“All ready?” inquired young Poignot.
“Yes,” replied the invalid.
The cart, driven with the utmost caution by the young peasant, started slowly on its way.
Mme. d’Escorval, leaning upon the abbe’s arm, walked about twenty paces in the rear.
It was very dark, but had it been as light as day the former cure of Sairmeuse might have encountered any of his old parishioners without the least danger of detection.
His hair and his beard had been allowed to grow; his tonsure had entirely disappeared, and his sedentary life had caused him to become much stouter. He was clad like all the well-to-do peasants of the neighborhood, and his face was hidden by a large slouch hat.
He had not felt so tranquil in mind for months. Obstacles which had appeared almost insurmountable had vanished. In the near future he saw the baron declared innocent by impartial judges; he saw himself reinstalled in the presbytery of Sairmeuse.
The recollection of Maurice was the only thing that marred his happiness. Why did he not give some sign of life?
“But if he had met with any misfortune we should have heard of it,” thought the priest. “He has with him a brave man—an old soldier who would risk anything to come and tell us.”
He was so absorbed in these thoughts that he did not observe that Mme. d’Escorval was leaning more and more heavily upon his arm.