Her long black hair, which she had rolled up closely to slip under her peasant’s hat, had become unbound, and flowed down in rich masses over her shoulders and trailed upon the floor.

“She is only in a state of syncope; there is no danger,” declared the abbe, after he had examined Marie-Anne.  “It will not be long before she regains consciousness.”

And then, rapidly but clearly, he gave the necessary directions to the servants, who were astonished at their mistress.

Mme. d’Escorval looked on with eyes dilated with terror.  She seemed to doubt her own sanity, and incessantly passed her hand across her forehead, thickly beaded with cold sweat.

“What a night!” she murmured.  “What a night!”

“I must remind you, Madame,” said the priest, sympathizingly, but firmly, “that reason and duty alike forbid you thus to yield to despair!  Wife, where is your energy?  Christian, what has become of your confidence in a just and beneficial God?”

“Oh!  I have courage, Monsieur,” faltered the wretched woman.  “I am brave!”

The abbe led her to a large arm-chair, where he forced her to seat herself, and in a gentler tone, he resumed: 

“Besides, why should you despair, Madame?  Your son, certainly, is with you in safety.  Your husband has not compromised himself; he has done nothing which I myself have not done.”

And briefly, but with rare precision, he explained the part which he and the baron had played during this unfortunate evening.

But this recital, instead of reassuring the baroness, seemed to increase her anxiety.

“I understand you,” she interrupted, “and I believe you.  But I also know that all the people in the country round about are convinced that my husband commanded the insurrectionists.  They believe it, and they will say it.”

“And what of that?”

“If he has been arrested, as you give me to understand, he will be summoned before a court-martial.  Was he not the friend of the Emperor?  That is a crime, as you very well know.  He will be convicted and sentenced to death.”

“No, Madame, no!  Am I not here?  I will appear before the tribunal, and I shall say:  ‘Here I am!  I have seen and I know all.’”

“But they will arrest you, alas, Monsieur, because you are not a priest according to the hearts of these cruel men.  They will throw you in prison, and you, will meet him upon the scaffold.”

Maurice had been listening, pale and trembling.

But on hearing these last words, he sank upon his knees, hiding his face in his hands: 

“Ah!  I have killed my father!” he exclaimed.

“Unhappy child! what do you say?”

The priest motioned him to be silent; but he did not see him, and he pursued: 

“My father was ignorant even of the existence of this conspiracy of which Monsieur Lacheneur was the guiding spirit; but I knew it—­I wished him to succeed, because on his success depended the happiness of my life.  And then—­wretch that I was!—­when I wished to attract to our ranks some timid or wavering accomplice, I used the loved and respected name of d’Escorval.  Ah, I was mad!  I was mad!”