Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖
- Author: Emile Gaboriau
Book online «The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖». Author Emile Gaboriau
The young farmer paused to take breath, then said, more slowly:
“Marie-Anne, your father and I have misjudged your brother. Poor Jean’s appearance is terribly against him. His face indicates a treacherous, cowardly nature, his smile is cunning, and his eyes always shun yours. We have distrusted him, but we should ask his pardon. A man who fights as I saw him fight, is deserving of confidence. For this combat in the public road, and in the darkness of the night, was terrible. They attacked each other silently but furiously. At last Jean fell.”
“Ah! my brother is dead!” exclaimed Marie-Anne.
“No,” responded Chanlouineau; “at least we have reason to hope not; and I know he has not lacked any attention. This duel had another witness, a man named Poignot, whom you must remember; he was one of your father’s tenants. He took Jean, promising me that he would conceal him and care for him.
“As for the marquis, he showed me that he too was wounded, and then he remounted his horse, saying:
“‘What could I do? He would have it so.’”
Marie-Anne understood now.
“Give me the letter,” she said to Chanlouineau, “I will go to the duke. I will find some way to reach him, and then God will tell me what course to pursue.”
The noble peasant handed the girl the tiny scrap of paper which might have been his own salvation.
“On no account,” said he, “must you allow the duke to suppose that you have upon your person the proof with which you threaten him. Who knows of what he might be capable under such circumstances? He will say, at first, that he can do nothing—that he sees no way to save the baron. You will tell him that he must find a means, if he does not wish this letter sent to Paris, to one of his enemies——”
He paused; he heard the grating of the bolt. Corporal Bavois reappeared.
“The half hour expired ten minutes ago,” he said, sadly. “I have my orders.”
“Coming,” said Chanlouineau; “all is ended!”
And handing Marie-Anne the second letter:
“This is for you,” he added. “You will read it when I am no more. Pray, pray, do not weep thus! Be brave! You will soon be the wife of Maurice. And when you are happy, think sometimes of the poor peasant who loved you so much.”
Marie-Anne could not utter a word, but she lifted her face to his.
“Ah! I dared not ask it!” he exclaimed.
And for the first time he clasped her in his arms and pressed his lips to her pallid cheek.
“Now adieu,” he said once more. “Do not lose a moment. Adieu!”
CHAPTER XXIX
The prospect of capturing Lacheneur, the chief conspirator, excited the Marquis de Courtornieu so much that he had not been able to tear himself away from the citadel to return home to his dinner.
Remaining near the entrance of the dark corridor leading to Chanlouineau’s cell, he watched Marie-Anne depart; but as he saw her go out into the twilight with a quick, alert step, he felt a sudden doubt of Chanlouineau’s sincerity.
“Can it be that this miserable peasant has deceived me?” he thought.
So strong was this suspicion that he hastened after her, determined to question her—to ascertain the truth—to arrest her, if necessary.
But he no longer possessed the agility of youth, and when he reached the gateway the guard told him that Mlle. Lacheneur had already passed out. He rushed out after her, looked about on every side, but could see no trace of her. He re-entered the citadel, furious with himself for his own credulity.
“Still, I can visit Chanlouineau,” thought he, “and to-morrow will be time enough to summon this creature and question her.”
“This creature” was even then hastening up the long, ill-paved street that led to the Hotel de France.
Regardless of self, and of the curious gaze of a few passers-by, she ran on, thinking only of shortening the terrible anxiety which her friends at the hotel must be enduring.
“All is not lost!” she exclaimed, on re-entering the room.
“My God, Thou hast heard my prayers!” murmured the baroness.
Then, suddenly seized by a horrible dread, she added:
“Do not attempt to deceive me. Are you not trying to delude me with false hopes? That would be cruel!”
“I am not deceiving you, Madame, Chanlouineau has given me a weapon, which, I hope and believe, places the Duc de Sairmeuse in our power. He is omnipotent in Montaignac; the only man who could oppose him, Monsieur de Courtornieu, is his friend. I believe that Monsieur d’Escorval can be saved.”
“Speak!” cried Maurice; “what must we do?”
“Pray and wait, Maurice. I must act alone in this matter, but be assured that I—the cause of all your misfortune—will leave nothing undone which is possible for mortal to do.”
Absorbed in the task which she had imposed upon herself, Marie-Anne had failed to remark a stranger who had arrived during her absence—an old white-haired peasant.
The abbe called her attention to him.
“Here is a courageous friend,” said he, “who since morning, has been searching for you everywhere, in, order to give you news of your father.”
Marie-Anne was so overcome that she could scarcely falter her gratitude.
“Oh, you need not thank me,” answered the brave peasant. “I said to myself: ‘The poor girl must be terribly anxious. I ought to relieve her of her misery.’ So I came to tell you that Monsieur Lacheneur is safe and well, except for a wound in the leg, which causes him considerable suffering, but which will be healed in two or three weeks. My son-in-law, who was hunting yesterday in the mountains, met him near the frontier in company with two of his friends. By this time he must be in Piedmont, beyond the reach of the gendarmes.”
“Let us hope now,” said the abbe, “that we shall soon hear what has become of Jean.”
“I know, already, Monsieur,” responded Marie-Anne; “my brother has been badly wounded, and he is now under the protection of kind friends.”
She bowed her head, almost crushed beneath her burden of sorrow, but soon rallying, she exclaimed:
“What am I doing! What right have I to think of my friends, when upon my
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