The Honor of the Name

by Emile Gaboriau

  CHAPTER XXIX

  The prospect of capturing Lacheneur, the chief conspirator, excited theMarquis de Courtornieu so much that he had not been able to tear himselfaway from the citadel to return home to his dinner.

  Remaining near the entrance of the dark corridor leading toChanlouineau's cell, he watched Marie-Anne depart; but as he saw her goout into the twilight with a quick, alert step, he felt a sudden doubtof Chanlouineau's sincerity.

  "Can it be that this miserable peasant has deceived me?" he thought.

  So strong was this suspicion that he hastened after her, determined toquestion her--to ascertain the truth--to arrest her, if necessary.

  But he no longer possessed the agility of youth, and when he reached thegateway the guard told him that Mlle. Lacheneur had already passed out.He rushed out after her, looked about on every side, but could see notrace of her. He re-entered the citadel, furious with himself for hisown credulity.

  "Still, I can visit Chanlouineau," thought he, "and to-morrow will betime enough to summon this creature and question her."

  "This creature" was even then hastening up the long, ill-paved streetthat led to the Hotel de France.

  Regardless of self, and of the curious gaze of a few passers-by, she ranon, thinking only of shortening the terrible anxiety which her friendsat the hotel must be enduring.

  "All is not lost!" she exclaimed, on re-entering the room.

  "My God, Thou hast heard my prayers!" murmured the baroness.

  Then, suddenly seized by a horrible dread, she added:

  "Do not attempt to deceive me. Are you not trying to delude me withfalse hopes? That would be cruel!"

  "I am not deceiving you, Madame, Chanlouineau has given me a weapon,which, _I_ hope and believe, places the Duc de Sairmeuse in our power.He is omnipotent in Montaignac; the only man who could oppose him,Monsieur de Courtornieu, is his friend. I believe that Monsieurd'Escorval can be saved."

  "Speak!" cried Maurice; "what must we do?"

  "Pray and wait, Maurice. I must act alone in this matter, but be assuredthat I--the cause of all your misfortune--will leave nothing undonewhich is possible for mortal to do."

  Absorbed in the task which she had imposed upon herself, Marie-Anne hadfailed to remark a stranger who had arrived during her absence--an oldwhite-haired peasant.

  The abbe called her attention to him.

  "Here is a courageous friend," said he, "who since morning, has beensearching for you everywhere, in, order to give you news of yourfather."

  Marie-Anne was so overcome that she could scarcely falter her gratitude.

  "Oh, you need not thank me," answered the brave peasant. "I said tomyself: 'The poor girl must be terribly anxious. I ought to relieve herof her misery.' So I came to tell you that Monsieur Lacheneur is safeand well, except for a wound in the leg, which causes him considerablesuffering, but which will be healed in two or three weeks. Myson-in-law, who was hunting yesterday in the mountains, met him near thefrontier in company with two of his friends. By this time he must be inPiedmont, beyond the reach of the gendarmes."

  "Let us hope now," said the abbe, "that we shall soon hear what hasbecome of Jean."

  "I know, already, Monsieur," responded Marie-Anne; "my brother has beenbadly wounded, and he is now under the protection of kind friends."

  She bowed her head, almost crushed beneath her burden of sorrow, butsoon rallying, she exclaimed:

  "What am I doing! What right have I to think of my friends, when uponmy promptness and upon my courage depends the life of an innocent mancompromised by them?"

  Maurice, the abbe, and the officers surrounded the brave young girl.They wished to know what she was about to attempt, and to dissuade herfrom incurring useless danger.

  She refused to reply to their pressing questions. They wished toaccompany her, or, at least, to follow her at a distance, but shedeclared that she must go alone.

  "I will return in less than two hours, and then we can decide what mustbe done," said she, as she hastened away.

  To obtain an audience with the Duc de Sairmeuse was certainly adifficult matter; Maurice and the abbe had proved that only too wellthe previous day. Besieged by weeping and heart-broken families, he shuthimself up securely, fearing, perhaps, that he might be moved by theirentreaties.

  Marie-Anne knew this, but it did not alarm her. Chanlouineau had givenher a word, the same which he had used; and this word was a key whichwould unlock the most firmly and obstinately locked doors.

  In the vestibule of the house occupied by the Duc de Sairmeuse, three orfour valets stood talking.

