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

“He is saved!” thought the abbe, whose heart bled at the sight of such despair. Suddenly someone plucked him by the sleeve.

It was Jean Lacheneur, and he drew the priest into the embrasure of a window.

“What is this about a child?” he asked, harshly.

A flood of crimson suffused the brow of the priest.

“You have heard,” he responded, laconically.

“Am I to understand that Marie-Anne was the mistress of Maurice, and that she had a child by him? Is this true? I will not—I cannot believe it! She, whom I revered as a saint! Did her pure forehead and her chaste looks lie? And he—Maurice—he whom I loved as a brother! So, his friendship was only a mask assumed to enable him to steal our honor!”

He hissed these words through his set teeth in such low tones that Maurice, absorbed in his agony of grief, did not overhear him.

“But how did she conceal her shame?” he continued. “No one suspected it—absolutely no one. And what has she done with her child? Appalled by a dread of disgrace, did she commit the crime committed by so many other ruined and forsaken women? Did she murder her own child?”

A hideous smile curved his thin lips.

“If the child is alive,” he added, “I will find it, and Maurice shall be punished for his perfidy as he deserves.” He paused; the sound of horses’ hoofs upon the road attracted his attention, and that of Abbe Midon.

They glanced out of the window and saw a horseman stop before the little footpath, alight from his horse, throw the reins to his groom, and advance toward the Borderie.

At the sight of the visitor, Jean Lacheneur uttered the frightful howl of an infuriated wild beast.

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse here!” he exclaimed.

He sprang to Maurice, and shaking him violently, he cried:

“Up! here is Martial, Marie-Anne’s murderer! Up! he is coming! he is at our mercy!”

Maurice sprang up in a fury of passion, but the abbe darted to the door and intercepted the infuriated men as they were about to leave the room.

“Not a word, young men, not a threat!” he said, imperiously. “I forbid it. At least respect the dead who is lying here!”

There was such an irresistible authority in his words and glance, that Jean and Maurice stood as if turned to stone.

Before the priest had time to say more, Martial was there.

He did not cross the threshold. With a glance he took in the whole scene; he turned very pale, but not a gesture, not a word escaped his lips.

Wonderful as was his accustomed control over himself, he could not articulate a syllable; and it was only by pointing to the bed upon which Marie-Anne’s lifeless form was reposing, that he asked an explanation.

“She was infamously poisoned last evening,” replied the abbe, sadly.

Maurice, forgetting the priest’s commands, stepped forward.

“She was alone and defenceless. I have been at liberty only two days. But I know the name of the man who had me arrested at Turin, and thrown into prison. They told me the coward’s name!”

Instinctively Martial recoiled.

“It was you, infamous wretch!” exclaimed Maurice. “You confess your guilt, scoundrel?”

Once again the abbe interposed; he threw himself between the rivals, persuaded that Martial was about to attack Maurice.

But no; the Marquis de Sairmeuse had resumed the haughty and indifferent manner which was habitual to him. He took from his pocket a bulky envelope, and throwing it upon the table:

“Here,” he said coldly, “is what I was bringing to Mademoiselle Lacheneur. It contains first a safe-conduct from His Majesty for Monsieur d’Escorval. From this moment, he is at liberty to leave Poignot’s farm-house and return to Escorval. He is free, he is saved, he is granted a new trial, and there can be no doubt of his acquittal. Here is also a decree of his non-complicity rendered in favor of Abbe Midon, and an order from the bishop which reinstates him as Cure of Sairmeuse; and lastly, a discharge, drawn up in due form, and an acknowledged right to a pension in the name of Corporal Bavois.”

He paused, and as his astonished hearers stood rooted to their places with wonder, he turned and approached Marie-Anne’s bedside.

With hand uplifted to heaven over the lifeless form of her whom he had loved, and in a voice that would have made the murderess tremble in her innermost soul, he said, solemnly:

“To you, Marie-Anne, I swear that I will avenge you!”

For a few seconds he stood motionless, then suddenly he stopped, pressed a kiss upon the dead girl’s brow, and left the room.

“And you think that man can be guilty!” exclaimed the abbe. “You see, Jean, that you are mad!”

“And this last insult to my dead sister is an honor, I suppose,” said Jean, with a furious gesture.

“And the wretch binds my hands by saving my father!” exclaimed Maurice.

From his place by the window, the abbe saw Martial remount his horse.

But the marquis did not take the road to Montaignac. It was toward the Chateau de Courtornieu that he hastened.