reveal to you; no one suspects it. I have a son by Maurice. Alas! many months have elapsed since my husband disappeared. If he is dead, what will become of my child? Blanche, you, who have killed me, swear to me that you will be a mother to my child!”

Blanche was utterly overcome. “I swear!” she sobbed; “I swear!”

“On that condition, but on that condition alone, I pardon you. But take care! Do not forget your oath! Blanche, heaven sometimes allows the dead to avenge themselves. You have sworn, remember. My spirit will allow you no rest if you do not fulfil your vow!”

“I will remember,” sobbed Blanche; “I will remember. But the child----”

“Ah! I was afraid--cowardly creature that I was! I dreaded the shame--then Maurice insisted--I sent my child away--your jealousy and my death are the punishment of my weakness. Poor child! abandoned to strangers! Wretched woman that I am! Ah! this suffering is too horrible. Blanche, remember----”

She spoke again, but her words were indistinct, inaudible. Blanche frantically seized the dying woman’s arm, and endeavoured to arouse her. “To whom have you confided your child?” she repeated; “to whom? Marie-Anne--a word more--a single word--a name, Marie-Anne!”

The unfortunate woman’s lips moved, but the death-rattle already sounded in her throat; a terrible convulsion shook her frame; she slid down from the chair, and fell full length upon the floor. Marie-Anne was dead--dead, and she had not disclosed the name of the old physician at Vigano to whom she had entrusted her child. She was dead, and the terrified murderess stood in the middle of the room as rigid and motionless as a statue. It seemed to her that madness--a madness like that which had stricken her father--was working in her brain. She forgot everything; she forgot that some one was expected at midnight; that time was flying, and that she would surely be discovered if she did not fly. But the man who had entered the house when she cried for help was watching over her. As soon as he saw that Marie-Anne had breathed her last, he pushed against the door, and thrust his leering face into the room.

“Chupin!” faltered Blanche.

“In the flesh,” he responded. “This was a grand chance for you. Ah, ha! The business riled your stomach a little; but nonsense! that will soon pass off. But we must not dawdle here: some one may come in. Let us make haste.”

Mechanically the murderess stepped forward, but Marie-Anne’s dead body lay between her and the door, barring the passage. To leave the room it was necessary to step over her victim’s lifeless form. She had not courage to do so, and recoiled with a shudder. But Chupin was troubled by no such scruples. He sprang across the body, lifted Blanche as if she had been a child, and carried her out of the house. He was intoxicated with joy. He need have no fears for the future now; for Blanche was bound to him by the strongest of chains--complicity in crime. He saw himself on the threshold of a life of constant revelry. All remorse anent Lacheneur’s betrayal had departed. He would be sumptuously fed, lodged, and clothed; and, above all, effectually protected by an army of servants.

While these agreeable thoughts were darting through his mind, the cool night air was reviving the terror-stricken Marchioness de Sairmeuse. She intimated that she should prefer to walk, and accordingly Chupin deposited her on her feet some twenty paces from the house. Aunt Medea was already with them after the fashion of a dog left at the door by its master while the latter goes into a house. She had instinctively followed her niece, when she perceived the old poacher carrying her out of the cottage.

“We must not stop to talk,” said Chupin. “Come, I will lead the way.” And taking Blanche by the arm, he hastened towards the grove. “Ah! so Marie-Anne had a child,” he remarked, as they hurried on. “She pretended to be such a saint! But where the deuce has she placed it?”

“I shall find it,” replied Blanche.

“Hum! that is easier said than done,” quoth the old poacher, thoughtfully.

Scarcely had he spoken than a shrill laugh resounded in the darkness. In the twinkling of an eye Chupin had released his hold on Blanche’s arm, and assumed an attitude of defence. The precaution was fruitless; for at the same moment a man concealed among the trees bounded upon him from behind, and, plunging a knife four times into his writhing body, exclaimed, “Holy Virgin! now is my vow fulfilled! I shall no longer have to eat with my fingers!”

“Balstain! the innkeeper!” groaned the wounded man, sinking to the ground.

Blanche seemed rooted to the spot with horror; but Aunt Medea for once in her life had some energy in her fear. “Come!” she shrieked, dragging her niece away “Come--he is dead!”

Not quite, for the old traitor had sufficient strength remaining to crawl home and knock at the door. His wife and youngest boy were sleeping soundly, and it was his eldest son, who had just returned home, who opened the door. Seeing his father prostrate on the ground, the young man thought he was intoxicated, and tried to lift him and carry him into the house, but the old poacher begged him to desist. “Don’t touch me,” said he. “It is all over with me! but listen: Lacheneur’s daughter has just been poisoned by Madame Blanche. It was to tell you this that I dragged myself here. This knowledge is worth a fortune, my boy, if you are not a fool!” And then he died without being able to tell his family where he had concealed the price of Lacheneur’s blood.

XXXIII.

