“I am only a poor girl, Monsieur le Marquis,” she murmured, at last.  “If I accepted your offer, you would regret it continually.”

“Never!”

“But you are no longer free.  You have already plighted your troth.  Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu is your promised wife.”

“Ah! say one word—­only one—­and this engagement, which I detest, is broken.”

She was silent.  It was evident that her mind was fully made up, and that she refused his offer.

“Do you hate me, then?” asked Martial, sadly.

If she had allowed herself to tell the whole truth Marie-Anne would have answered “Yes.”  The Marquis de Sairmeuse did inspire her with an almost insurmountable aversion.

“I no more belong to myself than you belong to yourself, Monsieur,” she faltered.

A gleam of hatred, quickly extinguished, shone in Martial’s eye.

“Always Maurice!” said he.

“Always.”

She expected an angry outburst, but he remained perfectly calm.

“Then,” said he, with a forced smile, “I must believe this and other evidence.  I must believe that you have forced me to play a most ridiculous part.  Until now I doubted it.”

The poor girl bowed her head, crimsoning with shame to the roots of her hair; but she made no attempt at denial.

“I was not my own mistress,” she stammered; “my father commanded and threatened, and I—­I obeyed him.”

“That matters little,” he interrupted; “your role has not been that which a pure young girl should play.”

It was the only reproach he had uttered, and still he regretted it, perhaps because he did not wish her to know how deeply he was wounded, perhaps because—­as he afterward declared—­he could not overcome his love for Marie-Anne.

“Now,” he resumed, “I understand your presence here.  You come to ask mercy for Monsieur d’Escorval.”

“Not mercy, but justice.  The baron is innocent.”

Martial approached Marie-Anne, and lowering his voice: 

“If the father is innocent,” he whispered, “then it is the son who is guilty.”

She recoiled in terror.  He knew the secret which the judges could not, or would not penetrate.

But seeing her anguish, he had pity.

“Another reason,” said he, “for attempting to save the baron!  His blood shed upon the guillotine would form an impassable gulf between Maurice and you.  I will join my efforts to yours.”

Blushing and embarrassed, Marie-Anne dared not thank him.  How was she about to reward his generosity?  By vilely traducing him.  Ah! she would infinitely have preferred to see him angry and revengeful.

Just then a valet opened the door, and the Duc de Sairmeuse, still in full uniform, entered.

“Upon my word!” he exclaimed, as he crossed the threshold, “I must confess that Chupin is an admirable hunter.  Thanks to him——­”