CHAPTER XXXVII
When Abbe Midon and Martial de Sairmeuse held their conference, todiscuss and to decide upon the arrangements for the Baron d'Escorval'sescape, a difficulty presented itself which threatened to break off thenegotiation.
"Return my letter," said Martial, "and I will save the baron."
"Save the baron," replied the abbe, "and your letter shall be returned."
But Martial's was one of those natures which become exasperated by theleast shadow of suspicion.
The idea that anyone should suppose him influenced by threats, when inreality, he had yielded only to Marie-Anne's tears, angered him beyondendurance.
"These are my last words, Monsieur," he said, emphatically. "Restoreto me, now, this instant, the letter which was obtained from me byChanlouineau's ruse, and I swear to you, by the honor of my name, thatall which it is possible for any human being to do to save the baron, Iwill do. If you distrust my word, good-evening."
The situation was desperate, the danger imminent, the time limited;Martial's tone betrayed an inflexible determination.
The abbe could not hesitate. He drew the letter from his pocket andhanding it to Martial:
"Here it is, Monsieur," he said, solemnly, "remember that you havepledged the honor of your name."
"I will remember it, Monsieur le Cure. Go and obtain the ropes."
The abbe's sorrow and amazement were intense, when, after the baron'sterrible fall, Maurice announced that the cord had been cut. And yet hecould not make up his mind that Martial was guilty of the execrable act.It betrayed a depth of duplicity and hypocrisy which is rarely foundin men under twenty-five years of age. But no one suspected his secretthoughts. It was with the most unalterable _sang-froid_ that he dressedthe baron's wounds and made arrangements for the flight. Not until hesaw M. d'Escorval installed in Poignot's house did he breathe freely.
The fact that the baron had been able to endure the journey, provedthat in this poor maimed body remained a power of vitality for which thepriest had not dared to hope.
Some way must now be discovered to procure the surgical instruments andthe remedies which the condition of the wounded man demanded.
But where and how could he procure them?
The police kept a close watch over the physicians and druggists inMontaignac, in the hope of discovering the wounded conspirators throughthem.
But the cure, who had been for ten years physician and surgeon for thepoor of his parish, had an almost complete set of surgical instrumentsand a well-filled medicine-chest.
"This evening," said he, "I will obtain what is needful."
When night came, he put on a long blue blouse, shaded his face by animmense slouch hat, and directed his steps toward Sairmeuse.
Not a light was visible through the windows of the presbytery; Bibiane,the old housekeeper, must have gone out to gossip with some of theneighbors.
The priest effected an entrance into the house, which had once beenhis, by forcing the lock of the door opening on the garden; he found therequisite articles, and retired without having been discovered.
That night the abbe hazarded a cruel but indispensable operation. Hisheart trembled, but not the hand that held the knife, although he hadnever before attempted so difficult a task.
"It is not upon my weak powers that I rely: I have placed my trust inOne who is on High."
His faith was rewarded. Three days later the wounded man, after quite acomfortable night, seemed to regain consciousness.
His first glance was for his devoted wife, who was seated by hisbedside; his first word was for his son.
"Maurice?" he asked.
"Is in safety," replied the abbe. "He must be on the way to Turin."
M. d'Escorval's lips moved as if he were murmuring a prayer; then, in afeeble voice:
"We owe you a debt of gratitude which we can never pay," he murmured,"for I think I shall pull through."
He did "pull through," but not without terrible suffering, not withoutdifficulties that made those around him tremble with anxiety. JeanLacheneur, more fortunate, was on his feet by the end of the week.
Forty days had passed, when one evening--it was the 17th of April--whilethe abbe was reading a newspaper to the baron, the door gently openedand one of the Poignot boys put in his head, then quickly withdrew it.
The priest finished the paragraph, laid down the paper, and quietly wentout.
"What is it?" he inquired of the young man.
"Ah! Monsieur, Monsieur Maurice, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and the oldcorporal have just arrived; they wish to come up."
In three bounds the abbe descended the narrow staircase.
"Unfortunate creatures!" he exclaimed, addressing the three imprudenttravellers, "what has induced you to return here?"
Then turning to Maurice:
"Is it not enough that _for_ you, and _through_ you, your father hasnearly died? Are you afraid he will not be recaptured, that you returnhere to set the enemies upon his track? Depart!"
The poor boy, quite overwhelmed, faltered his excuse. Uncertainty seemedto him worse than death; he had heard of M. Lacheneur's execution; hehad not reflected, he would go at once; he asked only to see his fatherand to embrace his mother.
The priest was inflexible.
"The slightest emotion might kill your father," he declared; "and totell your mother of your return, and of the dangers to which you havefoolishly exposed yourself, would cause her untold tortures. Go at once.Cross the frontier again this very night."
Jean Lacheneur, who had witnessed this scene, now approached.
"It is time for me to depart," said he, "and I entreat you to care formy sister, the place for her is here, not upon the highways."
The abbe deliberated for a moment, then he said, brusquely:
"So be it; but go at once; your name is not upon the proscribed list.You will not be pursued."
Thus, suddenly separated from his wife, Maurice wished to confer withher, to give her some parting advice; but the abbe did not allow him anopportunity.
"Go, go at once," he insisted. "Farewell!"
The good abbe was too hasty.
Just when Maurice stood sorely in need of wise counsel, he was thusdelivered over to the influence of Jean Lacheneur's furious hatred. Assoon as they were outside:
"This," exclaimed Jean, "is the work of the Sairmeuse and the Marquisde Courtornieu! I do not even know where they have thrown the body ofmy murdered parent; you cannot even embrace the father who has beentraitorously assassinated by them!"
He laughed a harsh, discordant, terrible laugh, and continued:
"And yet, if we ascended that hill, we could see the Chateau deSairmeuse in the distance, brightly illuminated. They are celebratingthe marriage of Martial de Sairmeuse and Blanche de Courtornieu. _We_are homeless wanderers without friends, and without a shelter for ourheads: _they_ are feasting and making merry."
Less than this would have sufficed to rekindle the wrath of Maurice. Heforgot everything in saying to himself that to disturb this fete by hisappearance would be a vengeance worthy of him.
"I will go and challenge Martial now, on the instant, in the presence ofthe revellers," he exclaimed.
But Jean interrupted him.
"No, not that! They are cowards; they would arrest you. Write; I will bethe bearer of the letter."
Corporal Bavois heard them; but he did not oppose their folly. Hethought it all perfectly natural, under the circumstances, and esteemedthem the more for their rashness.
Forgetful of prudence they entered the first shop, and the challenge waswritten and confided to Jean Lacheneur.