It will be recollected that of all those who witnessed the Baron d’Escorval’s terrible fall over the precipice below the citadel of Montaignac, the Abbe Midon was the only one who did not despair. He set about his task with more than courage, with a reverent faith in the protection of providence, remembering Ambroise Pare’s sublime phrase--”I dress the wound--God heals it.” That he was right to hope was conclusively shown by the fact that after six months sojourn in Father Poignot’s house, the baron was able to sit up and even to limp about with the aid of crutches. On reaching this stage of recovery, however, when it was essential he should take some little exercise, he was seriously inconvenienced by the diminutive proportions of Poignot’s loft, so that he welcomed with intense delight the prospect of taking up his abode at the Borderie with Marie-Anne; and when indeed the abbe fixed the day for moving, he grew as impatient for it to arrive, as a schoolboy is for the holidays. “I am suffocating here,” he said to his wife, “literally suffocating. The time passes so slowly. When will the happy day come!”

It came at last. The morning was spent in packing up such things as they had managed to procure, during their stay at the farm; and soon after nightfall Poignot’s elder son began carrying them away. “Everything is at the Borderie,” said the honest fellow, on returning from his last trip, “and Mademoiselle Lacheneur bids the baron bring a good appetite.”

“I shall have one, never fear!” responded M. d’Escorval gaily. “We shall all have one.”

Father Poignot himself was busy harnessing his best horse to the cart which was to convey the baron to his new home. The worthy man felt sad as he thought that these guests, for whose sake he had incurred such danger, were now going to leave him. He felt he should acutely miss them, that the house would seem gloomy and deserted after they had left. He would allow no one else to arrange the mattress intended for M. d’Escorval comfortably in the cart; and when he had done this to his satisfaction, he murmured, with a sigh, “It’s time to start!” and turned to climb the narrow staircase leading to the loft.

M. d’Escorval with a patient’s natural egotism had not thought of the parting. But when he saw the honest farmer, coming to bid him good-bye, with signs of deep emotion on his face, he forgot all the comforts that awaited him at the Borderie, in the remembrance of the royal and courageous hospitality he had received in the house he was about to leave. The tears sprang to his eyes. “You have rendered me a service which nothing can repay, Father Poignot,” he said, with intense feeling. “You have saved my life.”

“Oh! we won’t talk of that, baron. In my place, you would have done the same--neither more nor less.”

“I shall not attempt to express my thanks, but I hope to live long enough to show my gratitude.”

The staircase was so narrow that they had considerable difficulty in carrying the baron down; but finally they had him stretched comfortably on his mattress in the cart; a few handfuls of straw being scattered over his limbs so as to hide him from the gaze of any inquisitive passers-by. The latter was scarcely to be expected it is true, for it was now fully eleven o’clock at night. Parting greetings were exchanged, and then the cart which young Poignot drove with the utmost caution started slowly on its way.

On foot, some twenty paces in the rear came Madame d’Escorval, leaning on the abbe’s arm. It was very dark, but even if they had been in the full sunshine, the former cure of Sairmeuse might have encountered any of his old parishioners without the least danger of detection. He had allowed his hair and beard to grow; his tonsure had entirely disappeared, and his sedentary life had caused him to become much stouter. He was clad like all the well-to-do peasants of the neighbourhood, his face being partially hidden by a large slouch hat. He had not felt so much at ease for months past. Obstacles which had originally seemed to him insurmountable, had now vanished, and in the near future he saw the baron’s innocence proclaimed by an impartial tribunal, while he himself was re-installed in the parsonage of Sairmeuse. If it had not been for his recollection of Maurice he would have had nothing to trouble his mind. Why had young d’Escorval given no sign of life? It seemed impossible for him to have met with any misfortune without hearing of it, for there was brave old Corporal Bavois who would have risked anything to come and warn them, if Maurice had been in danger. The abbe was so absorbed in these reflections, that he did not notice Madame d’Escorval was leaning more heavily on his arm and gradually slackening her pace. “I am ashamed to confess it,” she said at last, “but I can go no farther. It is so long since I was out of doors, that I have almost forgotten how to walk.”

“Fortunately we are almost there,” replied the priest; and indeed a moment afterwards young Poignot drew up at the corner of the foot-path leading to the Borderie. Telling the baron that the journey was ended he gave a low whistle, like that which had warned Marie-Anne of his arrival a few hours before. No one appeared or replied, so he whistled again, in a louder key, and then a third time with all his might--still there was no response. Madame d’Escorval and the abbe had now overtaken the cart, “It’s very strange that Marie-Anne doesn’t hear me,” remarked young Poignot, turning to them. “We can’t take the baron to the house until we have seen her. She knows that very well. Shall I run up and warn her?”

“She’s asleep, perhaps,” replied the abbe; “stay with your horse, my boy, and I’ll go and wake her.”

He certainly did not feel the least uneasiness. All was calm and still outside, and a bright light shone through the windows of the upper floor. Still, when he perceived the open door, a vague presentiment of evil stirred his heart. “What can this mean?” he thought. There was no light in the lower rooms, and he had to feel for the staircase with his hands. At last he found it and went up. Another open door was in front of him; he stepped forward and reached the threshold. Then, so suddenly that he almost fell backward--he paused horror-stricken at the sight before him. Poor Marie-Anne was lying on the floor. Her eyes, which were wide open, were covered with a white film; her tongue was hanging black and swollen from her mouth. “Dead!” faltered the priest; “dead!” But this could not be. The abbe conquered his weakness, and approaching the poor girl, he took her by the hand. It was icy cold; and her arm was as rigid as iron. “Poisoned!” he murmured: “poisoned with arsenic.” He rose to his feet, and was casting a bewildered glance around the room, when his eyes fell on his medicine chest, standing open on a side-table. He rushed towards it, took out a vial, uncorked it, and turned it over on the palm of his hand--it was empty. “I was not mistaken!” he exclaimed.

