Of all the blows she had received this last was most terrible and overwhelming.

What humiliation and shame—!  Now, indeed, was her cup of sorrow filled to overflowing.  “Chaste and pure!” he had said.  Oh, bitter mockery!

But Martial misunderstood the meaning of the poor girl’s gesture.

“Oh!  I comprehend your indignation,” he resumed, with growing eagerness.  “But if I have injured you even in thought, I now offer you reparation.  I have been a fool—­a miserable fool—­for I love you; I love, and can love you only.  I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse.  I am the possessor of millions.  I entreat you, I implore you to be my wife.”

Marie-Anne listened in utter bewilderment.  Vertigo seized her; even reason seemed to totter upon its throne.

But now, it had been Chanlouineau who, in his prison-cell, cried that he died for love of her.  Now, it was Martial who avowed his willingness to sacrifice his ambition and his future for her sake.

And the poor peasant condemned to death, and the son of the all-powerful Duc de Sairmeuse, had avowed their passion in almost the very same words.

Martial paused, awaiting some response—­a word, a gesture.  But Marie-Anne remained mute, motionless, frozen.

“You are silent,” he cried, with increased vehemence.  “Do you question my sincerity?  No, it is impossible!  Then why this silence?  Do you fear my father’s opposition?  You need not.  I know how to gain his consent.  Besides, what does his approbation matter to us?  Have we any need of him?  Am I not my own master?  Am I not rich—­immensely rich?  I should be a miserable fool, a coward, if I hesitated between his stupid prejudices and the happiness of my life.”

He was evidently obliging himself to weigh all the possible objections, in order to answer them and overrule them.

“Is it on account of your family that you hesitate?” he continued.  “Your father and brother are pursued, and France is closed against them.  Very well, we will leave France, and they shall come and live near you.  Jean will no longer dislike me when you are my wife.  We will all live in England or in Italy.  Now I am grateful for the fortune that will enable me to make life a continual enchantment for you.  I love you—­and in the happiness and tender love which shall be yours in the future, I will compel you to forget all the bitterness of the past!”

Marie-Anne knew the Marquis de Sairmeuse well enough to understand the intensity of the love revealed by these astounding propositions.

And for that very reason she hesitated to tell him that he had won this triumph over his pride in vain.

She was anxiously wondering to what extremity his wounded vanity would carry him, and if a refusal would not transform him into a bitter enemy.

“Why do you not answer?” asked Martial, with evident anxiety.

She felt that she must reply, that she must speak, say something; but she could not unclose her lips.