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Updated: June 20, 2025
"Then," said Martial, with some hesitation, "then it is Jean who is a prisoner." "My brother is in safety. If he survives his wounds he will escape all attempts at capture." From white the Marquis de Sairmeuse had turned as red as fire. By Marie-Anne's manner he saw that she knew of the duel. He made no attempt to deny it; but he tried to excuse himself.
They, therefore, might be said to have taken possession of the mansion whose threshold M. de Sairmeuse had not crossed for twenty-two years, and which Martial had never seen. Maurice saw the lights leap from story to story, from casement to casement, until at last even the windows of Marie-Anne's room were illuminated. At this sight the unhappy youth could not restrain a cry of rage.
The consternation into which Marie-Anne's words had thrown M. d'Escorval was so intense that it was with great difficulty he stammered out a response. "You have abandoned us entirely; I was anxious about you. Have you forgotten our old friendship? I come to you " The brow of the former master of Sairmeuse remained overcast.
He understood the cause of Marie-Anne's distorted features now. "She perished the victim of a crime!" he exclaimed. "Some monster has killed her. If she died such a death, our child is lost forever! And it was I who recommended, who commanded the greatest precautions! Ah! it is a curse upon me!"
But, again, how odd of Claire not to have mentioned that Dupré was leaving Falaise! Of course it was possible that she also had been ignorant of the fact. She very seldom spoke of other people's affairs, and lately she had been so dreadfully worried about her sister's, Marie-Anne's, illness.
In comparison with this obscure hero, Maurice felt himself insignificant, mediocre, unworthy. Good God! what if this comparison should arise in Marie-Anne's mind as well? How could he compete with the memory of such nobility of soul and heroic self-sacrifice? Chanlouineau was mistaken; one, may, perhaps, be jealous of the dead!
Her sufferings were measured by years, Marie-Anne's by minutes; and she said to herself, again and again, that the torture of poison could not be as intolerable as her agony. How was it that Martial had failed to discover or to suspect this state of affairs? A moment's reflection will explain this fact which is so extraordinary in appearance, so natural in reality.
Marie-Anne's incomprehensible obstinacy, the insults he had received from the marquis, and Lacheneur's feigned anger were mingled in inextricable confusion, forming one immense, intolerable misfortune, too crushing for his powers of resistance.
Maurice d'Escorval, who had entered the magistracy, and was now a judge in the tribunal of the Seine; Abbe Midon, who had come to Paris with Maurice, and Martial and herself. There was another person, the bare recollection of whom made her tremble, and whose name she dared not utter. Jean Lacheneur, Marie-Anne's brother.
It had not been three hours since Maurice, Jean Lacheneur and Bavois left the house, promising to re-cross the frontier that same night. Abbe Midon had decided to say nothing to M. d'Escorval of his son's return, and to conceal Marie-Anne's presence in the house. The baron's condition was so critical that the merest trifle might turn the scale.
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