Monsieur Lecoq, Émile Gaboriau [best non fiction books to read .txt] 📗

If he desires a new trial, I will give him a letter of license from the King.

I await your reply before acting.

Martial de Sairmeuse.

Marie-Anne’s head whirled. This was the second time that Martial had astonished her by the grandeur of his passion. How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, had proved themselves to be.

One, Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, protected her still.

Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the convictions of his life and the prejudice of his race for her sake; and, with a noble recklessness, hazarded for her the political fortunes of his house.

And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Maurice d’Escorval, had not given a sign of life since he quitted her, five months before.

But suddenly, and without reason, Marie-Anne passed from the most profound admiration to the deepest distrust.

“What if Martial’s offer is only a trap?” This was the suspicion that darted through her mind.

“Ah!” she thought, “the Marquis de Sairmeuse would be a hero if he were sincere!”

And she did not wish him to be a hero.

The result of these suspicions was that she hesitated five days before repairing to the rendezvous where Father Poignot usually awaited her.

When she did go, she found, not the worthy farmer, but Abbé Midon, who had been greatly alarmed by her long absence.

It was night, but Marie-Anne, fortunately, knew Martial’s letter by heart.

The abbé made her repeat it twice, the second time very slowly, and when she had concluded:

“This young man,” said the priest, “has the voice and the prejudices of his rank and of his education; but his heart is noble and generous.”

And when Marie-Anne disclosed her suspicions:

“You are wrong, my child,” said he; “the Marquis is certainly sincere. It would be wrong not to take advantage of his generosity. Such, at least, is my opinion. Entrust this letter to me. I will consult the baron, and tomorrow I will tell you our decision.”

The abbé was awaiting her with feverish impatience on the same spot, when she rejoined him twenty-four hours later.

“Monsieur d’Escorval agrees with me that we must trust ourselves to the Marquis de Sairmeuse. Only the baron, being innocent, cannot, will not, accept a pardon. He demands a revision of the iniquitous judgment which condemned him.”

Although she must have foreseen this determination, Marie-Anne seemed stupefied.

“What!” said she. “Monsieur d’Escorval will give himself up to his enemies? Does not the Marquis de Sairmeuse promise him a letter of license, a safe-conduct from the King?”

“Yes.”

She could find no objection, so in a submissive tone, she said:

“In this case, Monsieur, I must ask you for a rough draft of the letter I am to write to the marquis.”

The priest did not reply for a moment. It was evident that he felt some misgivings. At last, summoning all his courage, he said:

“It would be better not to write.”

“But⁠—”

“It is not that I distrust the marquis, not by any means, but a letter is dangerous; it does not always reach the person to whom it is addressed. You must see Monsieur de Sairmeuse.”

Marie-Anne recoiled in horror.

“Never! never!” she exclaimed.

The abbé did not seem surprised.

“I understand your repugnance, my child,” he said, gently; “your reputation has suffered greatly through the attentions of the marquis.”

“Oh! sir, I entreat you.”

“But one should not hesitate, my child, when duty speaks. You owe this sacrifice to an innocent man who has been ruined through your father.”

He explained to her all that she must say, and did not leave her until she had promised to see the marquis in person. But the cause of her repugnance was not what the abbé supposed. Her reputation! Alas! she knew that was lost forever. No, it was not that.

A fortnight before she would not have been disquieted by the prospect of this interview. Then, though she no longer hated Martial, he was perfectly indifferent to her, while now⁠—

Perhaps in choosing the Croix d’Arcy for the place of meeting, she hoped that this spot, haunted by so many cruel memories, would restore her former aversion.

On pursuing the path leading to the place of rendezvous, she said to herself that Martial would undoubtedly wound her by the tone of careless gallantry which was habitual to him.

But in this she was mistaken. Martial was greatly agitated, but he did not utter a word that was not connected with the baron.

It was only when the conference was ended, and he had consented to all the conditions, that he said, sadly:

“We are friends, are we not?”

In an almost inaudible voice she answered:

“Yes.”

And that was all. He remounted his horse which had been held by a servant, and departed in the direction of Montaignac.

Breathless, with cheeks on fire, Marie-Anne watched him as he disappeared; and then her inmost heart was revealed as by a lightning flash.

“Mon Dieu! wretch that I am!” she exclaimed. “Do I not love? is it possible that I could ever love any other than Maurice, my husband, the father of my child?”

Her voice was still trembling with emotion when she recounted the details of the interview to the abbé. But he did not perceive it. He was thinking only of the baron.

“I was sure that Martial would agree to everything; I was so certain of it that I have made all the arrangements for the baron to leave the farm. He will await, at your house, a safe-conduct from His Majesty.

“The close air and the heat of the loft are retarding the baron’s recovery,” the abbé pursued, “so be prepared for his coming tomorrow evening. One of the Poignot boys will bring over all our baggage. About eleven o’clock we will put Monsieur d’Escorval in a carriage; and we will all sup together at the Borderie.”

“Heaven comes to my aid!” thought Marie-Anne as she walked homeward.

She thought that she would no longer be alone, that Mme. d’Escorval would be with her to talk to her of Maurice, and that all the friends who would surround her would