But he had no time to lose in conjectures. The first thing to be done was to induce the baron to return to the farm-house without telling him of the terrible misfortune which had occurred. It would not be very difficult to find a pretext. Summoning all his courage the priest hastened back to the waggon, and with well-affected calmness told M. d’Escorval that it would be impossible for him to take up his abode at the Borderie at present, that several suspicious-looking characters had been seen prowling about, and that they must be more prudent than ever now, so as not to render Martial’s intervention useless. At last, but not without considerable reluctance, the baron yielded. “As you desire it, cure,” he sighed, “I must obey. Come, Poignot, my boy, drive me back to your father’s house.”

Madame d’Escorval took a seat in her cart beside her husband. The priest stood watching them as they drove off, and it was not until the sound of the wheels had died away in the distance that he ventured to return to the Borderie. He was climbing the stairs again when he heard a faint moan in the room where Marie-Anne was lying. The sound sent all his blood wildly rushing to his heart, and with one bound he had reached the upper floor. Beside the corpse a young man was kneeling, weeping bitterly. The expression of his face, his attitude, his sobs betrayed the wildest despair. He was so lost in grief that he did not observe the abbe’s entrance. Who was this mourner who had found his way to the house of death? At last, however, though he did not recognize him, the priest divined who he must be. “Jean!” he cried, “Jean Lacheneur!” The young fellow sprang to his feet with a pale face and threatening look. “Who are you?” he asked vehemently. “What are you doing here? What do you want with me?”

The former cure of Sairmeuse was so effectually disguised by his peasant dress and long beard, that he had to name himself. “You, Monsieur abbe,” exclaimed Jean. “It is God who has sent you here! Marie-Anne cannot be dead! You, who have saved so many others, will save her.” But as the priest sadly pointed to heaven, the young fellow paused, and his face became most ghastly looking than before. He understood now that there was no hope. “Ah!” he murmured in a desponding tone, “fate shows us no mercy. I have been watching over Marie-Anne, from a distance; and this evening I was coming to warn her to be cautious, for I knew she was in great danger. An hour ago, while I was eating my supper in a wine-shop at Sairmeuse, Grollet’s son came in. ‘Is that you, Jean?’ said he. ‘I just saw Chupin hiding near your sister’s house; when he observed me he slunk away.’ When I heard that, I hastened here like a crazy man. I ran, but when fate is against you, what can you do? I arrived too late!”

The abbe reflected for a moment. “Then you suppose it was Chupin?” he asked.

“I don’t suppose; I feel certain that it was he--the miserable traitor!--who committed this foul deed.”

“Still, what motive could he have had?”

With a discordant laugh that almost seemed a yell, Jean answered: “Oh, you may be certain that the daughter’s blood will yield him a richer reward than did the father’s. Chupin has been the instrument; but it was not he who conceived the crime. You will have to seek higher for the culprit, much higher, in the finest chateau of the country, in the midst of an army of retainers at Sairmeuse.”

“Wretched man, what do you mean?”

“What I say.” And he coldly added: “Martial de Sairmeuse is the assassin.”

The priest recoiled. “You are mad!” he said severely.

But Jean gravely shook his head. “If I seem so to you, sir,” he replied, “it is only because you are ignorant of Martial’s wild passion for Marie-Anne. He wanted to make her his mistress. She had the audacity to refuse the honour; and that was a crime for which she must be punished. When the Marquis de Sairmeuse became convinced that Lacheneur’s daughter would never be his, he poisoned her that she might not belong to any one else.” All efforts to convince Jean of the folly of his accusations would at that moment have been vain. No proofs would have convinced him. He would have closed his eyes to all evidence.

“To-morrow, when he is more calm, I will reason with him,” thought the abbe; and then he added aloud: “We can’t allow the poor girl’s body to remain here on the floor. Help me, and we will place it on the bed.”

Jean trembled from head to foot, and his hesitation was perceptible; but at last, after a severe struggle, he complied. No one had ever yet slept on this bed which Chanlouineau had destined for Marie-Anne, saying to himself that it should be for her, or for no one. And Marie-Anne it was who rested there the first--sleeping the sleep of death. When the sad task was accomplished, Jean threw himself into the same arm-chair in which Marie-Anne had breathed her last, and with his face buried in his hands, and his elbows resting on his knees, he sat there as silent and motionless as the statues of sorrow placed above the last resting places of the dead.

In the meanwhile, the abbe knelt by the bed-side, and began reciting the prayers for the departed, entreating God to grant peace and happiness in heaven to her who had suffered so much on earth. But he prayed only with his lips, for in spite of all his efforts, his mind would persist in wandering. He was striving to solve the mystery that enshrouded Marie-Anne’s death. Had she been murdered? Was it possible that she had committed suicide? The latter idea occurred to him without his having any great faith in it; but, on the other hand, how could her death possibly be the result of crime? He had carefully examined the room, and had discovered nothing that betrayed a stranger’s visit. All he could prove was that his vial of arsenic was empty, and that Marie-Anne had been poisoned by absorbing it in the broth a few drops of which were left in the bowl standing on the mantelpiece. “When morning comes,” thought the abbe, “I will look outside.”

