Martial remained thoughtful. “It is not the Marquis de Courtornieu that I fear,” he murmured, “but his daughter—my wife.”
XXVIII.
IN the country, news flies from mouth to mouth with inconceivable rapidity, and, strange as it may seem, the scene at the Chateau de Sairmeuse was known of at Father Poignot’s farm-house that same night. After Maurice, Jean Lacheneur, and Bavois left the farm, promising to recross the frontier as quickly as possible the Abbe Midon decided not to acquaint M. d’Escorval either with his son’s return, or Marie-Anne’s presence in the house. The baron’s condition was so critical that the merest trifle might turn the scale. At about ten o’clock he fell asleep, and the abbe and Madame d’Escorval then went downstairs to talk with Marie-Anne. They were sitting together when Poignot’s eldest son came home in a state of great excitement. He had gone out after supper with some of his acquaintances to admire the splendours of the Sairmeuse fete, and he now came rushing back to relate the strange events of the evening to his father’s guests. “It is inconceivable!” murmured the abbe when the lad had finished his narrative. The worthy ecclesiastic fully understood that these strange events would probably render their situation more perilous than ever. “I cannot understand,” added he, “how Maurice could commit such an act of folly after what I had just said to him. The baron has no worse enemy than his own son.”
In the course of the following day the inmates of the farm heard of the meeting at La Reche; a peasant who had witnessed the preliminaries of the duel from a distance being able to give them the fullest details. He had seen the two adversaries take their places, and had then perceived the soldiers hasten to the spot. After a brief parley with the young Marquis de Sairmeuse, they had started off in pursuit of Maurice, Jean, and Bavois, fortunately, however, without overtaking them; for this peasant had met the same troopers again five hours later, when they were harassed and furious; the officer in command declaring that their failure was due to Martial, who had detained them. That same day, moreover, Father Poignot informed the abbe that the Duke de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu were at variance. Their quarrel was the talk of the district. The marquis had returned home with his daughter, and the duke had gone to Montaignac. The abbe’s anxiety on receiving this intelligence was so intense that, strive as he might, he could not conceal it from the Baron d’Escorval. “You have heard some bad news, my friend,” said the latter.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“Some new danger threatens us.”
But the priest’s protestations did not convince the wounded man. “Oh, don’t deny it!” he exclaimed. “On the night before last, when you came into my room after I woke up, you were paler than death, and my wife had certainly been crying. What does all this mean?” As a rule, when the cure did not wish to reply to his patient’s questions, it sufficed to tell him that conversation and excitement would retard his recovery; but this time the baron was not so docile. “It will be very easy for you to restore my peace of mind,” he continued. “Confess now, you are afraid they may discover my retreat. This fear is torturing me also. Very well, swear to me that you will not let them take me alive, and then my mind will be at rest.”
“I can’t take such an oath as that,” said the cure, turning pale.
“And why not?” insisted M. d’Escorval. “If I am recaptured, what will happen? They will nurse me, and then, as soon as I can stand on my feet, they will shoot me down again. Would it be a crime to save me from such suffering? You are my best friend; swear you will render me this supreme service. Would you have me curse you for saving my life?”