The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖

“I am going to try,” responded Jean. “Go back to the house, sir; I will soon return.”

A child might have followed the track of the wounded man, the blood-stains left in his passage were so frequent and so distinct.

These tell-tale marks stopped at Chupin’s house. The door was closed; Jean rapped without the slightest hesitation.

The old poacher’s eldest son opened the door, and Jean saw a strange spectacle.

The traitor’s body had been thrown on the ground, in a corner of the room, the bed was overturned and broken, all the straw had been torn from the mattress, and the wife and sons of the dead man, armed with pickaxes and spades, were wildly overturning the beaten soil that formed the floor of the hovel. They were seeking the hidden treasures.

“What do you want?” demanded the widow, rudely.

“Father Chupin.”

“You can see very plainly that he has been murdered,” replied one of the sons.

And brandishing his pick a few inches from Jean’s head, he exclaimed:

“And you, perhaps, are the assassin. But that is for justice to determine. Now, decamp; if you do not——”

Had he listened to the promptings of anger, Jean Lacheneur would certainly have attempted to make the Chupins repent their menaces.

But a conflict was scarcely permissible under the circumstances.

He departed without a word, and hastened back to the Borderie.

The death of Chupin overturned all his plans, and greatly irritated him.

“I had sworn that the vile wretch who betrayed my father should perish by my hand,” he murmured; “and now my vengeance has escaped me. Someone has robbed me of it.”

Then he asked himself who the murderer could be.

“Is it possible that Martial assassinated Chupin after he murdered Marie-Anne? To kill an accomplice is an effectual way of assuring one’s self of his silence.”

He had reached the Borderie, and was about going upstairs, when he thought he heard the sound of voices in the back room.

“That is strange,” he said to himself. “Who can it be?”

And impelled by curiosity, he went and tapped upon the communicating door.

The abbe instantly made his appearance, hurriedly closing the door behind him. He was very pale, and visibly agitated.

“Who is it?” inquired Jean, eagerly.

“It is—it is. Guess who it is.”

“How can I guess?”

“Maurice d’Escorval and Corporal Bavois.”

“My God!”

“And it is a miracle that he has not been upstairs.”

“But whence does he come? Why have we received no news of him?”

“I do not know. He has been here only five minutes. Poor boy! after I told him that his father was safe, his first words were: ‘And Marie-Anne?’ He loves her more devotedly than ever. He comes with his heart full of her, confident and hopeful; and I tremble—I fear to tell him the truth.”

“Oh, terrible! terrible!”

“I have warned you; be prudent—and now, come in.”

They entered the room together; and Maurice and the old soldier greeted Jean with the most ardent expressions of friendship.

They had not seen each other since the duel on the Reche, which had been interrupted by the arrival of the soldiers; and when they parted that day they scarcely expected to meet again.

“And now we are together once more,” said Maurice, gayly, “and we have nothing to fear.”

Never had the unfortunate man seemed so cheerful; and it was with the most jubilant air that he explained the reason of his long silence.

“Three days after we crossed the frontier,” said he, “Corporal Bavois and I reached Turin. It was time, for we were tired out. We went to a small inn, and they gave us a room with two beds.

“That evening, while we were undressing, the corporal said to me: ‘I am capable of sleeping two whole days without waking.’ I, too, promised myself a rest of at least twelve hours. We reckoned without our host, as you will see.

“It was scarcely daybreak when we were awakened by a great tumult. A dozen rough-looking men entered our room, and ordered us, in Italian, to dress ourselves. They were too strong for us, so we obeyed; and an hour later we were in prison, confined in the same cell. Our reflections, I confess, were not couleur de rose.

“I well remember how the corporal said again and again, in that cool way of his: ‘It will require four days to obtain our extradition, three days to take us back to Montaignac—that is seven days; it will take one day more to try me; so I have in all eight days to live.’”

“Upon my word! that was exactly what I thought,” said the old soldier, approvingly.

“For five months,” continued Maurice, “instead of saying ‘good-night’ to each other, we said: ‘To-morrow they will come for us.’ But they did not come.

“We were kindly treated. They did not take away my money; and they willingly sold us little luxuries; they also granted us two hours of exercise each day in the court-yard, and even loaned us books to read. In short, I should not have had any particular cause to complain, if I had been allowed to receive or to forward letters, or if I had been able to communicate with my father or with Marie-Anne. But we were in the secret cells, and were not allowed to have any intercourse with the other prisoners.

“At length our detention seemed so strange and became so insupportable to us, that we resolved to obtain some explanation of it, cost what it might.

“We changed our tactics. Up to that time we had been quite submissive; we suddenly became violent and intractable. We made the prison resound with our cries and protestations; we were continually sending for the superintendent; we claimed the intervention of the French ambassador. We were not obliged to wait long for the result.

“One fine afternoon, the superintendent released us, not without expressing much regret at being deprived of the society of such amiable and charming guests.

“Our first act, as you may suppose, was to run to the ambassador. We did not see that dignitary, but his secretary received us. He knit his brows when I told my story, and became excessively grave. I remember each word of his reply.

“‘Monsieur,’ said he, ‘I can swear that the persecution of which you have been the