Thus the abbe’s sorrow and amazement were intense, when, after the baron’s terrible fall, Maurice declared that the cord had been cut beforehand. And yet the priest could not make up his mind that Martial was guilty of such execrable duplicity, which is rarely found in men under twenty-five years of age. However, no one suspected the abbe’s secret thoughts. It was with perfect composure that he dressed the baron’s wounds and made arrangements for the flight, though not until he saw M. d’Escorval installed in Poignot’s house did he breathe freely. The fact that the baron had been able to endure the journey, proved that he retained a power of vitality for which the priest had scarcely dared to hope. Some way must now be discovered to procur the surgical instruments and pharmaceutical remedies which the wounded man’s condition would necessitate. But where and how could they be procured. The police kept a close watch over all the medical men and druggists in Montaignac, in hopes of discovering the wounded conspirators through one or the other medium. However, the cure had for ten years acted as physician and surgeon for the poor of his parish, and he possessed an almost complete set of surgical instruments, and a well-filled medicine chest. Accordingly at nightfall he put on a long blue blouse, concealed his features under a large slouch hat, and wended his way towards Sairmeuse. There was not a single light in the parsonage; Bibiane, the old housekeeper, having gone out to gossip with some of the neighbours. The priest effected an entrance into the house, by forcing the lock of the garden door; he speedily found the things he wanted and was able to retire without having been perceived. That night the abbe hazarded a cruel but indispensable operation. His heart trembled, but although he had never before attempted so difficult a task, the hand that held the knife was firm. “It is not upon my weak powers that I rely,” he murmured, “I have placed my trust in One who is on High.” His faith was rewarded. Three days later the wounded man, after a comfortable night, seemed to regain consciousness. His first glance was for his devoted wife, who was sitting by the bedside; his first word was for his son. “Maurice?” he asked. “Is in safety,” replied the abbe. “He must be on the road to Turin.” 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, and not without severe relapses that made those around him tremble with anxiety. Jean Lacheneur was more fortunate, for he was on his legs by the end of the week.