  "I am the daughter of Monsieur Lacheneur," said Marie-Anne, addressingone of them. "I must speak to the duke at once, on matters connectedwith the revolt."

  "The duke is absent."

  "I came to make a revelation."

  The servant's manner suddenly changed.

  "In that case follow me, Mademoiselle."

  She followed him up the stairs and through two or three rooms. At lasthe opened a door, saying, "enter." She went in.

  It was not the Duc de Sairmeuse who was in the room, but his son,Martial.

  Stretched upon a sofa, he was reading a paper by the light of a largecandelabra.

  On seeing Marie-Anne he sprang up, as pale and agitated as if the doorhad given passage to a spectre.

  "You!" he stammered.

  But he quickly mastered his emotion, and in a second his quick mindrevolved all the possibilities that might have produced this visit:

  "Lacheneur has been arrested!" he exclaimed, "and you, wishing to savehim from the fate which the military commission will pronounce upon him,have thought of me. Thank you, dearest Marie-Anne, thank you for yourconfidence. I will not abuse it. Let your heart be reassured. We willsave your father, I promise you--I swear it. How, I do not yet know. Butwhat does that matter? It is enough that he shall be saved. I will haveit so!"

  His voice betrayed the intense passion and joy that was surging in hisheart.

  "My father has not been arrested," said Marie-Anne, coldly.

  "Then," said Martial, with some hesitation, "then it is Jean who is aprisoner."

  "My brother is in safety. If he survives his wounds he will escape allattempts at capture."

  From white the Marquis de Sairmeuse had turned as red as fire. ByMarie-Anne's manner he saw that she knew of the duel. He made no attemptto deny it; but he tried to excuse himself.

  "It was Jean who challenged me," said he; "I tried to avoid it. I onlydefended my own life in fair combat, and with equal weapons----"

  Marie-Anne interrupted him.

  "I reproach you for nothing, Monsieur le Marquis," she said, quietly.

  "Ah! Marie-Anne, I am more severe than you. Jean was right to challengeme. I deserved his anger. He knew the baseness of which I had beenguilty; but you--you were ignorant of it. Oh! Marie-Anne, if I wrongedyou in thought it was because I did not know you. Now I know that you,above all others, are pure and chaste."

  He tried to take her hands; she repulsed him with horror; and broke intoa fit of passionate sobbing.

  Of all the blows she had received this last was most terrible andoverwhelming.

  What humiliation and shame--! Now, indeed, was her cup of sorrow filledto overflowing. "Chaste and pure!" he had said. Oh, bitter mockery!

  But Martial misunderstood the meaning of the poor girl's gesture.

  "Oh! I comprehend your indignation," he resumed, with growing eagerness."But if I have injured you even in thought, I now offer you reparation.I have been a fool--a miserable fool--for I love you; I love, and canlove you only. I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse. I am the possessor ofmillions. I entreat you, I implore you to be my wife."

  Marie-Anne listened in utter bewilderment. Vertigo seized her; evenreason seemed to totter upon its throne.

  But now, it had been Chanlouineau who, in his prison-cell, cried that hedied for love of her. Now, it was Martial who avowed his willingness tosacrifice his ambition and his future for h
er sake.

  And the poor peasant condemned to death, and the son of the all-powerfulDuc de Sairmeuse, had avowed their passion in almost the very samewords.

  Martial paused, awaiting some response--a word, a gesture. ButMarie-Anne remained mute, motionless, frozen.

  "You are silent," he cried, with increased vehemence. "Do you questionmy sincerity? No, it is impossible! Then why this silence? Do you fearmy father's opposition? You need not. I know how to gain his consent.Besides, what does his approbation matter to us? Have we any need ofhim? Am I not my own master? Am I not rich--immensely rich? I should bea miserable fool, a coward, if I hesitated between his stupid prejudicesand the happiness of my life."

  He was evidently obliging himself to weigh all the possible objections,in order to answer them and overrule them.

  "Is it on account of your family that you hesitate?" he continued. "Yourfather and brother are pursued, and France is closed against them. Verywell, we will leave France, and they shall come and live near you. Jeanwill no longer dislike me when you are my wife. We will all live inEngland or in Italy. Now I am grateful for the fortune that will enableme to make life a continual enchantment for you. I love you--and in thehappiness and tender love which shall be yours in the future, I willcompel you to forget all the bitterness of the past!"

