The Honor of the Name

by Emile Gaboriau

  CHAPTER XLVII

  Of all the persons who witnessed Baron d'Escorval's terrible fall, theabbe was the only one who did not despair.

  What a learned doctor would not have dared to do, he did.

  He was a priest; he had faith. He remembered the sublime saying ofAmbroise Pare: "I dress the wound: God heals it."

  After a six months' sojourn in Father Poignot's secluded farm-house, M.d'Escorval was able to sit up and to walk about a little, with the aidof crutches.

  Then he began to be seriously inconvenienced by his cramped quartersin the loft, where prudence compelled him to remain; and it was withtransports of joy that he welcomed the idea of taking up his abode atthe Borderie with Marie-Anne.

  When the day of departure had been decided upon, he counted the minutesas impatiently as a school-boy pining for vacation.

  "I am suffocating here," he said to his wife. "I am suffocating. Timedrags so slowly. When will the happy day come?"

  It came at last. During the morning all the articles which theyhad succeeded in procuring during their stay at the farm-house werecollected and packed; and when night came, Poignot's son began themoving.

  "Everything is at the Borderie," said the honest fellow, on returningfrom his last trip, "and Mademoiselle Lacheneur bids the baron bring agood appetite."

  "I shall have one, never fear!" responded the baron, gayly. "We shallall have one."

  Father Poignot himself was busily engaged in harnessing his best horseto the cart which was to convey M. d'Escorval to his new home.

  The worthy man's heart grew sad at the thought of the departure of theseguests, for whose sake he had incurred such danger. He felt that heshould miss them, that the house would seem gloomy and deserted afterthey left it.

  He would allow no one else to perform the task of arranging the mattresscomfortably in the cart. When this had been done to his satisfaction, heheaved a deep sigh, and exclaimed:

  "It is time to start!"

  Slowly he ascended the narrow staircase leading to the loft.

  M. d'Escorval had not thought of the moment of parting.

  At the sight of the honest farmer, who came toward him, his facecrimsoned with emotion to bid him farewell, he forgot all the comfortsthat awaited him at the Borderie, in the remembrance of the loyal andcourageous hospitality he had received in the house he was about toleave. The tears sprang to his eyes.

  "You have rendered me a service which nothing can repay, FatherPoignot," he said, with intense feeling. "You have saved my life."

  "Oh! we will not talk of that, Baron. In my place, you would have donethe same--neither more nor less."

  "I shall not attempt to express my thanks, but I hope to live longenough to prove that I am not ungrateful."

  The staircase was so narrow that they had considerable difficulty incarrying the baron down; but finally they had him comfortably extendedupon his mattress and threw over him a few handsful of straw, whichconcealed him entirely.

  "Farewell, then!" said the old farmer, when the last hand-shake had beenexchanged, "or rather _au revoir_, Monsieur le Baron, Madame, and you,my good cure."

  "All ready?" inquired young Poignot.

  "Yes," replied the invalid.

  The cart, driven with the utmost caution by the young peasant, startedslowly on its way.

  Mme. d'Escorval, leaning upon the abbe's arm, walked about twenty pacesin the rear.

  It was very dark, but had it been as light as day the former cure ofSairmeuse might have encountered any of his old parishioners without theleast danger of detection.

  His hair and his beard had been allowed to grow; his tonsure hadentirely disappeared, and his sedentary life had caused him to becomemuch stouter. He was clad like all the well-to-do peasants of theneighborhood, and his face was hidden by a large slouch hat.

  He had not felt so tranquil in mind for months. Obstacles which hadappeared almost insurmountable had vanished. In the near future hesaw the baron declared innocent by impartial judges; he saw himselfreinstalled in the presbytery of Sairmeuse.

  The recollection of Maurice was the only thing that marred hishappiness. Why did he not give some sign of life?

  "But if he had met with any misfortune we should have heard of it,"thought the priest. "He has with him a brave man--an old soldier whowould risk anything to come and tell us."

  He was so absorbed in these thoughts that he did not observe that Mme.d'Escorval was leaning more and more heavily upon his arm.

  "I am ashamed to confess it," she said at last, "but I can go nofarther. It has been so long since I was out of doors that I have almostforgotten how to walk."

  "Fortunately, we are almost there," replied the priest.

  A moment after young Poignot stopped his cart in the road, at theentrance of the little footpath leading to the Borderie.

