THE three military men to whose care the Abbe Midon had entrusted Maurice had considerable difficulty in getting him to the Hotel de France, for he made continual attempts to return to the court-room, having the fallacious idea that by telling the truth he might yet save his father. In point of fact, however, the only effect of his confession would have been to provide the Duke de Sairmeuse with another welcome victim. When he and his custodians at length entered the room where Madame d’Escorval and Marie-Anne were waiting in cruel suspense, the baroness eagerly asked whether the trial was over.
“Nothing is decided yet,” replied one of the retired officers. “The cure will come here as soon as the verdict is given.”
Then as the three military men had promised not to lose sight of Maurice, they sat themselves down in gloomy silence. Not the slightest stir could be heard in the hotel, which seemed indeed as if it were deserted. At last, a little before four o’clock, the abbe came in, followed by the lawyer, to whom the baron had confided his last wishes.
“My husband!” exclaimed Madame d’Escorval, springing wildly from her chair. The priest bowed his head. “Death!” she faltered, fully understanding the significance of this impressive gesture. “What? they have condemned him!” And overcome with the terrible blow, she sank back, with hanging arms. But this weakness did not last long. “We must save him!” she exclaimed, abruptly springing to her feet again, her eyes bright with some sudden resolution, “we must wrest him from the scaffold. Up, Maurice! up, Marie-Anne! No more lamentations. To work! You also, gentlemen, will assist me; and I can count on your help, Monsieur le Cure. I do not quite know how to begin, but something must be done. The murder of so good, so noble a man as he would be too great a crime. God will not permit it.” She paused, with clasped hands, as if seeking for inspiration. “And the king,” she resumed—”can the king consent to such a crime? No. A king can refuse mercy, but he cannot refuse justice. I will go to him. I will tell him everything. Ah! why didn’t this thought occur to me sooner? We must start for Paris without losing an instant. Maurice you must accompany me; and one of you gentlemen go at once and order post-horses.” Then, thinking they would obey her, she hastened into the next room to make preparations for her journey.
“Poor woman!” whispered the lawyer to the abbe, “she does not know that the sentence of a military commission is executed in twenty-four hours, and that it requires four days to make the journey to Paris.” He reflected a moment, and then added: “But, after all, to let her go would be an act of mercy. Did not Ney, on the morning of his execution, implore the king to order the removal of his wife who was sobbing and moaning in his cell?”
The abbe shook his head. “No,” said he; “Madame d’Escorval would never forgive us if we prevented her from receiving her husband’s last farewell.”
At that very moment, the baroness re-entered the room, and the priest was trying to gather sufficient courage to tell her the cruel truth, when a loud knock was heard at the door. One of the retired officers went to open it, and our old friend Bavois, the corporal of grenadiers, entered, raising his right hand to his cap, as if he were in his captain’s presence. “Is Mademoiselle Lacheneur here?” he asked.
Marie-Anne stepped forward. “I am she, sir,” she replied; “what do you want with me?”
“I am ordered to conduct you to the citadel, mademoiselle.”
“What?” exclaimed Maurice, in a tone of anger; “so they imprison women as well?”