The Honor of the Name

  CHAPTER XLIV

  The old physician at Vigano, who had come to Marie-Anne's aid, was anhonorable man. His intellect was of a superior order, and his heart wasequal to his intelligence. He knew life; he had loved and suffered, andhe possessed two sublime virtues--forbearance and charity.

  It was easy for such a man to read Marie-Anne's character; and while hewas at the Borderie he endeavored in every possible way to reassure her,and to restore the self-respect of the unfortunate girl who had confidedin him.

  Had he succeeded? He certainly hoped so.

  But when he departed and Marie-Anne was again left in solitude, shecould not overcome the feeling of despondency that stole over her.

  Many, in her situation, would have regained their serenity of mind,and even rejoiced. Had she not succeeded in concealing her fault? Whosuspected it, except, perhaps, the abbe.

  Hence, Marie-Anne had nothing to fear, and everything to hope.

  But this conviction did not appease her sorrow. Hers was one of thosepure and proud natures that are more sensitive to the whisperings ofconscience than to the clamors of the world.

  She had been accused of having three lovers--Chanlouineau, Martial, andMaurice. The calumny had not moved her. What tortured her was what thesepeople did not know--the truth.

  Nor was this all. The sublime instinct of maternity had been awakenedwithin her. When she saw the physician depart, bearing her child, shefelt as if soul and body were being rent asunder. When could she hopeto see again this little son who was doubly dear to her by reason of thevery sorrow and anguish he had cost her? The tears gushed to her eyeswhen she thought that his first smile would not be for her.

  Ah! had it not been for her promise to Maurice, she would unhesitatinglyhave braved public opinion, and kept her precious child.

  Her brave and honest nature could have endured any humiliation farbetter than the continual lie she was forced to live.

  But she had promised; Maurice was her husband, and reason told her thatfor his sake she must preserve not her honor, alas! but the semblance ofhonor.

  And when she thought of her brother, her blood froze in her veins.

  Having learned that Jean was roving about the country, she sent for him;but it was not without much persuasion that he consented to come to theBorderie.

  It was easy to explain Chupin's terror when one saw Jean Lacheneur.His clothing was literally in tatters, his face wore an expression offerocious despair, and a fierce unextinguishable hatred burned in hiseyes.

  When he entered the cottage, Marie-Anne recoiled in horror. She did notrecognize him until he spoke.

  "It is I, sister," he said, gloomily.

  "You--my poor Jean! you!"

  He surveyed himself from head to foot, and said, with a sneering laugh:

  "Really, I should not like to meet myself at dusk in the forest."

  Marie-Anne shuddered. She fancied that a threat lurked beneath theseironical words, beneath this mockery of himself.

  "What a life yours must be, my poor brother! Why did you not comesooner? Now, I have you here, I shall not let you go. You will notdesert me. I need protection and love so much. You will remain with me?"

  "It is impossible, Marie-Anne."

  "And why?"

  A fleeting crimson suffused Jean Lacheneur's cheek; he hesitated for amoment, then:

  "Because I have a right to dispose of my own life, but not of yours," hereplied. "We can no longer be anything to each other. I deny you to-day,that you may be able to deny me to-morrow. Yes, I renounce you, who aremy all--the only person on earth whom I love. Your most cruel enemieshave not calumniated you more foully than I----"

  He paused an instant, then he added:

  "I have said openly, before numerous witnesses, that I would never setfoot in a house that had been given you by Chanlouineau."

  "Jean! you, my brother! said that?"

  "I said it. It must be supposed that there is a deadly feud between us.This must be, in order that neither you nor Maurice d'Escorval can beaccused of complicity in any deed of mine."

  Marie-Anne stood as if petrified.

  "He is mad!" she murmured.

  "Do I really have that appearance?"

  She shook off the stupor that paralyzed her, and seizing her brother'shands:

  "What do you intend to do?" she exclaimed. "What do you intend to do?Tell me; I will know."

  "Nothing! let me alone."

  "Jean!"

  "Let me alone," he said, roughly, disengaging himself.

  A horrible presentiment crossed Marie-Anne's mind.

