“One fine afternoon, the superintendent released us, not without expressing much regret at being deprived of the society of such amiable and charming guests.
“Our first act, as you may suppose, was to run to the ambassador. We did not see that dignitary, but his secretary received us. He knit his brows when I told my story, and became excessively grave. I remember each word of his reply.
“‘Monsieur,’ said he, ‘I can swear that the persecution of which you have been the object in France had nothing whatever to do with your detention here.’
“And as I expressed my astonishment:
“‘One moment,’ he added. ‘I shall express my opinion very frankly. One of your enemies—I leave you to discover which one—must exert a very powerful influence in Turin. You were in his way, perhaps; he had you imprisoned by the Piedmontese police.’”
With a heavy blow of his clinched fist, Jean Lacheneur made the table beside him reel.
“Ah! the secretary was right!” he exclaimed. “Maurice, it was Martial de Sairmeuse who caused your arrest——”
“Or the Marquis de Courtornieu,” interrupted the abbe, with a warning glance at Jean.
A wrathful light gleamed for an instant in the eyes of Maurice; but it vanished almost immediately, and he shrugged his shoulders carelessly.
“Nonsense,” said he, “I do not wish to trouble myself any more about the past. My father is well again, that is the main thing. We can easily find some way of getting him safely across the frontier. Marie-Anne and I, by our devotion, will strive to make him forget that my rashness almost cost him his life. He is so good, so indulgent to the faults of others. We will take up our residence in Italy or in Switzerland. You will accompany us, Monsieur l’Abbe, and you also, Jean. As for you, corporal, it is decided that you belong to our family.”