“Leave me to myself,” he repeated roughly.
Marie-Anne felt that her apprehensions were correct. “Take care, take care,” she said entreatingly. “Do not tamper with such matters. God’s justice will punish those who have wronged us.”
But nothing could move Jean Lacheneur, or divert him from his purpose. With a hoarse, discordant laugh, he clapped his hand on his gun and retorted, “That’s my justice!”
Marie-Anne almost tottered as she heard these words. She discerned in her brother’s mind the same fixed, fatal idea which had lured her father on to destruction—the idea for which he had sacrificed everything—family, friends, fortune, and even his daughter’s honour, the idea which had caused so much bloodshed, which had cost the lives of so many innocent men, and had finally led him to the scaffold himself. “Jean,” she murmured, “remember our father.”
The young fellow’s face turned livid; and instinctively he clenched his fists. But the words he uttered were the more impressive as his voice was calm and low. “It is just because I do remember my father that I am determined justice shall be done. Ah! these wretched nobles wouldn’t display such audacity if all sons had my will and determination. A scoundrel like the Duke de Sairmeuse would hesitate before he attacked an honest man if he were only obliged to say to himself: ‘If I wrong this man, and even should I kill him, I cannot escape retributive justice, for his children will surely call me to account. Their vengeance will fall on me and mine; they will pursue us by day and night, at all hours and in all seasons. We must ever fear their hatred for they will be implacable and merciless. I shall never leave my house without fear of a bullet; never lift food to my lips without dread of poison. And until I and mine have succumbed, these avengers will prowl round about our home threatening us at every moment with death, dishonour, ruin, infamy, and misery!’ ” The young fellow paused, laughed nervously, and then, in a still slower voice, he added: “That is what the Sairmeuses and the Courtornieus have to expect from me.” It was impossible to mistake the import of these words. Jean Lacheneur’s threats were not the wild ravings of anger. His was a cold, deep-set premeditated desire for vengeance which would last as long as he lived—and he took good care that his sister should understand him, for between his teeth he added: “Undoubtedly these people are very high, and I am very low; but when a tiny insect pierces the root of a giant oak, that tree is doomed.”
Marie-Anne realized that all her entreaties would fail to turn her brother from his purpose, and yet she could not allow him to leave, without making one more effort it was with clasped hands and in a supplicating voice that she begged him to renounce his projects, but he still remained obdurate, and when changing her tactics she asked him to remain with her, at least that evening and share her frugal supper, adding in trembling tones that it might be the last time they would see each other for long years, he again repeated, “You ask me an impossibility!” And yet he was visibly moved, and if his voice was stern, a tear trembled in his eye. She was clinging to him imploringly, when, yielding for one moment to the impulse of nature, he took her in his arms and pressed her to his heart. “Poor sister—poor Marie-Anne,” he said, “you will never know what it costs me to refuse your supplications. But I cannot yield to them. I have been most imprudent in coming here at all. You don’t realize the danger to which you may be exposed if folks suspect that there is any connection between us. I trust that you and Maurice may lead a calm and happy life. It would be a crime for me to mix you up with my wild schemes. Think of me sometimes, but don’t try to see me, or even to find out what has become of me. A man like me struggles, triumphs, or perishes alone.” He kissed Marie-Anne passionately, and freed himself from her detaining hands. “Farewell!” he cried; “when you see me again, our father will be avenged!”
Then with one bound he reached the door. She sprang out after him, meaning to call him back, but he had already disappeared. “It is all over,” murmured the wretched girl; “my brother is lost. Nothing will restrain him now.” And a vague, inexplicable, dread invaded her heart. She felt as if she were being slowly but surely drawn into a whirlpool of passion, rancour, vengeance, and crime, and a voice whispered that she would be crushed.
Some days had elapsed after this incident, when one evening, while she was preparing her supper, she heard a rustling sound outside. She turned and looked: some one had slipped a letter under the front door. Without a moments hesitation, she raised the latch and courageously sprang out on to the threshold. No one could be seen. The gloom was well nigh impenetrable, and when she listened not a sound broke the stillness. With a trembling hand she picked up the letter, walked towards the lamp burning on her supper table, and looked at the address. “From the Marquis de Sairmeuse!” she exclaimed, in amazement, as she recognized Martial’s hand-writing. So he had written to her! He had dared to write to her! Her first impulse was to burn the letter; and she was already holding it over the stove, when she suddenly thought of her friends concealed at Father Poignot’s farm. “For their sake,” she thought, “I must read it, and see if they are threatened with danger.”
Then hastily opening the missive, she found that it was as follows: “My dear Marie-Anne—Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has given an entirely new and certainly surprising turn to events. Perhaps you have also understood the motives that guided him. In that case I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you can no longer refuse me your esteem. But my work of reparation is not yet perfect. I have prepared everything for a revision of the judgment that condemned the Baron d’Escorval to death, or for having him pardoned. You must know where the baron is concealed. Acquaint him with my plans and ascertain whether he prefers a revision of judgment, or a simple pardon. If he wishes for a new trial, I will give him a letter of licence from the king. I await your reply before acting. Martial de Sairmeuse.”
Marie-Anne’s head whirled. This was the second time that Martial had astonished her by the chivalrous spirit of his love. How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, had proved themselves to be. One of them Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, had sought to protect her from beyond the grave. The other, Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the connections and prejudices of his caste, and hazarded with noble recklessness the political fortunes of his house, so as to insure as far as possible her own happiness and that of those she loved. And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Maurice d’Escorval, had not given as much as a sign of life since he left her five months before. But suddenly and without reason, Marie-Anne passed from profound admiration to deep distrust. “What if Martial’s offer were only a trap?” This was the suspicion that darted through her mind. “Ah!” she thought, “the Marquis de Sairmeuse would be a hero if he were sincere!” And she did not wish him to be a hero.