  "Our journey is ended!" he remarked to the baron. Then he uttered alow whistle, like that which he had given a few hours before, to warnMarie-Anne of his arrival.

  No one appeared; he whistled again, louder this time; then with all hismight--still no response.

  Mme. d'Escorval and the abbe had now overtaken the cart.

  "It is very strange that Marie-Anne does not hear me," remarked youngPoignot, turning to them. "We cannot take the baron to the house untilwe have seen her. She knows that very well. Shall I run up and warnher?"

  "She is asleep, perhaps," replied the abbe; "you stay with your horse,my boy, and I will go and wake her."

  Certainly he did not feel the slightest disquietude. All was calm andstill; a bright light was shining through the windows of the secondstory.

  Still, when he saw the open door, a vague presentiment of evil stirredhis heart.

  "What can this mean?" he thought.

  There was no light in the lower rooms, and the abbe was obliged to feelfor the staircase with his hands. At last he found it and went up. Butupon the threshold of the chamber he paused, petrified with horror bythe spectacle before him.

  Poor Marie-Anne was lying on the floor. Her eyes, which were wide open,were covered with a white film; her black and swollen tongue was hangingfrom her mouth.

  "Dead!" faltered the priest, "dead!"

  But this could not be. The abbe conquered his weakness, and approachingthe poor girl, he took her hand.

  It was icy cold; the arm was rigid as iron.

  "Poisoned!" he murmured; "poisoned with arsenic."

  He rose to his feet, and cast a bewildered glance around the room. Hiseyes fell upon his medicine-chest, open upon the table.

  He rushed to it and unhesitatingly took out a vial, uncorked it, andinverted it 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 thefarm-house without telling him the terrible misfortune which hadoccurred.

  To find a pretext was easy enough.

  The priest hastened back to the wagon, and with well-affected calmnesstold the baron that it would be impossible for him to take up his abodeat the Borderie at present, that several suspicious-looking charactershad been seen prowling about, and that they must be more prudent thanever, now they could rely upon the kindly intervention of Martial deSairmeuse.

  At last, but not without considerable reluctance, the baron yielded.

  "You desire it, cure," he sighed, "so I obey. Come, Poignot, my boy,take me back to your father's house."

  Mme. d'Escorval took a seat in the cart beside her husband; the priestwatched them as they drove away, and not until the sound of theircarriage-wheels had died away in the distance did he venture to go backto the Borderie.

  He was ascending the stairs when he heard moans that seemed to issuefrom the chamber of death. The sound sent all his blood wildly rushingto his heart. He darted up the staircase.

  A man was kneeling beside Marie-Anne, weeping bitterly. The expressionof his face, his attitude, his sobs betraye
d the wildest despair. He wasso 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?

  After a moment, the priest divined who the intruder was, though he didnot recognize him.

  "Jean!" he cried, "Jean Lacheneur!"

  With a bound the young man was on his feet, pale and menacing; a flameof anger drying the tears in his eyes.

  "Who are you?" he demanded, in a terrible voice. "What are you doinghere? What do you wish with me?"

  By his peasant dress and by his long beard, the former cure of Sairmeusewas so effectually disguised that he was obliged to tell who he reallywas.

  As soon as he uttered his name, Jean uttered a cry of joy.

  "God has sent you here!" he exclaimed. "Marie-Anne cannot be dead! You,who have saved so many others, will save her."

  As the priest sadly pointed to heaven, Jean paused, his face moreghastly than before. He understood now that there was no hope.

  "Ah!" he murmured, with an accent of frightful despondency, "fateshows us no mercy. I have been watching over Marie-Anne, though froma distance; and this very evening I was coming to say to her: 'Beware,sister--be cautious!'"

  "What! you knew----"

  "I knew she was in great danger; yes, Monsieur. An hour ago, while I waseating my supper in a restaurant at Sairmeuse, Grollet's son entered.'Is this you, Jean?' said he. 'I just saw Chupin hiding near yoursister's house; when he observed me he slunk away.' I ran here likeone crazed. But when fate is against a man, what can he do? I came toolate!"

  The abbe reflected for a moment.

  "Then you suppose that it was Chupin?"

  "I do not suppose, sir; I _swear_ that it was he--the miserabletraitor!--who committed this foul deed."

  "Still, what motive could he have had?"

