To save the life of Baron d’Escorval—­an enemy—­to wrest him from the execution on the very steps of the scaffold, as it were, seemed to him a delightful enterprise.  And to assure the happiness of the woman he adored by saving the life of an enemy, even after his suit had been refused, seemed a chivalrous act worthy of him.

Besides, what an opportunity it afforded for the exercise of his sang-froid, his diplomatic talent, and the finesse upon which he prided himself!

It was necessary to make his father his dupe.  That was an easy task.

It was necessary to impose upon the credulity of the Marquis de Courtornieu.  This was a difficult task, yet he succeeded.

But poor Chanlouineau could not conceive of such contradictions, and he was consumed with anxiety.

Willingly would he have consented to be put to the torture before receiving his death-blow, if he might have been allowed to follow Marie-Anne in her undertakings.

What was she doing?  How could he ascertain?

A dozen times during the evening he called his guards, under every possible pretext, and tried to compel them to talk with him.  He knew very well that these men could be no better informed on the subject than he was himself, that he could place no confidence in their reports—­but that made no difference.

The drums beat for the evening roll-call, then for the extinguishment of lights—­after that, silence.

Standing at the window of his cell, Chanlouineau concentrated all his faculties in a superhuman effort of attention.

It seemed to him if the baron regained his liberty, he would be warned of it by some sign.  Those whom he had saved owed him, he thought, this slight token of gratitude.

A little after two o’clock he heard sounds that made him tremble.  There was a great bustle in the corridors; guards running to and fro, and calling each other, a rattling of keys, and the opening and shutting of doors.

The passage was suddenly illuminated; he looked out, and by the uncertain light of the lanterns, he thought he saw Lacheneur, as pale as a ghost, pass the cell, led by some soldiers.

Lacheneur!  Could this be possible?  He doubted his own eyesight.  He thought it must be a vision born of the fever burning in his brain.

Later, he heard a despairing cry.  But was it surprising that one should hear such a sound in a prison, where twenty men condemned to death were suffering the agony of that terrible night which precedes the day of execution.

At last, the gray light of early dawn came creeping in through the prison-bars.  Chanlouineau was in despair.

“The letter was useless!” he murmured.

Poor generous peasant!  His heart would have leaped for joy could he have cast a glance on the courtyard of the citadel.

More than an hour had passed after the sounding of the reveille, when two countrywomen, who were carrying their butter and eggs to market, presented themselves at the gate of the fortress.