  Marie-Anne knew the Marquis de Sairmeuse well enough to understand theintensity of the love revealed by these astounding propositions.

  And for that very reason she hesitated to tell him that he had won thistriumph over his pride in vain.

  She was anxiously wondering to what extremity his wounded vanity wouldcarry him, and if a refusal would not transform him into a bitter enemy.

  "Why do you not answer?" asked Martial, with evident anxiety.

  She felt that she must reply, that she must speak, say something; butshe could not unclose her lips.

  "I am only a poor girl, Monsieur le Marquis," she murmured, at last. "IfI accepted your offer, you would regret it continually."

  "Never!"

  "But you are no longer free. You have already plighted your troth.Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu is your promised wife."

  "Ah! say one word--only one--and this engagement, which I detest, isbroken."

  She was silent. It was evident that her mind was fully made up, and thatshe refused his offer.

  "Do you hate me, then?" asked Martial, sadly.

  If she had allowed herself to tell the whole truth Marie-Anne would haveanswered "Yes." The Marquis de Sairmeuse did inspire her with an almostinsurmountable aversion.

  "I no more belong to myself than you belong to yourself, Monsieur," shefaltered.

  A gleam of hatred, quickly extinguished, shone in Martial's eye.

  "Always Maurice!" said he.

  "Always."

  She expected an angry outburst, but he remained perfectly calm.

  "Then," said he, with a forced smile, "I must believe this and otherevidence. I must believe that you have forced me to play a mostridiculous part. Until now I doubted it."

  The poor girl bowed her head, crimsoning with shame to the roots of herhair; but she made no attempt at denial.

  "_I_ was not my own mistress," she stammered; "my father commanded andthreatened, and I--I obeyed him."

  "That matters little," he interrupted; "your role has not been thatwhich a pure young girl should play."

  It was the only reproach he had uttered, and still he regretted it,perhaps because he did not wish her to know how deeply he was wounded,perhaps because--as he afterward declared--he could not overcome hislove for Marie-Anne.

  "Now," he resumed, "I understand your presence here. You come to askmercy for Monsieur d'Escorval."

  "Not mercy, but justice. The baron is innocent."

  Martial approached Marie-Anne, and lowering his voice:

  "If the father is innocent," he whispered, "then it is the son who isguilty."

  She recoiled in terror. He knew the secret which the judges could not,or would not penetrate.

  But seeing her anguish, he had pity.

  "Another reason," said he, "for attempting to save the baron! His bloodshed upon the guillotine would form an impassable gulf between Mauriceand you. I will join my efforts to yours."

  Blushing and embarrassed, Marie-Anne dared not thank him. How was sheabout to reward his generosity? By vilely traducing him. Ah! she wouldinfinitely have preferred to see him angry and revengeful.

  Just then a valet opened the door, and the Duc de Sairmeuse, still infull uniform, entered.

  "Upon my word!" he exclaimed, as he crossed the threshold, "I mustconfess that Chupin is an admirable hunter. Thanks to him----"

  He paused abruptly; he had not perceived Marie-Anne until now.

  "The daughter of that scoundrel Lacheneur!" said he, with an air of theutmost surprise. "What does she desire here?"

  The decisive moment had come--the life of the baron hung uponMarie-Anne's courage and address. The consciousness of the terribleresponsibility devolving upon her restored her self-control and calmnessas if by magic.

  "I have a revelation to sell to you, Monsieur," she said, resolutely.

  The duke regarded her with mingled wonder and curiosity; then, laughingheartily, he threw himself upon a sofa, exclaiming:

  "Sell it, my pretty one--sell it!"

  "I cannot speak until I am alone with you."

  At a sign from his father, Martial left the room.

  "You can speak now," said the duke.

  She did not lose a second.

  "You must have read, Monsieur," she began, "the circular convening theconspirators."

  "Certainly; I have a dozen copies in my pocket."

  "By whom do you suppose it was written?"

  "By the elder d'Escorval, or by your father."

  "You are mistaken, Monsieur; that letter was the work of the Marquis deSairmeuse, your son."

  The duke sprang up, fire flashing from his eyes, his face purple withanger.

  "Zounds! girl! I advise you to bridle your tongue!"

  "The proof of what I have asserted exists."

