The abbe offered no verbal reply; but his eye, voluntarily or involuntarily, turned with a peculiar expression to the medicine chest standing upon the table near by. Did he wish to be understood as saying: “I will do nothing myself, but you will find a poison there?”
At all events M. d’Escorval understood him so; and it was in a tone of gratitude that he murmured: “Thanks!” He breathed more freely now that he felt he was master of his life, and from that hour his condition, so long desperate, began steadily to improve.
Day after day passed by, and yet the abbe’s gloomy apprehensions were not realised. Instead of fomenting reprisals, the scandal at the Chateau de Sairmeuse, and the imprudent temerity of which Maurice and Jean Lacheneur had been guilty, seemed actually to have frightened the authorities into increased indulgence; and it might have been reasonably supposed that they quite had forgotten, and wished every one else to forget, all about Lacheneur’s conspiracy, and the slaughter which had followed it. The inmates of the farm soon learnt that Maurice and his friend the corporal had succeeded in reaching Piedmont; though nothing was heard of Jean Lacheneur, who had probably remained in France. However, his safety was scarcely to be feared for, as he was not upon the proscribed list. Later on it was rumoured that the Marquis de Courtornieu was ill, and that Blanche his daughter did not leave his bedside; and then just afterwards Father Poignot returning from an excursion to Montaignac, reported that the Duke de Sairmeuse had lately passed a week in Paris, and that he was now on his way home with one more decoration—a convincing proof that he was still in the enjoyment of royal favour. What was of more importance was, that his grace had succeeded in obtaining an order for the release of all the conspirators still detained in prison. It was impossible to doubt this news which the Montaignac papers formally chronicled on the following day. The abbe attributed this sudden and happy change of prospects to the quarrel between the duke and the Marquis de Courtornieu, and such indeed was the universal opinion in the neighbourhood. Even the retired officers remarked: “The duke is decidedly better than he was supposed to be; if he was so severe, it is only because he was influenced by his colleague the odious provost marshal.”
Marie-Anne alone suspected the truth. A secret presentiment told her that it was Martial de Sairmeuse who was working all these changes, by utilizing his ascendancy over his father’s mind. “And it is for your sake,” whispered an inward voice, “that Martial is working in this fashion. He cares nothing for the obscure peasant prisoners, whose names he does not even know! If he protects them, it is only that he may have a right to protect you, and those whom you love!” With these thoughts in her mind she could but feel her aversion for Martial diminish. Was not his conduct truly noble? She had to confess it was, and yet the thought of this ardent passion which she had inspired never once quickened the throbbing of Marie-Anne’s heart. Alas! it seemed as if nothing were capable of touching her heart now. She was but the ghost of her former self. She would sit for whole days motionless in her chair, her eyes fixed upon vacancy, her lips contracted as if by a spasm, while great tears rolled silently down her cheeks. The Abbe Midon, who was very anxious on her account, often tried to question her. “You are suffering my child,” he said kindly one afternoon. “What is the matter?”
“Nothing, Monsieur le Cure. I am not ill.”
“Won’t you confide in me? Am I not your friend? What do you fear?”
She shook her head sadly and replied: “I have nothing to confide.” She said this, and yet she was dying of sorrow and anguish. Faithful to the promise she had made to Maurice, she had never spoken of her condition, or of the marriage solemnized in the little church at Vigano. And she saw with inexpressible terror the moment, when she could no longer keep her secret, slowly approaching. Her agony was frightful; but what could she do! Fly! but where could she go? And by going, would she not lose all chance of hearing from Maurice, which was the only hope that sustained her in this trying hour? Still she had almost determined on flight when circumstances—providentially, it seemed to her—came to her aid.
Money was needed at the farm. The fugitives were unable to obtain any without betraying their whereabouts, and Father Poignot’s little store was almost exhausted. The Abbe Midon was wondering what they could do, when Marie-Anne told him of the will which Chanlouineau had made in her favour, and of the money concealed under the hearth-stone in the room on the first floor. “I might go to the Borderie one night,” she suggested, “enter the house, which is unoccupied, obtain the money and bring it here. I have a right to do so, haven’t I?”
“You might be seen,” replied the priest, “and who knows—perhaps arrested. If you were questioned, what plausible explanation could you give?”
“What shall I do, then?”