The chirography was labored, heavy and trembling; it betrayed the stiff hand of a man more accustomed to guiding the plough than the pen.

The lines zigzagged toward the top or toward the bottom of the page, and faults of orthography were everywhere apparent.

But if the writing was that of a vulgar peasant, the thoughts it expressed were worthy of the noblest, the proudest in the land.

This was the letter which Chanlouineau had written, probably on the eve of the insurrection: 

“Marie-Anne—­The outbreak is at hand.  Whether it succeeds, or whether it fails, I shall die.  That was decided on the day when I learned that you could marry none other than Maurice d’Escorval.

“But the conspiracy will not succeed; and I understand your father well enough to know that he will not survive its defeat.  And if Maurice and your brother should both be killed, what would become of you?  Oh, my God, would you not be reduced to beggary?

“The thought has haunted me continually.  I have reflected, and this is my last will: 

“I give and bequeath to you all my property, all that I possess: 

“My house, the Borderie, with the gardens and vineyards pertaining thereto, the woodland and the pastures of Berarde, and five lots of land at Valrollier.

“You will find an inventory of this property, and of my other possessions which I devise to you, deposited with the lawyer at Sairmeuse.

“You can accept this bequest without fear; for, having no parents, my control over my property is absolute.

“If you do not wish to remain in France, this property will sell for at least forty thousand francs.

“But it would, it seems to me, be better for you to remain in your own country.  The house on the Borderie is comfortable and convenient, since I have had it divided into three rooms and thoroughly repaired.

“Upstairs is a room that has been fitted up by the best upholsterer in Montaignac.  I intended it for you.  Beneath the hearth-stone in this room you will find a box containing three hundred and twenty-seven louis d’or and one hundred and forty-six livres.

“If you refuse this gift, it will be because you scorn me even after I am dead.  Accept it, if not for your own sake, for the sake of—­I dare not write it; but you will understand my meaning only too well.

“If Maurice is not killed, and I shall try my best to stand between him and danger, he will marry you.  Then you will, perhaps, be obliged to ask his consent in order to accept my gift.  I hope that he will not refuse it.  One is not jealous of the dead!

“Besides, he knows well that you have scarcely vouchsafed a glance to the poor peasant who has loved you so much.

“Do not be offended at anything I have said, I am in such agony that I cannot weigh my words.

“Adieu, adieu, Marie-Anne.

“Chanlouineau.”