  She stepped back, and solemnly, entreatingly, she said:

  "Take care, take care, my brother. It is not well to tamper with thesematters. Leave to God's justice the task of punishing those who havewronged us."

  But nothing could move Jean Lacheneur, or divert him from his purpose.He uttered a hoarse, discordant laugh, then striking his gun heavilywith his hand, he exclaimed:

  "Here is justice!"

  Appalled and distressed beyond measure, Marie-Anne sank into a chair.She discerned in her brother's mind the same fixed, fatal idea which hadlured her father on to destruction--the idea for which he had sacrificedall--family, friends, fortune, the present and the future--even hisdaughter's honor--the idea which had caused so much blood to flow,which had cost the life of so many innocent men, and which had finallyconducted him to the scaffold.

  "Jean," she murmured, "remember our father."

  The young man's face became livid; his hands clinched involuntarily, buthe controlled his anger.

  Advancing toward his sister, in a cold, quiet tone that added afrightful violence to his threats, he said:

  "It is because I remember my father that justice shall be done. Ah!these miserable nobles would not display such audacity if all sons hadmy resolution. A scoundrel would hesitate before attacking a good man ifhe was obliged to say to himself: 'I cannot strike this honest man, forthough he die, his children will surely call me to account. Their furywill fall on me and mine; they will pursue us sleeping and waking,pursue us without ceasing, everywhere, and pitilessly. Their hatredalways on the alert, will accompany us and surround us. It will bean implacable, merciless warfare. I shall never venture forth withoutfearing a bullet; I shall never lift food to my lips without dread ofpoison. And until we have succumbed, they will prowl about our house,trying to slip in through tiniest opening, death, dishonor, ruin,infamy, and misery!'"

  He paused with a nervous laugh, and then, still more slowly, he added:

  "That is what the Sairmeuse and Courtornieu have to expect from me."

  It was impossible to mistake the meaning of Jean Lacheneur's words. Histhreats were not the wild ravings of anger. His quiet manner, his icytones, his automatic gestures betrayed one of those cold rages whichendure so long as the man lives.

  He took good care to make himself understood, for between his teeth headded:

  "Undoubtedly, these people are very high, and I am very low; but whena tiny worm fastens itself to the roots of a giant oak, that tree isdoomed."

  Marie-Anne knew all too well the uselessness of prayers and entreaties.

  And yet she could not, she must not allow her brother to depart in thismood.

  She fell upon her knees, and with clasped hands and supplicating voice:

  "Jean," said she, "I implore you to renounce these projects. In the nameof our mother, return to your better self. These are crimes which youare meditating!"

  With a glance of scorn and a shrug of the shoulders, he replied:

  "Have done with this. I was wrong to confide my hopes to you. Do notmake me regret that I came here."

  Then the sister tried another plan. She rose, forced her lips to smile,and as if nothing unpleasant had passed between them, she begged Jean toremain with her that evening, at least, and share her frugal supper.

  "Remain," she entreated; "that is not much to do--and it will make meso happy. And since it will be the last time we shall see each other
for years, grant me a few hours. It is so long since we have met. Ihave suffered so much. I have so many things to tell you! Jean, my dearbrother, can it be that you love me no longer?"

  One must have been bronze to remain insensible to such prayers. JeanLacheneur's heart swelled almost to bursting; his stern featuresrelaxed, and a tear trembled in his eye.

  Marie-Anne saw that tear. She thought she had conquered, and clappingher hands in delight, she exclaimed:

  "Ah! you will remain! you will remain!"

  No. Jean had already mastered his momentary weakness, though not withouta terrible effort; and in a harsh voice:

  "Impossible! impossible!" he repeated.

  Then, as his sister clung to him imploringly, he took her in his armsand pressed her to his heart.

  "Poor sister--poor Marie-Anne--you will never know what it costs meto refuse you, to separate myself from you. But this must be. Ineven coming here I have been guilty of an imprudent act. You do notunderstand to what perils you will be exposed if people suspect any bondbetween us. I trust you and Maurice may lead a calm and happy life. Itwould be a crime for me to mix you up with my wild schemes. Think of mesometimes, but do not try to see me, or even to learn what has become ofme. A man like me struggles, triumphs, or perishes alone."

