M. d’Escorval’s lips moved as if he were murmuring a prayer; then, in a feeble voice: 

“We owe you a debt of gratitude which we can never pay,” he murmured, “for I think I shall pull through.”

He did “pull through,” but not without terrible suffering, not without difficulties that made those around him tremble with anxiety.  Jean Lacheneur, more fortunate, was on his feet by the end of the week.

Forty days had passed, when one evening—­it was the 17th of April—­while the abbe was reading a newspaper to the baron, the door gently opened and one of the Poignot boys put in his head, then quickly withdrew it.

The priest finished the paragraph, laid down the paper, and quietly went out.

“What is it?” he inquired of the young man.

“Ah!  Monsieur, Monsieur Maurice, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and the old corporal have just arrived; they wish to come up.”

In three bounds the abbe descended the narrow staircase.

“Unfortunate creatures!” he exclaimed, addressing the three imprudent travellers, “what has induced you to return here?”

Then turning to Maurice: 

“Is it not enough that for you, and through you, your father has nearly died?  Are you afraid he will not be recaptured, that you return here to set the enemies upon his track?  Depart!”

The poor boy, quite overwhelmed, faltered his excuse.  Uncertainty seemed to him worse than death; he had heard of M. Lacheneur’s execution; he had not reflected, he would go at once; he asked only to see his father and to embrace his mother.

The priest was inflexible.

“The slightest emotion might kill your father,” he declared; “and to tell your mother of your return, and of the dangers to which you have foolishly exposed yourself, would cause her untold tortures.  Go at once.  Cross the frontier again this very night.”

Jean Lacheneur, who had witnessed this scene, now approached.

“It is time for me to depart,” said he, “and I entreat you to care for my sister, the place for her is here, not upon the highways.”

The abbe deliberated for a moment, then he said, brusquely: 

“So be it; but go at once; your name is not upon the proscribed list.  You will not be pursued.”

Thus, suddenly separated from his wife, Maurice wished to confer with her, to give her some parting advice; but the abbe did not allow him an opportunity.

“Go, go at once,” he insisted.  “Farewell!”

The good abbe was too hasty.

Just when Maurice stood sorely in need of wise counsel, he was thus delivered over to the influence of Jean Lacheneur’s furious hatred.  As soon as they were outside: 

“This,” exclaimed Jean, “is the work of the Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu!  I do not even know where they have thrown the body of my murdered parent; you cannot even embrace the father who has been traitorously assassinated by them!”