Accordingly, at daybreak he went into the garden, and made a careful examination of the premises. At first he saw nothing that gave him the least clue, and he was about to abandon his investigations, when on entering the little grove, he espied a large dark stain on the grass a few paces off. He went nearer--it was blood! In a state of great excitement, he summoned Jean to inform him of the discovery.

“Some one has been murdered here,” said young Lacheneur; “and only last night, for the blood has scarcely had time to dry.”

“The victim must have lost a great deal of blood,” remarked the priest; “it might be possible to discover who he was by following these stains.”

“Yes, I will try,” replied Jean with alacrity. “Go into the house, sir; I will soon be back again.”

A child might have followed the trail of the wounded man, for the blood stains left along his line of route were so frequent and distinct. These tell-tale marks led to Chupin’s hovel, the door of which was closed. Jean rapped, however, without the slightest hesitation, and when the old poacher’s eldest son opened the door, he perceived a very singular spectacle. The dead body had been thrown on to the ground, in a corner of the hut, the bedstead was overturned and broken, all the straw had been torn from the mattress, and the dead man’s wife and sons armed with spades and pick-axes were wildly overturning the beaten soil that formed the hovel’s only floor. They were seeking for the hidden treasure, for the 20,000 francs in gold, paid for Lacheneur’s betrayal! “What do you want?” asked the widow, roughly.

“I want to see Father Chupin.”

“Can’t you see that he’s been murdered,” replied one of the sons. And brandishing his pick close to Jean’s head, he added: “And you’re the murderer, perhaps. But that’s for justice to determine. Now, decamp; if you don’t want me to do for you.”

Jean could scarcely restrain himself from punishing young Chupin for his threat, but under the circumstances a conflict was scarcely permissible. Accordingly, he turned without another word hastened back to the Borderie. Chupin’s death upset all his plans, and greatly irritated him. “I swore that the wretch who betrayed my father should perish by my hand,” he murmured; “and now I am deprived of my vengeance. Some one has cheated me out of it. Who could it be? Can Martial have assassinated Chupin after he murdered Marie-Anne? The best way to assure one’s self of an accomplice’s silence is certainly to kill him.”

Jean had reached the Borderie, and was on the point of going up-stairs, when he fancied he heard some one talking in the back room. “That’s strange,” he said to himself. “Who can it be?” And yielding to the impulse of curiosity, he tapped against the communicating door.

The abbe instantly made his appearance, hurriedly closing the door behind him. He was very pale and agitated.

“Who’s there?” inquired Jean, eagerly.

“Why, Maurice d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois.”

“My God!”

“And it’s a miracle that Maurice has not been up stairs.”

“But whence does he come from? Why have we had no news of him?”

“I don’t know. He has only been here five minutes. Poor boy! after I told him his father was safe, his first words were: ‘And Marie-Anne!’ He loves her more devotedly than ever. He comes home with his heart full of her, confident and hopeful; and I tremble--I fear to tell him the truth.”

“Yes, it’s really too terrible!”

“Now I have warned you; be prudent--and come in.” They entered the room together; and both Maurice and the old soldier greeted Jean warmly. They had not seen one another since the duel at La Reche, interrupted by the arrival of the soldiers; and when they separated that day they scarcely expected to meet again.

Now Maurice, however, was in the best of spirits, and it was with a smile on his face that he remarked: “I am glad you’ve come. There’s nothing to fear now.” Then turning to the abbe, he remarked: “But I just promised to let you know the reason of my long silence. Three days after we crossed the frontier--Corporal Bavois and I--we reached Turin. We were tired out. We went to a small inn, and they gave us a room with two beds. While we were undressing, the corporal said to me: ‘I am quite capable of sleeping two whole days without waking,’ while I promised myself at least a good twelve hours’ rest; but we reckoned without our host, as you’ll see. It was scarcely daybreak when we were suddenly woke up. There were a dozen men in our room, one or two of them in some official costume. They spoke to us in Italian, and ordered us to dress ourselves. They were so numerous that resistance was useless, so we obeyed; and an hour after we were both in prison, confined in the same cell. You may well imagine what our thoughts were. The corporal remarked to me, in that cool way of his: ‘It will require four days to obtain our extradition, and three days to take us back to Montaignac--that’s seven, then there’ll be one day more to try us, so we’ve in all just eight days to live.’ Bavois said that at least a hundred times during the first five or six days of our confinement, but five months passed by, and every night we went to bed expecting they’d come for us on the following morning. But they didn’t come. We were kindly treated. They did not take away my money; and they willingly sold us various little luxuries. We were allowed two hours of exercise every day in the courtyard, and the keepers even lent us several books to read. In short, I shouldn’t have had any particular cause for complaint, if I had only been allowed to receive or to forward letters, or if I had been able to communicate with my father or Marie-Anne. But we were in the secret cells, and were not allowed to have any intercourse with the other prisoners. At length our detention seemed so strange and became so insupportable that we resolved to obtain some explanation of it at any cost. We changed our tactics. We had hitherto been quiet and submissive: but now we became as violent and unmanageable as possible. The whole prison resounded with our cries and protestations; we were continually sending for the superintendent, and claiming the intervention of the French ambassador. These proceedings at last had the desired effect. One fine afternoon the governor of the jail released us, not without expressing his regret at being deprived of the society of such amiable and charming guests. Our first act, as you may suppose, was to hasten to the ambassador. We didn’t see that dignitary, but his secretary received us. He knit his brows when I told my story, and became excessively grave. I remember each word of his reply. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I can assure you most positively that any proceedings instituted against you in France have had nothing whatever to do with your detention here.’ And I expressed my astonishment frankly. ‘One moment,’ he added, ‘I will give you my opinion. One of your enemies--I leave you to discover which--must exert a powerful influence in Turin. You were in his way, perhaps, and he had you imprisoned by the Piedmontese police.”

