On foot, some twenty paces in the rear came Madame d’Escorval, leaning on the abbe’s arm. It was very dark, but even if they had been in the full sunshine, the former cure of Sairmeuse might have encountered any of his old parishioners without the least danger of detection. He had allowed his hair and beard to grow; his tonsure had entirely disappeared, and his sedentary life had caused him to become much stouter. He was clad like all the well-to-do peasants of the neighbourhood, his face being partially hidden by a large slouch hat. He had not felt so much at ease for months past. Obstacles which had originally seemed to him insurmountable, had now vanished, and in the near future he saw the baron’s innocence proclaimed by an impartial tribunal, while he himself was re-installed in the parsonage of Sairmeuse. If it had not been for his recollection of Maurice he would have had nothing to trouble his mind. Why had young d’Escorval given no sign of life? It seemed impossible for him to have met with any misfortune without hearing of it, for there was brave old Corporal Bavois who would have risked anything to come and warn them, if Maurice had been in danger. The abbe was so absorbed in these reflections, that he did not notice Madame d’Escorval was leaning more heavily on his arm and gradually slackening her pace. “I am ashamed to confess it,” she said at last, “but I can go no farther. It is so long since I was out of doors, that I have almost forgotten how to walk.”
“Fortunately we are almost there,” replied the priest; and indeed a moment afterwards young Poignot drew up at the corner of the foot-path leading to the Borderie. Telling the baron that the journey was ended he gave a low whistle, like that which had warned Marie-Anne of his arrival a few hours before. No one appeared or replied, so he whistled again, in a louder key, and then a third time with all his might—still there was no response. Madame d’Escorval and the abbe had now overtaken the cart, “It’s very strange that Marie-Anne doesn’t hear me,” remarked young Poignot, turning to them. “We can’t take the baron to the house until we have seen her. She knows that very well. Shall I run up and warn her?”
“She’s asleep, perhaps,” replied the abbe; “stay with your horse, my boy, and I’ll go and wake her.”
He certainly did not feel the least uneasiness. All was calm and still outside, and a bright light shone through the windows of the upper floor. Still, when he perceived the open door, a vague presentiment of evil stirred his heart. “What can this mean?” he thought. There was no light in the lower rooms, and he had to feel for the staircase with his hands. At last he found it and went up. Another open door was in front of him; he stepped forward and reached the threshold. Then, so suddenly that he almost fell backward—he paused horror-stricken at the sight before him. Poor Marie-Anne was lying on the floor. Her eyes, which were wide open, were covered with a white film; her tongue was hanging black and swollen from her mouth. “Dead!” faltered the priest; “dead!” But this could not be. The abbe conquered his weakness, and approaching the poor girl, he took her by the hand. It was icy cold; and her arm was as rigid as iron. “Poisoned!” he murmured: “poisoned with arsenic.” He rose to his feet, and was casting a bewildered glance around the room, when his eyes fell on his medicine chest, standing open on a side-table. He rushed towards it, took out a vial, uncorked it, and turned it over on the palm of his hand—it was empty. “I was not mistaken!” he exclaimed.
But he had no time to lose in conjectures. The first thing to be done was to induce the baron to return to the farm-house without telling him of the terrible misfortune which had occurred. It would not be very difficult to find a pretext. Summoning all his courage the priest hastened back to the waggon, and with well-affected calmness told M. d’Escorval that it would be impossible for him to take up his abode at the Borderie at present, that several suspicious-looking characters had been seen prowling about, and that they must be more prudent than ever now, so as not to render Martial’s intervention useless. At last, but not without considerable reluctance, the baron yielded. “As you desire it, cure,” he sighed, “I must obey. Come, Poignot, my boy, drive me back to your father’s house.”
Madame d’Escorval took a seat in her cart beside her husband. The priest stood watching them as they drove off, and it was not until the sound of the wheels had died away in the distance that he ventured to return to the Borderie. He was climbing the stairs again when he heard a faint moan in the room where Marie-Anne was lying. The sound sent all his blood wildly rushing to his heart, and with one bound he had reached the upper floor. Beside the corpse a young man was kneeling, weeping bitterly. The expression of his face, his attitude, his sobs betrayed the wildest despair. He was so lost in grief that he did not observe the abbe’s entrance. Who was this mourner who had found his way to the house of death? At last, however, though he did not recognize him, the priest divined who he must be. “Jean!” he cried, “Jean Lacheneur!” The young fellow sprang to his feet with a pale face and threatening look. “Who are you?” he asked vehemently. “What are you doing here? What do you want with me?”
The former cure of Sairmeuse was so effectually disguised by his peasant dress and long beard, that he had to name himself. “You, Monsieur abbe,” exclaimed Jean. “It is God who has sent you here! Marie-Anne cannot be dead! You, who have saved so many others, will save her.” But as the priest sadly pointed to heaven, the young fellow paused, and his face became most ghastly looking than before. He understood now that there was no hope. “Ah!” he murmured in a desponding tone, “fate shows us no mercy. I have been watching over Marie-Anne, from a distance; and this evening I was coming to warn her to be cautious, for I knew she was in great danger. An hour ago, while I was eating my supper in a wine-shop at Sairmeuse, Grollet’s son came in. ‘Is that you, Jean?’ said he. ‘I just saw Chupin hiding near your sister’s house; when he observed me he slunk away.’ When I heard that, I hastened here like a crazy man. I ran, but when fate is against you, what can you do? I arrived too late!”
The abbe reflected for a moment. “Then you suppose it was Chupin?” he asked.
“I don’t suppose; I feel certain that it was he—the miserable traitor!—who committed this foul deed.”
“Still, what motive could he have had?”