  "Silence, you hussy, or----"

  "The lady who sends me here, Monsieur, possesses the original of thiscircular written by the hand of Monsieur Martial, and I am obliged totell you----"

  She did not have an opportunity to complete the sentence. The dukesprang to the door, and, in a voice of thunder, called his son.

  As soon as Martial entered the room:

  "Repeat," said the duke--"repeat before my son what you have just saidto me."

  Boldly, with head erect, and clear, firm voice, Marie-Anne repeated heraccusation.

  She expected, on the part of the marquis, an indignant denial, cruelreproaches, or an angry explanation. Not a word. He listened with anonchalant air, and she almost believed she could read in his eyes anencouragement to proceed, and a promise of protection.

  When she had concluded:

  "Well!" demanded the duke, imperiously.

  "First," replied Martial, lightly, "I would like to see this famouscircular."

  The duke handed him a copy.

  "Here--read it."

  Martial glanced over it, laughed heartily, and exclaimed:

  "A clever trick."

  "What do you say?"

  "I say that this Chanlouineau is a sly rascal. Who the devil would havethought the fellow so cunning to see his honest face? Another lesson toteach one not to trust to appearances."

  In all his life the Duc de Sairmeuse had never received so severe ashock.

  "Chanlouineau was not lying, then," he said to his son, in a choked,unnatural voice; "you _were_ one of the instigators of this rebellion,then?"

  Martial's face grew dark, and in a tone of disdainful hauteur, hereplied:

  "This is the fourth time, sir, that you have addressed that question tome, and for the fourth time I answer: 'No.' That should suffice. If thefancy had seized me for taking part in this movement, I should franklyconfess it. What possi
ble reason could I have for concealing anythingfrom you?"

  "The facts!" interrupted the duke, in a frenzy of passion; "the facts!"

  "Very well," rejoined Martial, in his usual indifferent tone; "the factis that the model of this circular does exist, that it was written in mybest hand on a very large sheet of very poor paper. I recollect thatin trying to find appropriate expressions I erased and rewrote severalwords. Did I date this writing? I think I did, but I could not swear toit."

  "How do you reconcile this with your denials?" exclaimed M. deSairmeuse.

  "I can do this easily. Did I not tell you just now that Chanlouineau hadmade a tool of me?"

  The duke no longer knew what to believe; but what exasperated him morethan all else was his son's imperturbable tranquillity.

  "Confess, rather, that you have been led into this filth by yourmistress," he retorted, pointing to Marie-Anne.

  But this insult Martial would not tolerate.

  "Mademoiselle Lacheneur is not my mistress," he replied, in a tone soimperious that it was a menace. "It is true, however, that it restsonly with her to decide whether she will be the Marquise de Sairmeusetomorrow. Let us abandon these recriminations, they do not further theprogress of our business."

  The faint glimmer of reason which still lighted M. de Sairmeuse's mind,checked the still more insulting reply that rose to his lips. Tremblingwith suppressed rage, he made the circuit of the room several times,and finally paused before Marie-Anne, who remained in the same place, asmotionless as a statue.

  "Come, my good girl," said he, "give me the writing."

  "It is not in my possession, sir."

  "Where is it?"

  "In the hands of a person who will give it to you only under certainconditions."

  "Who is this person?"

  "I am not at liberty to tell you."

  There was both admiration and jealousy in the look that Martial fixedupon Marie-Anne.

  He was amazed by her coolness and presence of mind. Ah! how powerfulmust be the passion that imparted such a ringing clearness to her voice,such brilliancy to her eyes, such precision to her responses.

  "And if I should not accept the--the conditions which are imposed, whatthen?" asked M. de Sairmeuse.

  "In that case the writing will be utilized."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean, sir, that early to-morrow morning a trusty messenger will startfor Paris, charged with the task of submitting this document to the eyesof certain persons who are not exactly friends of yours. He will show itto Monsieur Laine, for example--or to the Duc de Richelieu; and he will,of course, explain to them its significance and its value. Will thiswriting prove the complicity of the Marquis de Sairmeuse? Yes, or no?Have you, or have you not, dared to try and to condemn to death theunfortunate men who were only the tools of your son?"

  "Ah, wretch! hussy! viper!" interrupted the duke. He was beside himself.A foam gathered upon his lips, his eyes seemed starting from theirsockets; he was no longer conscious of what he was saying.

