“We shall no doubt find a clue.”
“You are right,” faltered Maurice. “When Marie-Anne knew that her life was in danger, she could not have forgotten her little one. Those who cared for her in her last moments must have received some message for me. I must see those who watched over her. Who were they?” The priest averted his face. “I asked you who was with her when she died,” repeated Maurice, in a sort of frenzy. And, as the abbe remained silent, a terrible light dawned on the young fellow’s mind. He understood the cause of Marie-Anne’s distorted features now. “She perished the victim of a crime!” he exclaimed. “Some monster killed her. If she died such a death, our child is lost for ever! And it was I who recommended, who commanded the greatest precautions! Ah! we are all of us cursed!” He sank back in his chair, overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse, and with big tears rolling slowly down his cheeks.
“He is saved!” thought the abbe, whose heart bled at the sight of such intense sorrow.
Jean Lacheneur stood by the priest’s side with gloom upon his face. Suddenly he drew the Abbe Midon towards one of the windows: “What is this about a child?” he enquired, harshly.
The priest’s face flushed. “You have heard,” he answered, laconically.
“Am I to understand that Marie-Anne was Maurice’s mistress, and that she had a child by him? Is that the case? I won’t, I can’t believe it! She whom I revered as a saint! What! you would have me believe that her eyes lied—her eyes so chaste, so pure? And he—Maurice—he whom I loved as a brother! So his friendship was only a cloak which he assumed so as to rob us of our honour!” Jean hissed these words through his set teeth in such low tones that Maurice, absorbed in his agony of grief, did not overhear him. “But how did she conceal her shame?” he continued. “No one suspected it—absolutely no one. And what has she done with her child? Did the thought of disgrace frighten her? Did she follow the example of so many ruined and forsaken women? Did she murder her own child? Ah, if it be alive I will find it, and in any case Maurice shall be punished for his perfidy as he deserves.” He paused; the window was open, and the sound of galloping horses could be plainly heard approaching along the adjacent highway. Both Jean and the abbe leant forward and looked out. Two horsemen were riding toward the Borderie—the first some ten yards in advance of the other. The former halted at the corner of the garden path, threw his reins to his follower—a groom—and then strode on foot toward the house. On recognizing this visitor, Jean bounded from the window with a yell. He clutched Maurice by the shoulders, and, shaking him violently, exclaimed, “Up! here comes Martial, Marie-Anne’s murderer! Up! he is coming! He is at our mercy!”
Maurice sprang to his feet, infuriated; but the abbe darted to the door and intercepted both young fellows as they were about to leave the room. “Not a word! not a threat!” he said, imperiously. “I forbid it. At least respect the presence of death!” He spoke with such authority, and his glance was so commanding, that both Jean and Maurice involuntarily paused. Before the priest had time to add another word, Martial was there. He did not cross the threshold. One look and he realised the situation. He turned very pale, but not a word escaped his lips. Wonderful as was his usual power of self-control he could not articulate a syllable; and it was only by pointing to the bed on which Marie-Anne’s lifeless form was reposing that he asked for an explanation.
“She was infamously poisoned last evening,” sadly replied the abbe.
Then Maurice, forgetting the priest’s demands, stepped forward. “She was alone and defenseless,” he said vehemently. “I have only been at liberty during the last two days. But I know the name of the man who had me arrested at Turin, and thrown into prison. They told me the coward’s name! Yes, it was you, you infamous wretch! Ah! you dare not deny it; you confess your guilt, you scoundrel!”
Once again the abbe interposed; He threw himself between the rivals, fearing lest they should come to blows. But the Marquis de Sairmeuse had already resumed his usual haughty and indifferent manner. He took a bulky envelope from his pocket, and threw it on the table. “This,” said he coldly, “is what I was bringing to Mademoiselle Lacheneur. It contains, first of all, royal letters of licence from his majesty for the Baron d’Escorval, who is now at liberty to return to his old home. He is, in fact, free and saved, for he is granted a new trial, and there can be no doubt of his acquittal. In the same envelope you will also find a decree of noncomplicity rendered in favour of the Abbe Midon, and an order from the bishop of the diocese, reinstating him as cure of Sairmeuse; and, finally, Corporal Bavois’ discharge from the service, drawn up in proper form, with the needful memorandum securing his right to a pension.”