  Jean burst into one of those discordant laughs that are, perhaps, themost frightful signs of despair.

  "You may rest assured that the blood of the daughter will yield hima richer reward than did the father's. Chupin has been the vileinstrument; but it was not he who conceived the crime. You will have toseek higher for the culprit, much higher, in the finest chateau of thecountry, in the midst of an army of valets at Sairmeuse, in short!"

  "Wretched man, what do you mean?"

  "What I say."

  And coldly, he added:

  "Martial de Sairmeuse is the assassin." The priest recoiled, reallyappalled by the looks and manner of the grief-stricken man.

  "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 areignorant of Martial's wild passion for Marie-Anne. He wished to makeher his mistress. She had the audacity to refuse this honor; that wasa crime for which she must be punished. When the Marquis de Sairmeusebecame convinced that Lacheneur's daughter would never be his, hepoisoned her that she might not belong to another."

  Any attempt to convince Jean of the folly of his accusation would havebeen vain at that moment. No proofs would have convinced him. He wouldhave closed his eyes to all evidence.

  "To-morrow, when he is more calm, I will reason with him," thought theabbe; then, turning to Jean, he said:

  "We cannot allow the body of the poor girl to remain here upon thefloor. Assist me, and we will place it upon the bed."

  Jean trembled from head to foot, and his hesitation was apparent.

  "Very well!" he said, at last, after a severe struggle.

  No one had ever slept upon this bed which poor Chanlouineau had destinedfor Marie-Anne.

  "It shall be for her," he said to himself, "or for no one."

  And it was Marie-Anne who rested there first--dead.

  When this sad task was accomplished, he threw himself into the samearm-chair in which Marie-Anne had breathed her last, and with his faceburied in his hands, and his elbows supported upon his knees, he satthere as silent and motionless as the statues of sorrow placed above thelast resting-places of the dead.

  The abbe knelt at the head of the bed and began the recital of theprayers for the dead, entreating God to grant peace and happiness inheaven to her who had suffered so much upon earth.

  But he prayed only with his lips. In spite of his efforts, his mindwould persist in wandering.

  He was striving to solve the mystery that enshrouded Marie-Anne's death.Had she been murdered? Could it be that she had committed suicide?

  This explanation recurred to him, but he could not believe it.

  But, on the other hand, how could her death possibly be the result of acrime?

  He had carefully examined the room, and he had discovered nothing thatbetrayed the presence of a stranger.

  All that he could prove was, that his vial of arsenic was empty, andthat Marie-Anne had been poisoned by the bouillon, a few drops of whichwere left in the bowl that was standing upon the mantel.

  "When daylight comes," thought the abbe, "I will look outside."

  When morning broke, he went into the garden, and made a carefulexamination of the premises.

  At first he saw nothing that gave him the least clew, and was about toabandon the investigations, when, upon entering the little grove, he sawin the distance a large dark stain upon the grass. He went nearer--itwas blood!

  Much excited, he summoned Jean, to inform him of the discovery.

  "Someone has been assassinated here," said Lacheneur; "and it happenedlast night, for the blood has not had time to dry."

  "The victim lost a great deal of blood," the priest remarked; "it mightbe possible to discover who he was by following up these stains."

  "I am going to try," responded Jean. "Go back to the house, sir; I willsoon return."

  A child might have followed the track of the wounded man, theblood-stains left in his passage were so frequent and so distinct.

  These tell-tale marks stopped at Chupin's house. The door was closed;Jean rapped without the slightest hesitation.

  The old poacher's eldest son opened the door, and Jean saw a strangespectacle.

  The traitor's body had been thrown on the ground, in a corner of theroom, the bed was overturned and broken, all the straw had been tornfrom the mattress, and the wife and sons of the dead man, armed withpickaxes and spades, were wildly overturning the beaten soil that formedthe floor of the hovel. They were seeking the hidden treasures.

  "What do you want?" demanded the widow, rudely.

  "Father Chupin."

  "You can see very plainly that he has been murdered," replied one of thesons.

  And brandishing his pick a few inches from Jean's head, he exclaimed:

  "And you, perhaps, are the assassin. But that is for justice todetermine. Now, decamp; if you do not----"

  Had he listened to the promptings of anger, Jean Lacheneur wouldcertainly have attempted to make the Chupins repent their menaces.

  But a conflict was scarcely permissible under the circumstances.