  "This," he exclaimed, with wild gestures, "is enough to appall me! Yes,I have bitter enemies, envious rivals who would give their right handfor this execrable letter. Ah! if they obtain it they will demand aninvestigation, and then farewell to the rewards due to my services.

  "It will be shouted from the house-tops that Chanlouineau, in thepresence of the tribunal, declared you, Marquis, his leader and hisaccomplice. You will be obliged to submit to the scrutiny of physicians,who, seeing a freshly healed wound, will require you to tell where youreceived it, and why you concealed it.

  "Of what shall I _not_ be accused? They will say that I expeditedmatters in order to silence the voice that had been raised againstmy son. Perhaps they will even say that I secretly favored theinsurrection; I shall be vilified in the journals.

  "And who has thus ruined the fortunes of our house, that promised sobrilliantly? You, you alone, Marquis.

  "You believe in nothing, you doubt everything--you are cold, sceptical,disdainful, _blase_. But a pretty woman makes her appearance on thescene. You go wild like a school-boy and are ready to commit any act offolly. It is you who I am addressing, Marquis. Do you hear me? Speak!what have you to say?"

  Martial had listened to this tirade with unconcealed scorn, and withouteven attempting to interrupt it.

  Now he responded, slowly:

  "I think, sir, if Mademoiselle Lacheneur _had_ any doubts of the valueof the document she possesses, she has them no longer."

  This response fell upon the duke's wrath like a bucket of ice-water. Heinstantly comprehended his folly; and frightened by his own words, hestood stupefied with astonishment.

  Without deigning to add another word, the marquis turned to Marie-Anne.

  "Will you be so kind as to explain what is required of my father inexchange for this letter?"

  "The life and liberty of Monsieur d'Escorval."

  The duke started as if he had received an electric shock.

  "Ah!" he exclaimed. "I knew they would ask something that wasimpossible!"

  He sank back in his arm-chair. A profound despair succeeded his frenzy.He buried his face in his hands, evidently seeking some expedient.

  "Why did you not come to me before judgment was pronounced?" hemurmured. "Then I could have done anything--now, my hands are bound. Thecommission has spoken; the judgment must be executed----"

  He rose, and in the tone of a man who is resigned to anything, he said:

  "Decidedly. I should risk more in attempting to save the baron"--in hisanxiety he gave M. d'Escorval his title--"a thousand times more than Ihave to fear from my enemies. So, Mademoiselle"--he no longer said "mygood girl"--"you can utilize your document."

  The duke was about leaving the room, but Martial detained him by agesture.

  "Think again before you decide. Our situation is not without aprecedent. A few months ago the Count de Lavalette was condemned todeath. The King wished to pardon him, but his ministers and friendsopposed it. Though the King was master, what did he do? He seemed tobe deaf to all the supplications made in the prisoner's behalf. Thescaffold was erected, and yet Lavalette was saved! And no one wascompromised--yes, a jailer lost his position; he is living on his incomenow."

  Marie-Anne caught eagerly at the idea so cleverly presented by Martial.

  "Yes," she exclaimed, "the Count de Lavalette, protected by royalconnivance, succeeded in making his escape."

  The simplicity of the expedient--the authority of the example--seemed tomake a vivid impression upon the duke. He was silent for a moment, andMarie-Anne fancied she saw an expression of relief steal over his face.

  "Such an attempt would be very hazardous," he murmured; "yet, with care,and if one were sure that the secret would be kept----"

  "Oh! the secret will be religiously preserved, Monsieur," interruptedMarie-Anne.

  With a glance Martial recommended silence; then turning to his father,he said:

  "One can always consider an expedient, and calculate theconsequences--that does not bind one. When is this sentence to becarried into execution?"

  "To-morrow," responded the duke.

  But even this terrible response did not cause Marie-Anne any alarm.The duke's anxiety and terror had taught her how much reason she had tohope; and she saw that Martial had openly espoused her cause.

  "We have, then, only the night before us," resumed the marquis."Fortunately, it is only half-past seven, and until ten o'clock myfather can visit the citadel without exciting the slightest suspicion."

  He paused suddenly. His eyes, in which had shone almost absoluteconfidence, became gloomy. He had just discovered an unexpected and, asit seemed to him, almost insurmountable difficulty.

