“I shall have one, never fear!” responded the baron, gayly.  “We shall all have one.”

Father Poignot himself was busily engaged in harnessing his best horse to the cart which was to convey M. d’Escorval to his new home.

The worthy man’s heart grew sad at the thought of the departure of these guests, for whose sake he had incurred such danger.  He felt that he should miss them, that the house would seem gloomy and deserted after they left it.

He would allow no one else to perform the task of arranging the mattress comfortably in the cart.  When this had been done to his satisfaction, he heaved a deep sigh, and exclaimed: 

“It is time to start!”

Slowly he ascended the narrow staircase leading to the loft.

M. d’Escorval had not thought of the moment of parting.

At the sight of the honest farmer, who came toward him, his face crimsoned with emotion to bid him farewell, he forgot all the comforts that awaited him at the Borderie, in the remembrance of the loyal and courageous hospitality he had received in the house he was about to leave.  The tears sprang to his eyes.

“You have rendered me a service which nothing can repay, Father Poignot,” he said, with intense feeling.  “You have saved my life.”

“Oh! we will not talk of that, Baron.  In my place, you would have done the same—­neither more nor less.”

“I shall not attempt to express my thanks, but I hope to live long enough to prove that I am not ungrateful.”

The staircase was so narrow that they had considerable difficulty in carrying the baron down; but finally they had him comfortably extended upon his mattress and threw over him a few handsful of straw, which concealed him entirely.

“Farewell, then!” said the old farmer, when the last hand-shake had been exchanged, “or rather au revoir, Monsieur le Baron, Madame, and you, my good cure.”

“All ready?” inquired young Poignot.

“Yes,” replied the invalid.

The cart, driven with the utmost caution by the young peasant, started slowly on its way.

Mme. d’Escorval, leaning upon the abbe’s arm, walked about twenty paces in the rear.

It was very dark, but had it been as light as day the former cure of Sairmeuse might have encountered any of his old parishioners without the least danger of detection.

His hair and his beard had been allowed to grow; his tonsure had entirely disappeared, and his sedentary life had caused him to become much stouter.  He was clad like all the well-to-do peasants of the neighborhood, and his face was hidden by a large slouch hat.

He had not felt so tranquil in mind for months.  Obstacles which had appeared almost insurmountable had vanished.  In the near future he saw the baron declared innocent by impartial judges; he saw himself reinstalled in the presbytery of Sairmeuse.

The recollection of Maurice was the only thing that marred his happiness.  Why did he not give some sign of life?