  He departed without a word, and hastened back to the Borderie.

  The death of Chupin overturned all his plans, and greatly irritated him.

  "I had sworn that the vile wretch who betrayed my father should perishby my hand," he murmured; "and now my vengeance has escaped me. Someonehas robbed me of it."

  Then he asked himself who the murderer could be.

  "Is it possible that Martial assassinated Chupin after he murderedMarie-Anne? To kill an accomplice is an effectual way of assuring one'sself of his silence."

  He had reached the Borderie, and was about going upstairs, when hethought he heard the sound of voices in the back room.

  "That is strange," he said to himself. "Who can it be?"

  And impelled by curiosity, he went and tapped upon the communicatingdoor.

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

  "Who is it?" inquired Jean, eagerly.

  "It is--it is. Guess who it is."
/>   "How can I guess?"

  "Maurice d'Escorval and Corporal Bavois."

  "My God!"

  "And it is a miracle that he has not been upstairs."

  "But whence does he come? Why have we received no news of him?"

  "I do not know. He has been here only five minutes. Poor boy! afterI told him that his father was safe, his first words were: 'AndMarie-Anne?' He loves her more devotedly than ever. He comes with hisheart full of her, confident and hopeful; and I tremble--I fear to tellhim the truth."

  "Oh, terrible! terrible!"

  "I have warned you; be prudent--and now, come in."

  They entered the room together; and Maurice and the old soldier greetedJean with the most ardent expressions of friendship.

  They had not seen each other since the duel on the Reche, which had beeninterrupted by the arrival of the soldiers; and when they parted thatday they scarcely expected to meet again.

  "And now we are together once more," said Maurice, gayly, "and we havenothing to fear."

  Never had the unfortunate man seemed so cheerful; and it was with themost jubilant air that he explained the reason of his long silence.

  "Three days after we crossed the frontier," said he, "Corporal Bavoisand I reached Turin. It was time, for we were tired out. We went to asmall inn, and they gave us a room with two beds.

  "That evening, while we were undressing, the corporal said to me: 'Iam capable of sleeping two whole days without waking.' I, too, promisedmyself a rest of at least twelve hours. We reckoned without our host, asyou will see.

  "It was scarcely daybreak when we were awakened by a great tumult. Adozen rough-looking men entered our room, and ordered us, in Italian, todress ourselves. They were too strong for us, so we obeyed; and an hourlater we were in prison, confined in the same cell. Our reflections, Iconfess, were not _couleur de rose_.

  "I well remember how the corporal said again and again, in that cool wayof his: 'It will require four days to obtain our extradition, three daysto take us back to Montaignac--that is seven days; it will take one daymore to try me; so I have in all eight days to live.'"

  "Upon my word! that was exactly what I thought," said the old soldier,approvingly.

  "For five months," continued Maurice, "instead of saying 'good-night' toeach other, we said: 'To-morrow they will come for us.' But they did notcome.

  "We were kindly treated. They did not take away my money; and theywillingly sold us little luxuries; they also granted us two hours ofexercise each day in the court-yard, and even loaned us books to read.In short, I should not have had any particular cause to complain, if Ihad been allowed to receive or to forward letters, or if I had been ableto communicate with my father or with Marie-Anne. But we were in thesecret cells, and were not allowed to have any intercourse with theother prisoners.

  "At length our detention seemed so strange and became so insupportableto us, that we resolved to obtain some explanation of it, cost what itmight.

  "We changed our tactics. Up to that time we had been quite submissive;we suddenly became violent and intractable. We made the prison resoundwith our cries and protestations; we were continually sending for thesuperintendent; we claimed the intervention of the French ambassador. Wewere not obliged to wait long for the result.

  "One fine afternoon, the superintendent released us, not withoutexpressing much regret at being deprived of the society of such amiableand charming guests.

  "Our first act, as you may suppose, was to run to the ambassador. We didnot see that dignitary, but his secretary received us. He knit his browswhen I told my story, and became excessively grave. I remember each wordof his reply.

  "'Monsieur,' said he, 'I can swear that the persecution of which youhave been the object in France had nothing whatever to do with yourdetention here.'

  "And as I expressed my astonishment:

  "'One moment,' he added. 'I shall express my opinion very frankly. Oneof your enemies--I leave you to discover which one--must exert a verypowerful influence in Turin. You were in his way, perhaps; he had youimprisoned by the Piedmontese police.'"