  "Have we any intelligent men in the citadel?" he murmured. "Theassistance of a jailer or of a soldier is indispensable."

  He turned to his father, and brusquely asked: "Have you any man in whomyou can confide?"

  "I have three or four spies--they can be bought."


  "No! the wretch who betrays his comrade for a few sous, will betray youfor a few louis. We must have an honest man who sympathizes with theopinions of Baron d'Escorval--an old soldier who fought under Napoleon,if possible."

  A sudden inspiration visited Marie-Anne's mind.

  "I know the man that you require!" she cried.

  "You?"

  "Yes, I. At the citadel."

  "Take care! Remember that he must risk much. If this should bediscovered, those who take part in it will be sacrificed."

  "He of whom I speak is the man you need. I will be responsible for him."

  "And he is a soldier?"

  "He is only an humble corporal; but the nobility of his nature entitleshim to the highest rank. Believe me, we can safely confide in him."

  If she spoke thus, she who would willingly have given her life for thebaron's salvation, she must be absolutely certain.

  So thought Martial.

  "I will confer with this man," said he. "What is his name?"

  "He is called Bavois, and he is a corporal in the first company ofgrenadiers."

  "Bavois," repeated Martial, as if to fix the name in his memory;"Bavois. My father will find some pretext for desiring him summoned."

  "It is easy to find a pretext. He was the brave soldier left on guard atEscorval after the troops left the house."

  "This promises well," said Martial. He had risen and gone to thefireplace in order to be nearer his father.

  "I suppose," he continued, "the baron has been separated from the otherprisoners?"

  "Yes, he is alone, in a large and very comfortable room."

  "Where is it?"

  "On the second story of the corner tower."

  But Martial, who was not so well acquainted with the citadel as hisfather, was obliged to reflect a moment.

  "The corner tower!" said he; "is not that the tall tower which one seesfrom a distance, and which is built on a spot where the rock is almostperpendicular?"

  "Precisely."

  By the promptness M. de Sairmeuse displayed in replying, it was easyto see that he was ready to risk a good deal to effect the prisoner'sdeliverance.

  "What kind of a window is that in the baron's room?" inquired Martial.

  "It is quite large and furnished with a double row of iron bars,securely fastened into the stone walls."

  "It is easy enough to cut these bars. On which side does this windowlook?"

  "On the country."

  "That is to say, it overlooks the precipice. The devil! That is aserious difficulty, and yet, in one respect, it is an advantage, forthey station no sentinels there, do they?"

  "Never. Between the citadel wall and the edge of the precipice thereis barely standing-room. The soldiers do not venture there even in thedaytime."

  "There is one more important question. What is the distance fromMonsieur d'Escorval's window to the ground?"

  "It is about forty feet from the base of the tower."

  "Good! And from the base of the tower to the foot of the precipice--howfar is that?"

  "Really, I scarcely know. Sixty feet, at least, I should think."

  "Ah, that is high, terribly high. The baron fortunately is still agileand vigorous." The duke began to be impatient.

  "Now," said he to his son, "will you be so kind as to explain yourplan?"

  Martial had gradually resumed the careless tone which always exasperatedhis father.

  "He is sure of success," thought Marie-Anne.

  "My plan is simplicity itself," replied Martial. "Sixty and forty areone hundred. It is necessary to procure one hundred feet of strong rope.It will make a very large bundle; but no matter. I will twist it aroundme, envelop myself in a large cloak, and accompany you to the citadel.You will send for Corporal Bavois; you will leave me alone with him in aquiet place; I will explain our wishes."

  M. de Sairmeuse shrugged his shoulders.

  "And how will you procure a hundred feet of rope at this hour inMontaignac? Will you go about from shop to shop? You might as welltrumpet your project at once."

  "I shall attempt nothing of the kind. What I cannot do the friends ofthe Escorval family will do."

  The duke was about to offer some new objection when his son interruptedhim.

  "Pray do not forget the danger that threatens us," he said, earnestly,"nor the little time that is left us. I have committed a fault, leave meto repair it."

  And turning to Marie-Anne:

  "You may consider the baron saved," he pursued; "but it is necessaryfor me to confer with one of his friends. Return at once to the Hotel deFrance and tell the cure to meet me on the Place d'Armes, where I go toawait him."