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

I trust he may be happy. Adieu, Monsieur le Duc, we shall never meet again. Adieu!”

She took her father’s arm, and they were about to retire, when M. de Sairmeuse hastily threw himself between them and the door.

“You shall not depart thus!” he exclaimed. “I will not suffer it. Wait, at least, until I have seen Martial. Perhaps he is not as culpable as you suppose⁠—”

“Enough!” interrupted the marquis; “enough! This is one of those outrages which can never be repaired. May your conscience forgive you, as I, myself, forgive you. Farewell!”

This was said so perfectly, with such entire harmony of intonation and gesture, that M. de Sairmeuse was bewildered.

With an absolutely wonderstruck air he watched the marquis and his daughter depart, and they had been gone some moments before he recovered himself sufficiently to exclaim:

“Old hypocrite! does he believe me his dupe?”

His dupe! M. de Sairmeuse was so far from being his dupe, that his next thought was:

“What is to follow this farce? He says that he pardons us⁠—that means that he has some crushing blow in store for us.”

This conviction filled him with disquietude. He really felt unable to cope successfully with the perfidious marquis.

“But Martial is a match for him!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I must see Martial at once.”

So great was his anxiety that he lent a helping hand in harnessing the horses he had ordered, and when the carriage was ready, he announced his determination to drive himself.

As he urged the horses furiously on he tried to reflect, but the most contradictory ideas seethed in his brain, and he lost all power to consider the situation calmly.

He burst into Martial’s room like a tornado. “I think you must certainly have gone mad, Marquis,” he exclaimed. “That is the only valid excuse you can offer.”

But Martial, who had been expecting this visit, had prepared himself for it.

“Never, on the contrary, have I felt more calm and composed in mind,” he replied. “Allow me to ask you one question. Was it you who sent the soldiers to the rendezvous which Maurice d’Escorval had appointed?”

“Marquis!”

“Very well! Then it was another act of infamy on the part of the Marquis de Courtornieu.”

The duke made no reply. In spite of his faults and his vices, this haughty man possessed the characteristic of the old French nobility⁠—fidelity to his word and undoubted valor.

He thought it perfectly natural, even necessary, that Martial should fight with Maurice; and he thought it a contemptible act to send armed soldiers to seize an honest and confiding opponent.

“This is the second time,” pursued Martial, “that this scoundrel has attempted to bring dishonor upon our name; and if I desire to convince people of the truth of this assertion, I must break off all connection with him and his daughter. I have done this. I do not regret it, since I married her only out of deference to your wishes, and because it seemed necessary for me to marry, and because all women, save one who can never be mine, are alike to me.”

Such utterances were not at all calculated to reassure the duke.

“This sentiment is very noble, no doubt,” said he; “but it has none the less ruined the political prospects of our house.”

An almost imperceptible smile curved Martial’s lips.

“I believe, on the contrary, that I have saved them,” he replied.

“It is useless for us to attempt to deceive ourselves; this whole affair of the insurrection has been abominable, and you have good reason to bless the opportunity of freeing yourself from the responsibility of it which this quarrel gives you. With a little address, you can throw all the odium upon the Marquis de Courtornieu, and keep for yourself only the prestige of valuable service rendered.”

The duke’s face brightened.

“Zounds, Marquis!” he exclaimed; “that is a good idea! In the future I shall be infinitely less afraid of Courtornieu.”

Martial remained thoughtful.

“It is not the Marquis de Courtornieu whom I fear,” he murmured, “but his daughter⁠—my wife.”

XLI

One must have lived in the country to know with what inconceivable rapidity news flies from mouth to mouth.

Strange as it may seem, the news of the scene at the château reached Father Poignot’s farmhouse that same evening.

It had not been three hours since Maurice, Jean Lacheneur and Bavois left the house, promising to re-cross the frontier that same night.

Abbé 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.

About ten o’clock the baron fell asleep, and the abbé and Mme. d’Escorval went downstairs to talk with Marie-Anne. As they were sitting there Poignot’s eldest son entered in a state of great excitement.

After supper he had gone with some of his acquaintances to admire the splendors of the fête, and he now came rushing back to relate the strange events of the evening to his father’s guests.

“It is inconceivable!” murmured the abbé.

He knew but too well, and the others comprehended it likewise, that these strange events rendered their situation more perilous than ever.

“I cannot understand how Maurice could commit such an act of folly after what I had just said to him. The baron’s most cruel enemy has been his own son. We must wait until tomorrow before deciding upon anything.”

The next day they heard of the meeting at the Reche. A peasant who, from a distance, had witnessed the preliminaries of the duel which had not been fought, was able to give them the fullest details.

He had seen the two adversaries take their places, then the soldiers run to the spot, and afterward pursue Maurice, Jean and Bavois.

But he was sure that the soldiers had not overtaken them. He had met them five hours afterward, harassed and furious; and the officer in charge of the expedition declared their failure to be the fault of the Marquis de Sairmeuse, who had detained them.

That same day Father Poignot informed the abbé that the Duc de Sairmeuse and the