Monsieur Lecoq by Émile Gaboriau (romance novel chinese novels .txt) 📕

had been sent to warn him⁠—had he met him? Was the marquis returning? And by which road? Could it be possible that he had fallen into the hands of the peasants?

The duke’s relief was intense when, on returning home, after a conference with M. de Courtornieu, he learned that Martial had arrived about a quarter of an hour before.

“The marquis went at once to his own room on dismounting from his horse,” added the servant.

“Very well,” replied the duke. “I will seek him there.”

Before the servants he said, “Very well;” but secretly, he exclaimed: “Abominable impertinence! What! I am on horseback at the head of my troops, my life imperilled, and my son goes quietly to bed without even assuring himself of my safety!”

He reached his son’s room, but found the door closed and locked on the inside. He rapped.

“Who is there?” demanded Martial.

“It is I; open the door.”

Martial drew the bolt; M. de Sairmeuse entered, but the sight that met his gaze made him tremble.

Upon the table was a basin of blood, and Martial, with chest bared, was bathing a large wound in his right breast.

“You have been fighting!” exclaimed the duke, in a husky voice.

“Yes.”

“Ah! then you were, indeed⁠—”

“I was where? what?”

“At the convocation of these miserable peasants who, in their parricidal folly, have dared to dream of the overthrow of the best of princes!”

Martial’s face betrayed successively profound surprise, and a more violent desire to laugh.

“I think you must be jesting, Monsieur,” he replied.

The young man’s words and manner reassured the duke a little, without entirely dissipating his suspicions.

“Then, these vile rascals attacked you?” he exclaimed.

“Not at all. I have been simply obliged to fight a duel.”

“With whom? Name the scoundrel who has dared to insult you!”

A faint flush tinged Martial’s cheek; but it was in his usual careless tone that he replied:

“Upon my word, no; I shall not give his name. You would trouble him, perhaps; and I really owe the fellow a debt of gratitude. It happened upon the highway; he might have assassinated me without ceremony, but he offered me open combat. Besides, he was wounded far more severely than I.”

All M. de Sairmeuse’s doubts had returned.

“And why, instead of summoning a physician, are you attempting to dress this wound yourself?”

“Because it is a mere trifle, and because I wish to keep it a secret.”

The duke shook his head.

“All this is scarcely plausible,” he remarked, “especially after the assurance of your complicity, which I have received.”

“Ah!” said he; “and from whom? From your spy-in-chief, no doubt⁠—that rascal Chupin. It surprises me to see that you can hesitate for a moment between the word of your son and the stories of such a wretch.”

“Do not speak ill of Chupin, Marquis; he is a very useful man. Had it not been for him, we should have been taken unawares. It was through him that I learned of this vast conspiracy organized by Lacheneur⁠—”

“What! is it Lacheneur⁠—”

“Who is at the head of the movement? yes, Marquis. Ah! your usual discernment has failed you in this instance. What, you have been a constant visitor at this house, and you have suspected nothing? And you contemplate a diplomatic career! But this is not all. You know now for what purpose the money which you so lavishly bestowed upon them has been employed. They have used it to purchase guns, powder, and ammunition.”

The duke had become satisfied of the injustice of his suspicions; but he was now endeavoring to irritate his son.

It was a fruitless effort. Martial knew very well that he had been duped, but he did not think of resenting it.

“If Lacheneur has been captured,” he thought; “if he should be condemned to death and if I should save him, Marie-Anne would refuse me nothing.”

XXIV

Having penetrated the mystery that enveloped his son’s frequent absence, the Baron d’Escorval had concealed his fears and his chagrin from his wife.

It was the first time that he had ever had a secret from the faithful and courageous companion of his existence.

Without warning her, he went to beg Abbé Midon to follow him to the Reche, to the house of M. Lacheneur.

The silence, on his part, explains Mme. d’Escorval’s astonishment when, on the arrival of the dinner-hour, neither her son nor her husband appeared.

Maurice was sometimes late; but the baron, like all great workers, was punctuality itself. What extraordinary thing could have happened?

Her surprise became uneasiness when she learned that her husband had departed in company with Abbé Midon. They had harnessed the horse themselves, and instead of driving through the courtyard as usual, they had driven through the stable-yard into a lane leading to the public road.

What did all this mean? Why these strange precautions?

Mme. d’Escorval waited, oppressed by vague forebodings.

The servants shared her anxiety. The baron was so equable in temper, so kind and just to his inferiors, that his servants adored him, and would have gone through a fiery furnace for him.

So, about ten o’clock, they hastened to lead to their mistress a peasant who was returning from Sairmeuse.

This man, who was slightly intoxicated, told the strangest and most incredible stories.

He said that all the peasantry for ten leagues around were under arms, and that the Baron d’Escorval was the leader of the revolt.

He did not doubt the final success of the movement, declaring that Napoleon II, Marie-Louise, and all the marshals of the Empire were concealed in Montaignac.

Alas! it must be confessed that Lacheneur had not hesitated to utter the grossest falsehoods in his anxiety to gain followers.

Mme. d’Escorval could not be deceived by these ridiculous stories, but she could believe, and she did believe that the baron was the prime mover in this insurrection.

And this belief, which would have carried consternation to the hearts of so many women, reassured her.

She had entire, absolute, and unlimited faith in her husband. She believed him superior to all other men⁠—infallible, in short. The moment he said: “This is so!” she believed it implicitly.

Hence, if her husband had organized a movement that movement was