“My husband!” exclaimed Mme. d’Escorval, springing wildly from her chair.
The priest bowed his head; she understood.
“Death!” she faltered. “They have condemned him!”
And overcome by the terrible blow, she sank back, inert, with hanging arms.
But the weakness did not last long; she again sprang up, her eyes brilliant with heroic resolve.
“We must save him!” she exclaimed. “We must wrest him from the scaffold. Up, Maurice! up, Marie-Anne! No more weak lamentations, we must to work! You, also, gentlemen, will aid me. I can count upon your assistance, Monsieur le Cure. What are we going to do? I do not know! But something must be done. The death of this just man would be too great a crime. God will not permit it.”
She suddenly paused, with clasped hands, and eyes uplifted to heaven, as if seeking divine inspiration.
“And the King,” she resumed; “will 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 all! Why did not this thought come to me sooner? We must start for Paris without losing an instant. Maurice, you will accompany me. One of you gentlemen will go at once and order post-horses.”
Thinking they would obey her, she hastened into the next room to make preparations for her journey.
“Poor woman!” the lawyer whispered to the abbe, “she does not know that the sentence of a military commission is executed in twenty-four hours.”