  He kissed Marie-Anne passionately, then lifted her, placed her in achair, and freed himself from her detaining hands.

  "Adieu!" he cried; "when you see me again, our father will be avenged!"

  She sprang up to rush after him and to call him back. Too late!

  He had fled.

  "It is over," murmured the wretched girl; "my brother is lost. Nothingwill restrain him now."

  A vague, inexplicable, but horrible fear, contracted her heart. She feltthat she was being slowly but surely drawn into a whirlpool of passion,rancor, vengeance, and crime, and a voice whispered that she would becrushed.

  But other thoughts soon replaced these gloomy presentiments.

  One evening, while she was preparing her little table, she heard arustling sound at the door. She turned and looked; someone had slipped aletter under the door.

  Courageously, and without an instant's hesitation, she sprang to thedoor and opened it. No one was there!

  The night was dark, and she could distinguish nothing in the gloomwithout. She listened; not a sound broke the stillness.

  Agitated and trembling she picked up the letter, approached the light,and looked at the address.

  "The Marquis de Sairmeuse!" she exclaimed, in amazement.

  She recognized Martial's handwriting. So he had written to her! He haddared to write to her!

  Her first impulse was to burn the letter; she held it to the flame, thenthe thought of her friends concealed at Father Poignot's farm made herwithdraw it. "For their sake," she thought, "I must read it." She brokethe seal with the arms of the De Sairmeuse family inscribed upon it, andread:

  "My dear Marie-Anne--Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has givenan entirely new, and certainly surprising, direction to events.

  "Perhaps you have also understood the motives that guided him. In thatcase I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you cannot refuse me yourfriendship and your esteem.

  "But my work of reparation is not yet accomplished. I have preparedeverything for a revision of the judgment that condemned Barond'Escorval to death, or for procuring a pardon.

  "You must know where the baron is concealed. Acquaint him with my plansand ascertain whether he prefers a revision of judgment, or a simplepardon.

  "If he desires a new trial, I will give him a letter of license from theKing.

  "I await your reply before acting.

  "Martial de Sairmeuse."

  Marie-Anne's head whirled.

  This was the second time that Martial had astonished her by the grandeurof his passion.

  How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, hadproved themselves to be.

  One, Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, protected her still.

  Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the convictions of his life andthe prejudice of his race for her sake; and, with a noble recklessness,hazarded for her the political fortunes of his house.

  And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Mauriced'Escorval, had not given a sign of life since he quitted her, fivemonths before.

  But suddenly, and without reason, Marie-Anne passed from the mostprofound admiration to the deepest distrust.

  "What if Martial's offer is only a trap?" This was the suspicion thatdarted through her mind.

  "Ah!" she thought, "the Marquis de Sairmeuse would be a hero if he weresincere!"

  And she did not wish him to be a hero.

  The result of these suspicions was that she hesitated five days beforerepairing to the rendezvous where Father Poignot usually awaited her.

  When she did go, she found, not the worthy farmer, but Abbe Midon, whohad been greatly alarmed by her long absence.

  It was night, but Marie-Anne, fortunately, knew Martial's letter byheart.

  The abbe made her repeat it twice, the second time very slowly, and whenshe had concluded:

  "This young man," said the priest, "has the voice and the prejudices ofhis rank and of his education; but his heart is noble and generous."

  And when Marie-Anne disclosed her suspicions:

  "You are wrong, my child," said he; "the Marquis is certainly sincere.It would be wrong not to take advantage of his generosity. Such, atleast, is my opinion. Intrust this letter to me. I will consult thebaron, and to-morrow I will tell you our decision."

  The abbe was awaiting her with feverish impatience on the same spot,when she rejoined him twenty-four hours later.

  "Monsieur d'Escorval agrees with me that we must trust ourselves to theMarquis de Sairmeuse. Only the baron, being innocent, cannot, will not,accept a pardon. He demands a revision of the iniquitous judgment whichcondemned him."

