Part 94 (1/2)
”The duke is decidedly better than he is supposed to be, and if he has been severe, it is only because he was influenced by that odious Marquis de Courtornieu.”
Marie-Anne alone suspected the truth. A secret presentiment told her that it was Martial de Sairmeuse who had shaken off his wonted apathy, and was working these changes and using and abusing his ascendancy over the mind of his father.
”And it is for your sake,” whispered an inward voice, ”that Martial is thus working. What does this careless egotist care for these obscure peasants, whose names he does not even know? If he protects them, it is only that he may have a right to protect you, and those whom you love!”
With these thoughts in her mind, she could not but feel her aversion to Martial diminish.
Was not such conduct truly heroic in a man whose dazzling offers she had refused? Was there not real moral grandeur in the feeling that induced Martial to reveal a secret which might ruin the political fortunes of his house, rather than be suspected of an unworthy action? And still the thought of this _grande pa.s.sion_ which she had inspired in so truly great a man never once made her heart quicken its throbbing.
Alas! nothing was capable of touching her heart now; nothing seemed to reach her through the gloomy sadness that enveloped her.
She was but the ghost of the formerly beautiful and radiant Marie-Anne.
Her quick, alert tread had become slow and dragging, often she sat for whole days motionless in her chair, her eyes fixed upon vacancy, her lips contracted as if by a spasm, while great tears rolled silently down her cheeks.
Abbe Midon, who was greatly disquieted on her account, often attempted to question her.
”You are suffering, my child,” he said, kindly. ”What is the matter?”
”I am not ill, Monsieur.”
”Why do you not confide in me? Am I not your friend? What do you fear?”
She shook her head sadly and replied:
”I have nothing to confide.”
She said this, and yet she was dying of sorrow and anguish.
Faithful to the promise she had made Maurice, she had said nothing of her condition, or of the marriage solemnized in the little church at Vigano. And she saw with inexpressible terror, the approach of the moment when she could no longer keep her secret. Her agony was frightful; but what could she do!
Fly? but where should she go? And by going, would she not lose all chance of hearing from Maurice, which was the only hope that sustained her in this trying hour?
She had almost determined on flight when circ.u.mstances--providentially, it seemed to her--came to her aid.
Money was needed at the farm. The guests were unable to obtain any without betraying their whereabouts, and Father Poignot's little store was almost exhausted.
Abbe Midon was wondering what they were to do, when Marie-Anne told him of the will which Chanlouineau had made in her favor, and of the money concealed beneath the hearth-stone in the best chamber.
”I might go to the Borderie at night,” suggested Marie-Anne, ”enter the house, which is unoccupied, obtain the money and bring it here. I have a right to do so, have I not?”
But the priest did not approve this step.
”You might be seen,” said he, ”and who knows--perhaps arrested. If you were questioned, what plausible explanation could you give?”
”What shall I do, then?”
”Act openly; you are not compromised. Make your appearance in Sairmeuse to-morrow as if you had just returned from Piedmont; go to the notary, take possession of your property, and install yourself at the Borderie.”
Marie-Anne shuddered.