And then, without giving the abbe an opportunity to open his lips, he began to tell him his perplexities. The night of the revolt he had given shelter to a poor man who had received an ugly sword-thrust. Neither his wife nor himself knew how to dress the wound, and he dared not call in a physician.
“And this wounded man,” he added, “is Jean Lacheneur, the son of my former employer.” A terrible anxiety seized the priest’s heart.
Would this man, who had already given an asylum to one wounded conspirator, consent to receive another?
The abbe’s voice trembled as he made known his petition.
The farmer turned very pale and shook his head gravely, while the priest was speaking. When the abbe had finished:
“Do you know, sir,” he asked, coldly, “that I incur a great risk by converting my house into a hospital for these rebels?”
The abbe dared not answer.
“They told me,” Father Poignot continued, “that I was a coward, because I would not take part in the revolt. Such was not my opinion. Now I choose to shelter these wounded men—I shelter them. In my opinion, it requires quite as much courage as it does to go and fight.”
“Ah! you are a brave man!” cried the abbe.
“I know that very well! Bring Monsieur d’Escorval. There is no one here but my wife and boys—no one will betray him!”