Jean Lacheneur struck the table beside him with his clenched fist. “Ah! the secretary was right!” he exclaimed. “Maurice, it was Martial de Sairmeuse who caused your arrest----”

“Or the Marquis de Courtornieu,” interrupted the abbe, with a warning glance at Jean.

In a moment Maurice’s eyes gleamed brilliantly, then, shrugging his shoulders carelessly, he said, “Never mind; I don’t wish to trouble myself any more about the past. My father is well again--that is the main thing. We can easily find some way of getting him safely across the frontier. And then Marie-Anne and I--we will tend him so devotedly that he will soon forget it was my rashness that almost cost him his life. He is so good, so indulgent for the faults of others. We will go and reside in Italy or Switzerland, and you shall accompany us, Monsieur the Abbe, and you as well, Jean. As for you, corporal, it’s already decided that you belong to our family.”

While Maurice spoke in this fashion, so hopefully, so confidently, Jean and the abbe, realising the bitter truth, sought to avert their faces; but they could not conceal their agitation from young D’Escorval’s searching glance. “What is the matter?” he asked, with evident surprise.

They trembled, hung their heads, but did not say a word. Maurice’s astonishment changed to a vague, inexpressible fear. He enumerated all the misfortunes which could possibly have befallen him.

“What has happened?” he asked in a husky voice. “My father is safe is he not? You said that my mother would want nothing more, if I were only by her side again. Is it Marie-Anne then----” He hesitated.

“Courage, Maurice,” murmured the abbe. “Courage!”

The young fellow tottered as if he were about to fall. He had turned intensely pale. “Marie-Anne is dead!” he exclaimed.

Jean and the abbe were silent.

“Dead!” repeated Maurice; “and no secret voice warned me! Dead! When?”

“She died only last night,” replied Jean.

Maurice rose. “Last night?” said he. “In that case, then, she is still here. Where?--upstairs?” And without waiting for a reply, he darted toward the staircase so quickly that neither Jean nor the abbe had time to intercept him. With three bounds he reached the room above; he walked straight to the bed, and with a firm hand turned back the sheet that hid his loved one’s face. But at the same moment he recoiled with a heart-broken cry. What! was this the beautiful, the radiant Marie-Anne--she whom he had loved so fervently! He did not recognize her. He could not recognize these distorted features--that swollen, discoloured face--these eyes, now almost hidden by the purple swelling round them. When Jean and the priest entered the room they found him standing with his head thrown back, his eyes dilated with terror, his right arm rigidly extended toward the corpse. “Maurice,” said the priest, gently, “be calm. Courage!”

The young fellow turned with an expression of complete bewilderment upon his features. “Yes,” he faltered; “that is what I need--courage!” He staggered as he spoke, and they were obliged to support him to an arm-chair.

“Be a man,” continued the priest. “Where is your energy? To live is to suffer.”

He listened, but did not seem to understand. “Live!” he murmured; “why should I live since she is dead?”

His eyes gleamed so strangely that the abbe was alarmed. “If he does not weep, he will most certainly lose his reason!” thought the priest. Then in a commanding voice he added aloud, “You have no right to despair; you owe a sacred duty to your child.”

The same remembrance which had given Marie-Anne strength to hold even death itself at bay for a moment, saved Maurice from the dangerous trance into which he was sinking. He shuddered as if he had received an electric shock, and springing from his chair, “That is true,” he cried. “Take me to my child!”

“Not just now, Maurice; wait a little.”

“Where is it? Tell me where it is.”

“I cannot; I do not know.”

An expression of unspeakable anguish stole over Maurice’s face, and in a broken voice he said: “What! you don’t know? Did she not confide in you?”

“No. I suspected her secret. I, alone----”

“You, alone! Then the child is perhaps dead. Even if it is living, who can tell where it is?”

“We shall no doubt find a clue.”

“You are right,” faltered Maurice. “When Marie-Anne knew that her life was in danger, she could not have forgotten her little one. Those who cared for her in her last moments must have received some message for me. I must see those who watched over her. Who were they?” The priest averted his face. “I asked you who was with her when she died,” repeated Maurice, in a sort of frenzy. And, as the abbe remained silent, a terrible light dawned on the young fellow’s mind. He understood the cause of Marie-Anne’s distorted features now. “She perished the victim of a crime!” he exclaimed. “Some monster killed her. If she died such a death, our child is lost for ever! And it was I who recommended, who commanded the greatest precautions! Ah! we are all of us cursed!” He sank back in his chair, overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, and with big tears rolling slowly down his cheeks.

