His faith was rewarded. Three days later the wounded man, after quite a comfortable night, seemed to regain consciousness.
His first glance was for his devoted wife, who was seated by his bedside; his first word was for his son.
“Maurice?” he asked.
“Is in safety,” replied the abbe. “He must be on the way to Turin.”
M. d’Escorval’s lips moved as if he were murmuring a prayer; then, in a feeble voice:
“We owe you a debt of gratitude which we can never pay,” he murmured, “for I think I shall pull through.”
He did “pull through,” but not without terrible suffering, not without difficulties that made those around him tremble with anxiety. Jean Lacheneur, more fortunate, was on his feet by the end of the week.
Forty days had passed, when one evening—it was the 17th of April—while the abbe was reading a newspaper to the baron, the door gently opened and one of the Poignot boys put in his head, then quickly withdrew it.
The priest finished the paragraph, laid down the paper, and quietly went out.
“What is it?” he inquired of the young man.