“To-morrow,” replied the duke. Terrible as this curt answer seemed, it did not alarm Marie-Anne. She had perceived by the duke’s acute anxiety that she had good grounds for hope, and she was now aware that Martial would favour her designs.
“We have, then, only the night before us,” resumed the marquis. “Fortunately, it is only half-past seven, and until ten o’clock my father can visit the citadel without exciting suspicion.” He paused, and seemed embarrassed. The fact was, he had just realised the existence of a difficulty which might thwart all his plans. “Have we any intelligent men in the citadel?” he murmured. “A jailer or a soldier’s assistance is indispensable.” Turning to his father, he abruptly asked him: “Have you any man whom one can trust?”
“I have three or four spies—they can be bought—”
“No! the wretch who betrays his comrade for a few sous would betray you for a few louis. We must have an honest man who sympathizes with Baron d’Escorval’s opinions—an old soldier who fought under Napoleon, if possible.”
“I know the man you require!” exclaimed Marie-Anne with sudden inspiration, and noticing Martial’s surprise. “Yes, a man at the citadel.”
“Take care,” observed the marquis. “Remember he will have a great deal to risk, for should this be discovered the accomplices must be sacrificed.”
“The man I speak of is the one you need. I will be responsible for him. His name is Bavois, and he is a corporal in the first company of grenadiers.”
“Bavois,” repeated Martial, as if to fix the name in his memory; “Bavois. Very well, I will confer with him. My father will find some pretext for having him summoned here.”
“It is easy to find a pretext,” rejoined Marie-Anne. “He was left on guard at Escorval after the searching party left the house.”
“That’s capital,” said Martial, walking towards his father’s chair. “I suppose,” he continued, addressing the duke, “that the baron has been separated from the other prisoners.”