  With a heavy blow of his clinched fist, Jean Lacheneur made the tablebeside him reel.

  "Ah! the secretary was right!" he exclaimed. "Maurice, it was Martial deSairmeuse who caused your arrest----"

  "Or the Marquis de Courtornieu," interrupted the abbe, with a warningglance at Jean.

  A wrathful light gleamed for an instant in the eyes of Maurice; but itvanished almost immediately, and he shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

  "Nonsense," said he, "I do not wish to trouble myself any more aboutthe past. My father is well again, that is the main thing. We can easilyfind some way of getting him safely across the frontier. Marie-Anneand I, by our devotion, will strive to make him forget that my rashnessalmost cost him his life. He is so good, so indulgent to the faults ofothers. We will take up our residence in Italy or in Switzerland. Youwill accompany us, Monsieur l'Abbe, and you also, Jean. As for you,corporal, it is decided that you belong to our family."

  Nothing could be more horrible than to see this man, upon whose lifesuch a terrible blight was about to fall, so bright and full of hope andconfidence.

  The impression produced upon Jean and the abbe was so terrible, that,in spite of their efforts, it showed itself in their faces; and Mauriceremarked their agitation.

  "What is the matter?" he inquired, in evident surprise.

  They trembled, hung their heads, but did not say a word.

  The unfortunate man's astonishment changed to a vague, inexpressiblefear.

  He enumerated all the misfortunes which could possibly have befallenhim.

  "What has happened?" he asked, in a stifled voice. "My father is safe,is he not? You said that my mother would desire nothing, if I were withher again. Is it Marie-Anne----"

  He hesitated.

  "Courage, Maurice," murmured the abbe. "Courage!"

  The stricken man tottered as if about to fall; his face grew whiter thanthe plastered wall against which he leaned for support.

  "Marie-Anne is dead!" he exclaimed.

  Jean and the abbe were silent.

  "Dead!" Maurice repeated--"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 any response, he darted toward the staircase soquickly that neither Jean nor the abbe had time to intercept him.

  With three bounds he reached the chamber; he walked straight to thebed, and with a firm hand turned back the sheet that hid the face of thedead.

  He recoiled with a heart-broken cry.

  Was this indeed the beautiful, the radiant Marie-Anne, whom he had lovedto his own undoing! He did not recognize her.

  He could not recognize these distorted features, this face swollen anddiscolored by poison, these eyes which were almost concealed by thepurple swelling around them.

  When Jean and the priest entered the room they found him standing withhead thrown back, eyes dilated with terror, and rigid arm extendedtoward the corpse.

  "Maurice," said the priest, gently, "be calm. Courage!"

  He turned with an expression of complete bewilderment upon his features.

  "Yes," he faltered, "that is what I need--courage!"

  He staggered; they were obliged to support him to an arm-chair.

  "Be a man," continued the priest; "where is your energy? To live, is tosuffer."

  He listened, but did not seem to comprehend.

  "Live!" he murmured, "why should I desire to live since she is dead?"

  The dread light of insanity glittered in his dry eyes. The abbe wasalarmed.

  "If he does not weep, he will lose his reason!" he thought.

  And in an imperious voice, he said:

  "You have no right to despair thus; you owe a sacred duty to yourchild."

  He recoiled with a heart-broken cry.r />
  The recollection which had given Marie-Anne strength to hold death atbay for a moment, saved Maurice from the dangerous torpor into which hewas sinking. He trembled as if he had received an electric shock, andspringing 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 the face of Maurice, andin a husky voice he said:

  "What! you do not know! Did she not confide in you?"

  "No. I suspected her secret. I alone----"

  "You, alone! Then the child is dead, perhaps. Even if it is living, whocan tell me where it is?"

  "We shall undoubtedly find something that will give us a clew."

  "You are right," faltered the wretched man. "When Marie-Anne knew thather life was in danger, she would not have forgotten her child. Thosewho cared for her in her last moments must have received some messagefor me. I wish to 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 asort of frenzy.

  And, as the abbe remained silent, a terrible light dawned on the mindof the stricken man. He understood the cause of Marie-Anne's distortedfeatures now.

  "She perished the victim of a crime!" he exclaimed.

  "Some monster has killed her. If she died such a death, our child islost forever! And it was I who recommended, who commanded the greatestprecautions! Ah! it is a curse upon me!"

