Part 113 (1/2)
”Or the Marquis de Courtornieu,” interrupted the abbe, with a warning glance at Jean.
A wrathful light gleamed for an instant in the eyes of Maurice; but it vanished almost immediately, and he shrugged his shoulders carelessly.
”Nonsense,” said he, ”I do not wish to trouble myself any more about the past. My father is well again, that is the main thing. We can easily find some way of getting him safely across the frontier. Marie-Anne and I, by our devotion, will strive to make him forget that my rashness almost cost him his life. He is so good, so indulgent to the faults of others. We will take up our residence in Italy or in Switzerland. You will accompany us, Monsieur l'Abbe, and you also, Jean. As for you, corporal, it is decided that you belong to our family.”
Nothing could be more horrible than to see this man, upon whose life such a terrible blight was about to fall, so bright and full of hope and confidence.
The impression produced upon Jean and the abbe was so terrible, that, in spite of their efforts, it showed itself in their faces; and Maurice remarked their agitation.
”What is the matter?” he inquired, in evident surprise.
They trembled, hung their heads, but did not say a word.
The unfortunate man's astonishment changed to a vague, inexpressible fear.
He enumerated all the misfortunes which could possibly have befallen him.
”What has happened?” he asked, in a stifled voice. ”My father is safe, is he not? You said that my mother would desire nothing, if I were with her again. Is it Marie-Anne----”
He hesitated.
”Courage, Maurice,” murmured the abbe. ”Courage!”
The stricken man tottered as if about to fall; his face grew whiter than the plastered wall against which he leaned for support.
”Marie-Anne is dead!” he exclaimed.
Jean and the abbe were silent.
”Dead!” Maurice repeated--”and no secret voice warned me! Dead! when?”
”She died only last night,” replied Jean.
Maurice rose.
”Last night?” said he. ”In that case, then, she is still here. Where?
upstairs?”
And without waiting for any response, he darted toward the staircase so quickly that neither Jean nor the abbe had time to intercept him.
With three bounds he reached the chamber; he walked straight to the bed, and with a firm hand turned back the sheet that hid the face of the dead.
He recoiled with a heart-broken cry.
Was this indeed the beautiful, the radiant Marie-Anne, whom he had loved to his own undoing! He did not recognize her.
He could not recognize these distorted features, this face swollen and discolored by poison, these eyes which were almost concealed by the purple swelling around them.
When Jean and the priest entered the room they found him standing with head thrown back, eyes dilated with terror, and rigid arm extended toward the corpse.