Marie-Anne knew this, but it did not alarm her.  Chanlouineau had given her a word, the same which he had used; and this word was a key which would unlock the most firmly and obstinately locked doors.

In the vestibule of the house occupied by the Duc de Sairmeuse, three or four valets stood talking.

“I am the daughter of Monsieur Lacheneur,” said Marie-Anne, addressing one of them.  “I must speak to the duke at once, on matters connected with the revolt.”

“The duke is absent.”

“I came to make a revelation.”

The servant’s manner suddenly changed.

“In that case follow me, Mademoiselle.”

She followed him up the stairs and through two or three rooms.  At last he opened a door, saying, “enter.”  She went in.

It was not the Duc de Sairmeuse who was in the room, but his son,
Martial.

Stretched upon a sofa, he was reading a paper by the light of a large candelabra.

On seeing Marie-Anne he sprang up, as pale and agitated as if the door had given passage to a spectre.

“You!” he stammered.

But he quickly mastered his emotion, and in a second his quick mind revolved all the possibilities that might have produced this visit: 

“Lacheneur has been arrested!” he exclaimed, “and you, wishing to save him from the fate which the military commission will pronounce upon him, have thought of me.  Thank you, dearest Marie-Anne, thank you for your confidence.  I will not abuse it.  Let your heart be reassured.  We will save your father, I promise you—­I swear it.  How, I do not yet know.  But what does that matter?  It is enough that he shall be saved.  I will have it so!”

His voice betrayed the intense passion and joy that was surging in his heart.

“My father has not been arrested,” said Marie-Anne, coldly.

“Then,” said Martial, with some hesitation, “then it is Jean who is a prisoner.”

“My brother is in safety.  If he survives his wounds he will escape all attempts at capture.”

From white the Marquis de Sairmeuse had turned as red as fire.  By Marie-Anne’s manner he saw that she knew of the duel.  He made no attempt to deny it; but he tried to excuse himself.

“It was Jean who challenged me,” said he; “I tried to avoid it.  I only defended my own life in fair combat, and with equal weapons——­”

Marie-Anne interrupted him.

“I reproach you for nothing, Monsieur le Marquis,” she said, quietly.

“Ah!  Marie-Anne, I am more severe than you.  Jean was right to challenge me.  I deserved his anger.  He knew the baseness of which I had been guilty; but you—­you were ignorant of it.  Oh!  Marie-Anne, if I wronged you in thought it was because I did not know you.  Now I know that you, above all others, are pure and chaste.”

He tried to take her hands; she repulsed him with horror; and broke into a fit of passionate sobbing.