  Although she must have foreseen this determination, Marie-Anne seemedstupefied.

  "What!" said she. "Monsieur d'Escorval will give himself up to hisenemies? Does not the Marquis de Sairmeuse promise him a letter oflicense, a safe-conduct from the King?"

  "Yes."

  She could find no objection, so in a submissive tone, she said:

  "In this case, Monsieur, I must ask you for a rough draft of the letterI am to write to the marquis."

  The priest did not reply for a moment. It was evident that he felt somemisgivings. At last, summoning all his courage, he said:

  "It would be better not to write."

  "But----"

  "It is not that I distrust the marquis, not by any means, but aletter is dangerous; it does not always reach the person to whom it isaddressed. You must see Monsieur de Sairmeuse."

  Marie-Anne recoiled in horror.

  "Never! never!" she exclaimed.

  The abbe did not seem surprised.

  "I understand your repugnance, my child," he said, gently; "yourreputation has suffered greatly through the attentions of the marquis."

  "Oh! sir, I entreat you."

  "But one should not hesitate, my child, when duty speaks. You owe thissacrifice to an innocent man who has been ruined through your father."

  He explained to her all that she must say, and did not leave her untilshe had promised to see the marquis in person. But the cause of herrepugnance was not what the abbe supposed. Her reputation! Alas! sheknew that was lost forever. No, it was not that.

  A fortnight before she would not have been disquieted by the prospectof this interview. Then, though she no longer hated Martial, he wasperfectly indifferent to her, while now----

  Perhaps in choosing the Croix d'Arcy for the place of meeting, she hopedthat this spot, haunted by so many cruel memories, would restore herformer aversion.

  On pursuing the path leading to the place of rendezvous, she said toherself that Martial would undoubtedly wound her by the tone of carelessgallantry which was habitual to him.

  B
ut in this she was mistaken. Martial was greatly agitated, but he didnot utter a word that was not connected with the baron.

  It was only when the conference was ended, and he had consented to allthe conditions, that he said, sadly:

  "We are friends, are we not?"

  In an almost inaudible voice she answered:

  "Yes."

  And that was all. He remounted his horse which had been held by aservant, and departed in the direction of Montaignac.

  Breathless, with cheeks on fire, Marie-Anne watched him as hedisappeared; and then her inmost heart was revealed as by a lightningflash.

  "_Mon Dieu_! wretch that I _am_!" she exclaimed. "Do I not love? is itpossible that I could ever love any other than Maurice, my husband, thefather of my child?"

  Her voice was still trembling with emotion when she recounted thedetails of the interview to the abbe. But he did not perceive it. He wasthinking only of the baron.

  "I was sure that Martial would agree to everything; I was so certainof it that I have made all the arrangements for the baron to leave thefarm. He will await, at your house, a safe-conduct from His Majesty.

  "The close air and the heat of the loft are retarding the baron'srecovery," the abbe pursued, "so be prepared for his coming to-morrowevening. One of the Poignot boys will bring over all our baggage. Abouteleven o'clock we will put Monsieur d'Escorval in a carriage; and wewill all sup together at the Borderie."

  "Heaven comes to my aid!" thought Marie-Anne as she walked homeward.

  She thought that she would no longer be alone, that Mme. d'Escorvalwould be with her to talk to her of Maurice, and that all the friendswho would surround her would aid her in driving away the thoughts ofMartial, which haunted her.

  So the next day she was more cheerful than she had been for months, andonce, while putting her little house in order, she was surprised to findherself singing at her work.

  Eight o'clock was sounding when she heard a peculiar whistle.

  It was the signal of the younger Poignot, who came bringing an arm-chairfor the sick man, the abbe's box of medicine, and a bag of books.

  These articles Marie-Anne deposited in the room which Chanlouineau hadadorned for her, and which she intended for the baron. After arrangingthem to her satisfaction she went out to meet young Poignot, who hadtold her that he would soon return with other articles.

  The night was very dark, and Marie-Anne, as she hastened on, did notnotice two motionless figures in the shadow of a clump of lilacs in herlittle garden.