CHAPTER XV
It was only two weeks since the Duc de Sairmeuse had returned to France;he had not yet had time to shake the dust of exile from his feet, andalready his imagination saw enemies on every side.
He had been at Sairmeuse only two days, and yet he unhesitatinglyaccepted the venomous reports which Chupin poured into his ears.
The suspicions which he was endeavoring to make Martial share werecruelly unjust.
At the moment when the duke accused the baron of conspiring against thehouse of Sairmeuse, that unfortunate man was weeping at the bedside ofhis son, who was, he believed, at the point of death.
Maurice was indeed dangerously ill.
His excessively nervous organization had succumbed before the rudeassaults of destiny.
When, in obedience to M. Lacheneur's imperative order, he left the groveon the Reche, he lost the power of reflecting calmly and deliberatelyupon the situation.
Marie-Anne's incomprehensible obstinacy, the insults he had receivedfrom the marquis, and Lacheneur's feigned anger were mingled ininextricable confusion, forming one immense, intolerable misfortune, toocrushing for his powers of resistance.
The peasants who met him on his homeward way were struck by his singulardemeanor, and felt convinced that some great catastrophe had justbefallen the house of the Baron d'Escorval.
Some bowed; others spoke to him, but he did not see or hear them.
Force of habit--that physical memory which mounts guard when the mind isfar away--brought him back to his home.
His features were so distorted with suffering that Mme. d'Escorval, onseeing him, was seized with a most sinister presentiment, and dared notaddress him.
He spoke first.
"All is over!" he said, hoarsely, "but do not be worried, mother; I havesome courage, as you shall see."
He did, in fact, seat himself at the table with a resolute air. He ateeven more than usual; and his father noticed, without alluding to it,that he drank much more wine than usual.
He was very pale, his eyes glittered, his gestures were excited, and hisvoice was husky. He talked a great deal, and even jested.
"Why will he not weep," thought Mme. d'Escorval; "then I should not beso much alarmed, and I could try to comfort him."
This was Maurice's last effort. When dinner was over he went to hisroom, and when his mother, who had gone again and again to listen at hisdoor, finally decided to enter his chamber, she found him lying upon thebed, muttering incoherently.
She approached him. He did not appear to recognize or even to see her.She spoke to him. He did not seem to hear. His face was scarlet, hislips were parched. She took his hand; it was burning; and still he wasshivering, and his teeth were chattering as if with cold.
A mist swam before the eyes of the poor woman; she feared she was aboutto faint; but, summoning all her strength, she conquered her weaknessand, dragging herself to the staircase, she cried:
"Help! help! My son is dying!"
With a bound M. d'Escorval reached his son's chamber, looked at himand dashed out again, summoned a servant, and ordered him to gallop toMontaignac and bring a physician without a moment's delay.
There was, indeed, a doctor at Sairmeuse, but he was the most stupidof men--a former surgeon in the army, who had been dismissed forincompetency. The peasants shunned him as they would the plague; and incase of sickness always sent for the cure. M. d'Escorval followed theirexample, knowing that the physician from Montaignac could not arriveuntil nearly morning.
Abbe Midon had never frequented the medical schools, but since he hadbeen a priest the poor so often asked advice of him that he appliedhimself to the study of medicine, and, aided by experience, he hadacquired a knowledge of the art which would have won him a diploma fromthe faculty anywhere.
At whatever hour of the day or night parishioners came to ask hisassistance, he was always ready--his only answer: "Let us go at once."
And when the people of the neighborhood met him on the road with hislittle box of medicine slung over his shoulder, they took off their hatsrespectfully and stood aside to let him pass. Those who did not respectthe priest honored the man.
For M. d'Escorval, above all others, Abbe Midon would make haste. Thebaron was his friend; and a terrible apprehension seized him when he sawMme. d'Escorval at the gate watching for him. By the way in whichshe rushed to meet him, he thought she was about to announce someirreparable misfortune. But no--she took his hand, and, without utteringa word, she led him to her son's chamber.
The condition of the poor youth was really very critical; the abbeperceived this at a glance, but it was not hopeless.
"We will get him out of this," he said, with a smile that reawakenedhope.
And with the coolness of an old practitioner, he bled him freely, andordered applications of ice to his head.
In a moment all the household were busied in fulfilling the cure'sorders. He took advantage of the opportunity to draw the baron aside inthe embrasure of a window.
"What has happened?" he asked.
"A disappointment in love," M. d'Escorval replied, with a despairinggesture. "Monsieur Lacheneur has refused the hand of his daughter, whichI asked in behalf of my son. Maurice was to have seen Marie-Anne to-day.What passed between them I do not know. The result you see."
The baroness re-entered the room, and the two men said no more. A trulyfunereal silence pervaded the apartment, broken only by the moans ofMaurice.
His excitement instead of abating had increased in violence. Deliriumpeopled his brain with phantoms; and the name of Marie-Anne, Martial deSairmeuse and Chanlouineau dropped so incoherently from his lips that itwas impossible to read his thoughts.
How long that night seemed to M. d'Escorval and his wife, those onlyknow who have counted each second beside the sick-bed of some loved one.
Certainly their confidence in the companion in their vigil was great;but he was not a regular physician like the other, the one whose comingthey awaited.
Just as the light of the morning made the candles turn pale, they heardthe furious gallop of a horse, and soon the doctor from Montaignacentered.
He examined Maurice carefully, and, after a short conference with thepriest:
"_I_ see no immediate danger," he declared. "All that can be donehas been done. The malady must be allowed to take its course. I willreturn."
He did return the next day and many days after, for it was not until aweek had passed that Maurice was declared out of danger.
Then he confided to his father all that had taken place in the groveon the Reche. The slightest detail of the scene had engraved itselfindelibly upon his memory. When the recital was ended:
"Are you quite sure," asked his father, "that you correctly understoodMarie-Anne's reply? Did she tell you that if her father gave his consentto your marriage, she would refuse hers?"
"Those were her very words."
"And still she loves you?"
"I am sure of it."
"You were not mistaken in Monsieur Lacheneur's tone when he said toyou: 'Go, you little wretch! do you wish to render all my precautionsuseless?'"
"No."
M. d'Escorval sat for a moment in silence.
"This passes comprehension," he murmured at last. And so low that hisson could not hear him, he added: "I will see Lacheneur to-morrow; thismystery must be explained."
The Honor of the Name Page 15