  He sank back in his chair, overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, andsilent tears rolled slowly down his cheeks.

  "He is saved!" thought the abbe, whose heart bled at the sight of suchdespair. Suddenly someone plucked him by the sleeve.

  It was Jean Lacheneur, and he drew the priest into the embrasure of awindow.

  "What is this about a child?" he asked, harshly.

  A flood of crimson suffused the brow of the priest.

  "You have heard," he responded, laconically.

  "Am I to understand that Marie-Anne was the mistress of Maurice, andthat she had a child by him? Is this true? I will not--I cannot believeit! She, whom I revered as a saint! Did her pure forehead and herchaste looks lie? And he--Maurice--he whom I loved as a brother! So, hisfriendship was only a mask assumed to enable him to steal our honor!"

  He hissed these words through his set teeth in such low tones thatMaurice, absorbed in his agony of grief, did not overhear him.

  "But how did she conceal her shame?" he continued. "No one suspectedit--absolutely no one. And what has she done with her child? Appalled bya dread of disgrace, did she commit the crime committed by so many otherruined and forsaken women? Did she murder her own child?"

  A hideous smile curved his thin lips.

  "If the child is alive," he added, "I will find it, and Maurice shallbe punished for his perfidy as he deserves." He paused; the sound ofhorses' hoofs upon the road attracted his attention, and that of AbbeMidon.

  They glanced out of the window and saw a horseman stop before the littlefootpath, alight from his horse, throw the reins to his groom, andadvance toward the Borderie.

  At the sight of the visitor, Jean Lacheneur uttered the frightful howlof an infuriated wild beast.

  "The Marquis de Sairmeuse here!" he exclaimed.

  He sprang to Maurice, and shaking him violently, he cried:

  "Up! here is Martial, Marie-Anne's murderer! Up! he is coming! he is atour mercy!"

  Maurice sprang up in a fury of passion, but the abbe darted to the doorand intercepted the infuriated men as they were about to leave the room.

  "Not a word, young men, not a threat!" he said, imperiously. "I forbidit. At least respect the dead who is lying here!"

  There was such an irresistible authority in his words and glance, thatJean and Maurice stood as if turned to stone.

  Before the priest had time to say more, Martial was there.

  He did not cross the threshold. With a glance he took in the wholescene; he turned very pale, but not a gesture, not a word escaped hislips.

  Wonderful as was his accustomed control over himself, he could notarticulate a syllable; and it was only by pointing to the bed upon whichMarie-Anne's lifeless form was reposing, that he asked an explanation.

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

  Maurice, forgetting the priest's commands, stepped forward.

  "She was alone and defenceless. I have been at liberty only two days.But I know the name of the man who had me arrested at Turin, and throwninto prison. They told me the coward's name!"

  Instinctively Martial recoiled.

  "It was you, infamous wretch!" exclaimed Maurice. "You confess yourguilt, scoundrel?"

  Once again the abbe interposed; he threw himself between the rivals,persuaded that Martial was about to attack Maurice.

  But no; the Marquis de Sairmeuse had resumed the haughty and indifferentmanner which was habitual to him. He took from his pocket a bulkyenvelope, and throwing it upon the table:

  "Here," he said coldly, "is what I was bringing to MademoiselleLacheneur. It contains first a safe-conduct from His Majesty forMonsieur d'Escorval. From this moment, he is at liberty to leavePoignot's farm-house and return to Escorval. He is free, he is saved, heis granted a new trial, and there can be no doubt of his acquittal. Hereis also a decree of his non-complicity rendered in favor of Abbe Midon,and an order from the bishop which reinstates him as Cure of Sairmeuse;and lastly, a discharge, drawn up in due form, and an acknowledged rightto a pension in the name of Corporal Bavois."

  He paused, and as his astonished hearers stood rooted to their placeswith wonder, he turned and approached Marie-Anne's bedside.

  With hand uplifted to heaven over the lifeless form of her whom he hadloved, and in a voice that would have made the murderess tremble in herinnermost soul, he said, solemnly:

  "To you, Marie-Anne, I swear that I will avenge you!"

  For a few seconds he stood motionless, then suddenly he stopped, presseda kiss upon 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 honor, I suppose," saidJean, 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 remount his horse.

  But the marquis did not take the road to Montaignac. It was toward theChateau de Courtornieu that he hastened.