He sank back in his arm-chair.  A profound despair succeeded his frenzy.  He buried his face in his hands, evidently seeking some expedient.

“Why did you not come to me before judgment was pronounced?” he murmured.  “Then I could have done anything—­now, my hands are bound.  The commission has spoken; the judgment must be executed——­”

He rose, and in the tone of a man who is resigned to anything, he said: 

“Decidedly.  I should risk more in attempting to save the baron”—­in his anxiety he gave M. d’Escorval his title—­“a thousand times more than I have to fear from my enemies.  So, Mademoiselle”—­he no longer said “my good girl”—­“you can utilize your document.”

The duke was about leaving the room, but Martial detained him by a gesture.

“Think again before you decide.  Our situation is not without a precedent.  A few months ago the Count de Lavalette was condemned to death.  The King wished to pardon him, but his ministers and friends opposed it.  Though the King was master, what did he do?  He seemed to be deaf to all the supplications made in the prisoner’s behalf.  The scaffold was erected, and yet Lavalette was saved!  And no one was compromised—­yes, a jailer lost his position; he is living on his income now.”

Marie-Anne caught eagerly at the idea so cleverly presented by Martial.

“Yes,” she exclaimed, “the Count de Lavalette, protected by royal connivance, succeeded in making his escape.”

The simplicity of the expedient—­the authority of the example—­seemed to make a vivid impression upon the duke.  He was silent for a moment, and Marie-Anne fancied she saw an expression of relief steal over his face.

“Such an attempt would be very hazardous,” he murmured; “yet, with care, and if one were sure that the secret would be kept——­”

“Oh! the secret will be religiously preserved, Monsieur,” interrupted Marie-Anne.

With a glance Martial recommended silence; then turning to his father, he said: 

“One can always consider an expedient, and calculate the consequences—­that does not bind one.  When is this sentence to be carried into execution?”

“To-morrow,” responded the duke.

But even this terrible response did not cause Marie-Anne any alarm.  The duke’s anxiety and terror had taught her how much reason she had to hope; and she saw that Martial had openly espoused her cause.

“We have, then, only the night before us,” resumed the marquis.  “Fortunately, it is only half-past seven, and until ten o’clock my father can visit the citadel without exciting the slightest suspicion.”

He paused suddenly.  His eyes, in which had shone almost absolute confidence, became gloomy.  He had just discovered an unexpected and, as it seemed to him, almost insurmountable difficulty.

“Have we any intelligent men in the citadel?” he murmured.  “The assistance of a jailer or of a soldier is indispensable.”