“He is saved!” thought the abbe, whose heart bled at the sight of such intense sorrow.

Jean Lacheneur stood by the priest’s side with gloom upon his face. Suddenly he drew the Abbe Midon towards one of the windows: “What is this about a child?” he enquired, harshly.

The priest’s face flushed. “You have heard,” he answered, laconically.

“Am I to understand that Marie-Anne was Maurice’s mistress, and that she had a child by him? Is that the case? I won’t, I can’t believe it! She whom I revered as a saint! What! you would have me believe that her eyes lied--her eyes so chaste, so pure? And he--Maurice--he whom I loved as a brother! So his friendship was only a cloak which he assumed so as to rob us of our honour!” Jean hissed these words through his set teeth in such low tones that Maurice, absorbed in his agony of grief, did not overhear him. “But how did she conceal her shame?” he continued. “No one suspected it--absolutely no one. And what has she done with her child? Did the thought of disgrace frighten her? Did she follow the example of so many ruined and forsaken women? Did she murder her own child? Ah, if it be alive I will find it, and in any case Maurice shall be punished for his perfidy as he deserves.” He paused; the window was open, and the sound of galloping horses could be plainly heard approaching along the adjacent highway. Both Jean and the abbe leant forward and looked out. Two horsemen were riding toward the Borderie--the first some ten yards in advance of the other. The former halted at the corner of the garden path, threw his reins to his follower--a groom--and then strode on foot toward the house. On recognizing this visitor, Jean bounded from the window with a yell. He clutched Maurice by the shoulders, and, shaking him violently, exclaimed, “Up! here comes Martial, Marie-Anne’s murderer! Up! he is coming! He is at our mercy!”

Maurice sprang to his feet, infuriated; but the abbe darted to the door and intercepted both young fellows as they were about to leave the room. “Not a word! not a threat!” he said, imperiously. “I forbid it. At least respect the presence of death!” He spoke with such authority, and his glance was so commanding, that both Jean and Maurice involuntarily paused. Before the priest had time to add another word, Martial was there. He did not cross the threshold. One look and he realised the situation. He turned very pale, but not a word escaped his lips. Wonderful as was his usual power of self-control he could not articulate a syllable; and it was only by pointing to the bed on which Marie-Anne’s lifeless form was reposing that he asked for an explanation.

“She was infamously poisoned last evening,” sadly replied the abbe.

Then Maurice, forgetting the priest’s demands, stepped forward. “She was alone and defenseless,” he said vehemently. “I have only been at liberty during the last two days. But I know the name of the man who had me arrested at Turin, and thrown into prison. They told me the coward’s name! Yes, it was you, you infamous wretch! Ah! you dare not deny it; you confess your guilt, you scoundrel!”

Once again the abbe interposed; He threw himself between the rivals, fearing lest they should come to blows. But the Marquis de Sairmeuse had already resumed his usual haughty and indifferent manner. He took a bulky envelope from his pocket, and threw it on the table. “This,” said he coldly, “is what I was bringing to Mademoiselle Lacheneur. It contains, first of all, royal letters of licence from his majesty for the Baron d’Escorval, who is now at liberty to return to his old home. He is, in fact, free and saved, for he is granted a new trial, and there can be no doubt of his acquittal. In the same envelope you will also find a decree of noncomplicity rendered in favour of the Abbe Midon, and an order from the bishop of the diocese, reinstating him as cure of Sairmeuse; and, finally, Corporal Bavois’ discharge from the service, drawn up in proper form, with the needful memorandum securing his right to a pension.”

He paused, and as his hearers stood motionless with wonder, he turned and approached Marie-Anne’s bedside. Then, with his hand raised to heaven over the lifeless form of her whom he had loved, and in a voice that would have made the murderess tremble in her innermost soul, he solemnly exclaimed: “I swear to you, Marie-Anne, that I will avenge you!” For a few seconds he stood motionless, then suddenly he stooped, pressed a kiss on the dead girl’s brow, and left the room.

“And you think that man can be guilty!” exclaimed the abbe. “You see, Jean, that you are mad!”

“And this last insult to my dead sister is an honour, I suppose,” said Jean, with a furious gesture.

“And the wretch binds my hands by saving my father!” exclaimed Maurice.

From his place by the window, the abbe saw Martial vault into the saddle. But the marquis did not take the road to Montaignac. It was towards the Chateau de Courtornieu that he now hastened.

XXXIV.

Blanche’s reason had sustained a frightful shock, when Chupin was obliged to lift and carry her out of Marie-Anne’s room. But she well-nigh lost consciousness altogether when she saw the old poacher struck down by her side. However, as will be remembered, Aunt Medea, at least, had some energy in her fright. She seized her bewildered niece’s arm, and by dint of dragging and pushing had her back at the chateau in much less time than it had taken them to reach the Borderie. It was half-past one in the morning when they reached the little garden-gate, by which they had left the grounds. No one in the chateau had noticed their long absence. This was due to several different circumstances. First of all, to the precautions which Blanche herself had taken in giving orders, before going out, that no one should come to her room, on any pretext whatever, unless she rang. Then it also chanced to be the birthday of the marquis’s valet de chambre, and the servants had dined more sumptuously than usual. They had toasts and songs over their dessert; and at the finish of the repast, they amused themselves with an improvised ball. They were still dancing when Blanche and her aunt returned. None of the doors had yet been secured for the night, and the pair succeeded in reaching Blanche’s room without being observed. When the door had been securely closed, and there was no longer any fear of listeners, Aunt Medea attacked her niece.

