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

They immediately procured a carriage to convey them to the frontier. One important question, however, remained to be decided. Should Maurice and Marie-Anne make their marriage public? She wished to do so, but Maurice entreated her, with tears in his eyes, to conceal it.

“Our marriage certificate will not silence the evil disposed,” said he. “Let us keep our secret for the present. We shall doubtless remain in France only a few days.”

Unfortunately, Marie-Anne yielded.

“Since you wish it,” said she, “I will obey you. No one shall know it.”

The next day, which was the 14th of April, the fugitives at nightfall reached Father Poignot’s house.

Maurice and Corporal Bavois were disguised as peasants.

The old soldier had made one sacrifice that drew tears from his eyes; he had shaved off his mustache.

When Abbé Midon and Martial de Sairmeuse held their conference, to discuss and to decide upon the arrangements for the Baron d’Escorval’s escape, a difficulty presented itself which threatened to break off the negotiation.

“Return my letter,” said Martial, “and I will save the baron.”

“Save the baron,” replied the abbé, “and your letter shall be returned.”

But Martial’s was one of those natures which become exasperated by the least shadow of suspicion.

The idea that anyone should suppose him influenced by threats, when in reality, he had yielded only to Marie-Anne’s tears, angered him beyond endurance.

“These are my last words, Monsieur,” he said, emphatically. “Restore to me, now, this instant, the letter which was obtained from me by Chanlouineau’s ruse, and I swear to you, by the honor of my name, that all which it is possible for any human being to do to save the baron, I will do. If you distrust my word, good evening.”

The situation was desperate, the danger imminent, the time limited; Martial’s tone betrayed an inflexible determination.

The abbé could not hesitate. He drew the letter from his pocket and handing it to Martial:

“Here it is, Monsieur,” he said, solemnly, “remember that you have pledged the honor of your name.”

“I will remember it, Monsieur le Curé. Go and obtain the ropes.”

The abbé’s sorrow and amazement were intense, when, after the baron’s terrible fall, Maurice announced that the cord had been cut. And yet he could not make up his mind that Martial was guilty of the execrable act. It betrayed a depth of duplicity and hypocrisy which is rarely found in men under twenty-five years of age. But no one suspected his secret thoughts. It was with the most unalterable sangfroid that he dressed the baron’s wounds and made arrangements for the flight. Not until he saw M. d’Escorval installed in Poignot’s house did he breathe freely.

The fact that the baron had been able to endure the journey, proved that in this poor maimed body remained a power of vitality for which the priest had not dared to hope.

Some way must now be discovered to procure the surgical instruments and the remedies which the condition of the wounded man demanded.

But where and how could he procure them?

The police kept a close watch over the physicians and druggists in Montaignac, in the hope of discovering the wounded conspirators through them.

But the curé, who had been for ten years physician and surgeon for the poor of his parish, had an almost complete set of surgical instruments and a well-filled medicine-chest.

“This evening,” said he, “I will obtain what is needful.”

When night came, he put on a long blue blouse, shaded his face by an immense slouch hat, and directed his steps toward Sairmeuse.

Not a light was visible through the windows of the presbytery; Bibiane, the old housekeeper, must have gone out to gossip with some of the neighbors.

The priest effected an entrance into the house, which had once been his, by forcing the lock of the door opening on the garden; he found the requisite articles, and retired without having been discovered.

That night the abbé hazarded a cruel but indispensable operation. His heart trembled, but not the hand that held the knife, although he had never before attempted so difficult a task.

“It is not upon my weak powers that I rely: I have placed my trust in One who is on High.”

His faith was rewarded. Three days later the wounded man, after quite a comfortable night, seemed to regain consciousness.

His first glance was for his devoted wife, who was seated by his bedside; his first word was for his son.

“Maurice?” he asked.

“Is in safety,” replied the abbé. “He must be on the way to Turin.”

M. d’Escorval’s lips moved as if he were murmuring a prayer; then, in a feeble voice:

“We owe you a debt of gratitude which we can never pay,” he murmured, “for I think I shall pull through.”

He did “pull through,” but not without terrible suffering, not without difficulties that made those around him tremble with anxiety. Jean Lacheneur, more fortunate, was on his feet by the end of the week.

Forty days had passed, when one evening⁠—it was the 17th of April⁠—while the abbé was reading a newspaper to the baron, the door gently opened and one of the Poignot boys put in his head, then quickly withdrew it.

The priest finished the paragraph, laid down the paper, and quietly went out.

“What is it?” he inquired of the young man.

“Ah! Monsieur, Monsieur Maurice, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and the old corporal have just arrived; they wish to come up.”

In three bounds the abbé descended the narrow staircase.

“Unfortunate creatures!” he exclaimed, addressing the three imprudent travellers, “what has induced you to return here?”

Then turning to Maurice:

“Is it not enough that for you, and through you, your father has nearly died? Are you afraid he will not be recaptured, that you return here to set the enemies upon his track? Depart!”

The poor boy, quite overwhelmed, faltered his excuse. Uncertainty seemed to him worse than death; he had heard of M. Lacheneur’s execution; he had not reflected, he would go at once; he asked only to see his father and to embrace his mother.

The priest was inflexible.

“The slightest emotion might kill your father,”