“That may be,” said Maurice hesitatingly, “but how could I find a priest——”
The physician was silent, and it might have been supposed he was blaming himself for meddling with matters that did not concern him. Suddenly, however, he abruptly said: “Listen to me attentively, Monsieur d’Escorval. I am about to take my leave, but before I go, I shall find occasion to recommend your wife to take as much exercise as possible—I will do this in the landlord’s presence. Consequently, on the day after to-morrow, Wednesday, you must hire mules, and you, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and your old friend, the soldier, must start from the hotel as if you were going on a pleasure excursion. You will push on to Vigano, three leagues from here, where I live. Then I will take you to a priest, one of my friends; and upon my recommendation, he will perform the marriage ceremony. Now, reflect, shall I expect you on Wednesday?”
“Oh, yes, yes. How can I ever thank you sufficiently?”
“By not thanking me at all. See, here is the innkeeper; you are M. Dubois, again.”
Maurice was intoxicated with joy. He understood the irregularity of such a marriage, but he knew it would reassure Marie-Anne’s troubled conscience. Poor girl! she was suffering an agony of remorse. It was that which was killing her. However, he did not speak to her on the matter, fearing lest something might occur to interfere with the project. But the old physician had not spoken lightly, and everything took place as he had promised. The priest at Vigano blessed the marriage of Maurice d’Escorval and Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and after inscribing their names upon the church register, he gave them a certificate, which the physician and Corporal Bavois signed as witnesses. That same evening the mules were sent back to Saliente, and the fugitives resumed their journey. The Abbe Midon had advised them to reach Turin as quickly as possible. “It is a large city,” he had said, when bidding them good-bye near Father Poignot’s house, “you will be lost in the crowd. I have several friends there, whose names and addresses are on this paper. Go to them, for through them I will try to send you news of M. d’Escorval.”
So it was towards Turin that Maurice, Marie-Anne, and Corporal Bavois directed their steps. Their progress was slow, however, for they were obliged to avoid the more frequented roads, and renounce all ordinary modes of transport. Still the fatigue of travel, instead of exhausting Marie-Anne, seemed to revive her, and when five or six days had elapsed the colour came back to her cheeks, and her strength had fully returned. “Fate seems to have abandoned the pursuit,” said Maurice one day. “Who knows but what the future may have many compensations in store for us!”
But he was mistaken. Fate far from forgetting them had merely granted them a short respite. One April morning the fugitives stopped to breakfast at an inn in the outskirts of a large town. Maurice had finished eating, and was just leaving the table to settle with the landlady, when Marie-Anne uttered a loud shriek and fell back on her chair. She held in her hand a French newspaper about a fortnight old, which she had found lying on the sideboard where some traveller had probably left it. Maurice seized the print rapidly, and read as follows, “Lacheneur, the leader of the revolt in Montaignac, was executed yesterday. The miserable mischief-maker exhibited on the scaffold the audacity for which he had always been famous.”
“My father has been put to death!” cried Marie-Anne, “and I—his daughter—was not there to receive his last farewell!” She rose, and in an imperious voice: “I will go no farther,” she said; “we must turn back now without losing an instant. I wish to return to France.”
To return to France was to expose themselves to frightful peril. What good would it do? Was not the misfortune irreparable? So Corporal Bavois suggested, very timidly it is true, for the old soldier trembled at the thought that they might suspect him of being afraid. But Maurice would not listen. He shuddered. He did not know what had transpired since their flight, but it seemed to him that the Baron d’Escorval must have been discovered and re-arrested at the same time that Lacheneur was captured. Accordingly they at once procured a vehicle to convey them to the frontier. One important question, however, remained to be decided. Should Maurice and Marie-Anne make their marriage public? She wished to do so, but Maurice with tears in his eyes entreated her to conceal it. “Our marriage certificate will not silence those who are disposed against us,” said he. “Let us keep our secret for the present. No doubt we shall only remain in France for a few days.” Unfortunately, Marie-Anne yielded. “Since you wish it,” said she, “I will obey you. No one shall know of it.”
It was the evening of the seventeenth of April, the same day that Martial was married to Blanche, when the fugitives at last reached Father Poignot’s house. Maurice and Corporal Bavois were disguised as peasants and the old soldier had made a sacrifice that drew tears from his eyes; he had shaved off his moustaches.