“Now, will you explain what happened at the Borderie; and what you were doing there?” she inquired, in a tone of unusual authority.

Blanche shuddered. “Why do you wish to know?” she asked.

“Because I suffered agony during the hours I was waiting for you in the garden. What was the meaning of those dreadful cries I heard? Why did you call for help? I heard a death-rattle that made my hair stand on end with terror. Why did Chupin have to bring you out in his arms?” She paused for a moment, and then finding that Blanche did not reply. “You don’t answer me!” she exclaimed.

The young marchioness was longing to annihilate her dependent relative, who might ruin her by a thoughtless word, and whom she would ever have beside her--a living memento of her crime. However, what should she say? Would it be better to reveal the truth, horrible as it was, or to invent some plausible explanation? If she confessed everything she would place herself at Aunt Medea’s mercy. But, on the other hand, if she deceived her aunt, it was more than probable that the latter would betray her by some involuntary remark when she heard of the crime committed at the Borderie. Hence, under the circumstances, the wisest plan, perhaps, would be to speak out frankly, to teach her relative her lesson, and try and imbue her with some firmness. Having come to this conclusion, Blanche disdained all concealment. “Ah, well!” she said, “I was jealous of Marie-Anne. I thought she was Martial’s mistress. I was half-crazed, and I poisoned her.”

She expected a despairing cry, or even a fainting fit, but, to her surprise, Aunt Medea merely shed a few tears--such as she often wept for any trifle--and exclaimed: “How terrible. What if it should be discovered?” In point of fact, stupid as the neglected spinster might be, she had guessed the truth before she questioned her niece. And not merely was she prepared for some such answer, but the tyranny she had endured for years had well-nigh destroyed all the real moral sensibility she had ever possessed.

On noting her aunt’s comparative composure, Blanche breathed more freely. She never imagined that her impoverished relative was already meditating some sort of revenge for all the slights heaped on her in past years; but felt quite convinced that she could count on Aunt Medea’s absolute silence and submission. With this idea in her head she began to relate all the circumstances of the frightful drama enacted at the Borderie. In so doing she yielded to a desire stronger than her own will: to the wild longing that often seizes the most hardened criminal, and forces--irresistibly impels him to talk of his crimes, even when he distrusts his confidant. But when she came to speak of the proofs which had convinced her of her lamentable mistake, she suddenly paused in dismay.

What had she done with the marriage certificate signed by the cure of Vigano, and which she remembered holding in her hands? She sprang up, and felt in the pocket of her dress. Ah, she had it safe. It was there. Without again unfolding it she threw into a drawer, and turned the key.

Aunt Medea wished to retire to her own room, but Blanche entreated her to remain. She was unwilling to be left alone--she dared not--she was afraid. And as if she desired to silence the inward voice tormenting her, she talked on with extreme volubility, repeating again and again that she was ready to do anything in expiation of her crime, and vowing that she would overcome all impossibilities in her quest for Marie-Anne’s child. The task was both a difficult and dangerous one, for an open search for the child would be equivalent to a confession of guilt. Hence, she must act secretly, and with great caution. “But I shall succeed,” she said. “I will spare no expense.” And remembering her vow, and her dying victim’s threats, she added: “I must succeed. I swore to do so, and I was forgiven under those conditions.”

In the meanwhile, Aunt Medea sat listening in astonishment. It was incomprehensible to her, that her niece, with her dreadful crime still fresh in her mind, could coolly reason, deliberate, and make plans for the future. “What an iron will!” thought the dependent relative; but in her bewilderment she quite overlooked one or two circumstances that would have enlightened any ordinary observer.

Blanche was seated on her bed with her hair unbound; her eyes were glistening with delirium, and her incoherent words and excited gestures betrayed the frightful anxiety that was torturing her. And she talked and talked, now narrating, and now questioning Aunt Medea, and forcing her to reply, only that she might escape from her own thoughts. Morning had already dawned, and the servants could be heard bustling about the chateau, while Blanche, oblivious of everything around her, was still explaining how, in less than a year, she could hope to restore Marie-Anne’s child to Maurice d’Escorval. She paused abruptly in the middle of a sentence. Instinct had suddenly warned her of the danger she incurred in making the slightest change in her habits. Accordingly, she sent Aunt Medea away, then, at the usual hour, rang for her maid. It was nearly eleven o’clock, and she was just completing her toilette, when the ring of the outer bell announced a visitor. Almost immediately her maid, who had just previously left her, returned, evidently in a state of great excitement.

“What is the matter?” inquired Blanche, eagerly. “Who has come?”

“Ah, madame--that is, mademoiselle, if you only knew----”

“Will you speak?”

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse is downstairs in the blue drawing-room; and he begs mademoiselle to grant him a few minutes’ conversation.”

Had a thunderbolt riven the earth at her feet, the murderess could not have been more terrified. Her first thought was that everything had been discovered; for what else could have brought Martial there? She almost decided to send word that she was not at home, or that she was extremely ill; when reason told her that she was perhaps alarming herself needlessly, and that in any case the worst was preferable to suspense. “Tell the marquis that I will be with him in a moment,” she at last replied.

