From crimson Maurice had turned white.  He felt that he was discovered—­that he was in this man’s power.

What should he do?

What good would denial do?

He reflected that confession is sometimes the height of prudence, and that extreme confidence often meets with sympathy and protection; so, in a voice trembling with anxiety, he said: 

“You are not mistaken, Monsieur.  My friend and myself both are fugitives, undoubtedly condemned to death in France at this moment.”

And without giving the doctor time to respond, he narrated the terrible events that had happened at Sairmeuse, and the history of his unfortunate love-affair.

He omitted nothing.  He neither concealed his own name nor that of Marie-Anne.

When his recital was completed, the physician pressed his hand.

“It is just as I supposed,” said he.  “Believe me, Monsieur—­Dubois, you must not tarry here.  What I have discovered others will discover.  And above all, do not warn the hotel-keeper of your departure.  He has not been deceived by your explanation.  Self-interest alone has kept his mouth closed.  He has seen your money, and so long as you spend it at his house he will hold his tongue; but if he discovers that you are going away, he will probably betray you.”

“Ah! sir, but how is it possible for us to leave this place?”

“In two days the young lady will be on her feet again,” interrupted the physician.  “And take my advice.  At the next village, stop and give your name to Mademoiselle Lacheneur.”

“Ah! sir,” Maurice exclaimed; “have you considered the advice you offer me?  How can I, a proscribed man—­a man condemned to death perhaps—­how can I obtain the necessary papers?”

The physician shook his head.

“Excuse me, you are no longer in France, Monsieur d’Escorval, you are in Piedmont.”

“Another difficulty!”

“No, because in this country, people marry, or at least they can marry, without all the formalities that cause you so much anxiety.”

“Is it possible?” Maurice exclaimed.

“Yes, if you can find a priest who will consent to your union, inscribe your name upon his parish register and give you a certificate, you will be so indissolubly united, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and you, that the court of Rome would never grant you a divorce.”

To suspect the truth of these affirmations was difficult, and yet Maurice doubted still.

“So, sir,” he said, hesitatingly, “in case I was able to find a priest——­”

The physician was silent.  One might have supposed he was blaming himself for meddling with matters that did not concern him.

Then, almost brusquely, he said: