“Ah! you are cruel!” exclaimed Marie-Anne, “you are pitiless!”

It seemed to the poor girl that he was reproaching her for the horrible fate which Lacheneur had brought upon him, and for the terrible part which her father had imposed upon her, and which she had not been strong enough to refuse to perform.

But Chanlouineau scarcely heard Marie-Anne’s exclamation.  All the bitterness of the past had mounted to his brain like fumes of alcohol.  He was scarcely conscious of his own words.

“But the day soon came,” he continued, “when my foolish illusions were destroyed.  You could not be mine since you belonged to another.  I might have broken my compact!  I thought of doing so, but had not the courage.  To see you, to hear your voice, to dwell beneath the same roof with you, was happiness.  I longed to see you happy and honored; I fought for the triumph of another, for him whom you had chosen——­”

A sob that had risen in his throat choked his utterance; he buried his face in his hands to hide his tears, and, for a moment, seemed completely overcome.

But he mastered his weakness after a little and in a firm voice, he said: 

“We must not linger over the past.  Time flies and the future is ominous.”

As he spoke, he went to the door and applied first his eye, then his ear to the opening, to see that there were no spies without.

No one was in the corridor; he could not hear a sound.

He came back to Marie-Anne’s side, and tearing the sleeve of his jacket open with his teeth, he drew from it two letters, wrapped carefully in a piece of cloth.

“Here,” he said, in a low voice, “is a man’s life!”

Marie-Anne knew nothing of Chanlouineau’s promises and hopes, and bewildered by her distress, she did not at first understand.

“This,” she exclaimed, “is a man’s life!”

“Hush, speak lower!” interrupted Chanlouineau.  “Yes, one of these letters might perhaps save the life of one who has been condemned to death.”

“Unfortunate man!  Why do you not make use of it and save yourself?”

The young man sadly shook his head.

“Is it possible that you could ever love me?” he said, simply.  “No, it is not.  I have, therefore, no desire to live.  Rest beneath the sod is preferable to the misery I am forced to endure.  Moreover I was justly condemned.  I knew what I was doing when I left the Reche with my gun upon my shoulder, and my sword by my side; I have no right to complain.  But those cruel judges have condemned an innocent man——­”

“Baron d’Escorval?”

“Yes—­the father of—­Maurice!”

His voice changed in uttering the name of this man, for whose happiness he would have given ten lives had they been his to give.

“I wish to save him,” he added, “I can do it.”

“Oh! if what you said were true?  But you undoubtedly deceive yourself.”