She desired a few minutes solitude to compose her features, to regain her self-possession, if possible, and conquer the nervous trembling that made her shake like a leaf. But in the midst of her uneasiness a sudden inspiration brought a malicious smile to her lip. “Ah!” she thought, “my agitation will seem perfectly natural. It may even be of service.” And yet as she descended the grand staircase, she could not help saying to herself: “Martial’s presence here is incomprehensible.”

It was certainly very extraordinary; and he himself had not come to Courtornieu without considerable hesitation. But it was the only means he had of procuring several important documents which were indispensable in the revision of M. d’Escorval’s case. These documents, after the baron’s condemnation, had been left in the Marquis de Courtornieu’s hands. Now that the latter had gone out of his mind, it was impossible to ask him for them; and Martial was obliged to apply to his wife for permission to search for them among her father’s papers. He had said to himself that morning: “I will carry the baron’s letters of licence to Marie-Anne, and then I will push on to Courtornieu.”

He arrived at the Borderie gay and confident, his heart full of hope; and found that Marie-Anne was dead. The discovery had been a terrible blow for Martial; and his conscience told him that he was not free from blame; that he had, at least, facilitated the perpetration of the crime. For it was indeed he who, by an abuse of influence, had caused Maurice’s arrest at Turin. But though he was capable of the basest perfidy when his love was at stake, he was incapable of virulent animosity. Marie-Anne was dead; he had it in his power to revoke the benefits he had conferred, but the thought of doing so never once occurred to him. And when Jean and Maurice upbraided him, his only revenge was to overwhelm them by his magnanimity. When he left the Borderie, pale as a ghost, his lips still cold from the kiss still printed on the dead girl’s brow, he said to himself: “For her sake, I will go to Courtornieu. In memory of her, the baron must be saved.”

By the expression of the servants’ faces as he leapt from the saddle in the courtyard of the chateau and asked to see Madame Blanche, he was again reminded of the sensation which this unexpected visit would necessarily cause. However, he cared little for it. He was passing through a crisis in which the mind can conceive no further misfortune, and becomes indifferent to everything. Still he trembled slightly when they ushered him into the blue drawing-room. He remembered the room well, for it was here that Blanche had been wont to receive him in days gone by, when his fancy was wavering between her and Marie-Anne. How many pleasant hours they had passed together here! He seemed to see Blanche again, as she was then, radiant with youth, gay and smiling. Her manner was affected, perhaps, but still it had seemed charming at the time.

At this very moment, Blanche entered the room. She looked so sad and careworn that her husband scarcely knew her. His heart was touched by the look of patient sorrow seemingly stamped upon her features. “How much you must have suffered, Blanche,” he murmured, scarcely knowing what he said.

It cost her an effort to repress her secret joy. She at once realised that he knew nothing of her crime; and noting his emotion, she perceived the profit she might derive from it. “I can never cease to regret having displeased you,” she replied, in a sad humble voice. “I shall never be consoled.”

She had touched the vulnerable spot in every man’s heart. For there is no man so sceptical, so cold, or so heartless but his vanity is not flattered with the thought that a woman is dying for his sake. There is no man who is not moved by such a flattering idea; and who is not ready and willing to give, at least, a tender pity in exchange for such devotion.

“Is it possible that you could forgive me?” stammered Martial. The wily enchantress averted her face as if to prevent him from reading in her eyes a weakness of which she felt ashamed. This simple gesture was the most eloquent of answers. But Martial said no more on this subject. He asked for permission to inspect M. de Courtornieu’s papers with the view of finding the documents he required for M. d’Escorval’s case, and Blanche readily complied with his request. He then turned to take his leave, and fearing perhaps the consequences of too formal a promise he merely added: “Since you don’t forbid it, Blanche, I will return--to-morrow--another day.” However, as he rode back to Montaignac, his thoughts were busy. “She really loves me,” he mused; “that pallor, that weariness could not be feigned. Poor girl! she is my wife, after all. The reasons that influenced me in my quarrel with her father exist no longer, for the Marquis de Courtornieu may be considered as dead.”

All the inhabitants of Sairmeuse were congregated on the market-place when Martial rode through the village. They have just heard of the murder at the Borderie, and the abbe was now closeted with the magistrate, relating as far as he could the circumstances of the crime. After a prolonged enquiry, it was eventually reported that a man known as Chupin, a notoriously bad character, had entered the house of Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and taken advantage of her absence to mingle poison with her food; and the said Chupin had been himself assassinated soon after his crime, by a certain Balstain, whose whereabouts were unknown.

However, this affair soon interested the district far less than the constant visits which Martial was paying to Madame Blanche. Shortly afterwards it was rumoured that the Marquis and the Marchioness de Sairmeuse were reconciled; and indeed a few weeks later, they left for Paris with an intention of residing there permanently. A day or two after their departure, the eldest of the Chupins also announced his determination of taking up his abode in the same great city. Some of his friends endeavoured to dissuade him, assuring him that he would certainly die of starvation; but with singular assurance, he replied: “On the contrary, I have an idea that I shan’t want for anything so long as I live there.”

XXXV.