The abbe attributed this sudden and happy change entirely to the rupture between the duke and the marquis, and this was the universal opinion in the neighborhood.  Even the retired officers remarked: 

“The duke is decidedly better than he is supposed to be, and if he has been severe, it is only because he was influenced by that odious Marquis de Courtornieu.”

Marie-Anne alone suspected the truth.  A secret presentiment told her that it was Martial de Sairmeuse who had shaken off his wonted apathy, and was working these changes and using and abusing his ascendancy over the mind of his father.

“And it is for your sake,” whispered an inward voice, “that Martial is thus working.  What does this careless egotist care for these obscure peasants, whose names he does not even know?  If he protects them, it is only that he may have a right to protect you, and those whom you love!”

With these thoughts in her mind, she could not but feel her aversion to Martial diminish.

Was not such conduct truly heroic in a man whose dazzling offers she had refused?  Was there not real moral grandeur in the feeling that induced Martial to reveal a secret which might ruin the political fortunes of his house, rather than be suspected of an unworthy action?  And still the thought of this grande passion which she had inspired in so truly great a man never once made her heart quicken its throbbing.

Alas! nothing was capable of touching her heart now; nothing seemed to reach her through the gloomy sadness that enveloped her.

She was but the ghost of the formerly beautiful and radiant Marie-Anne.  Her quick, alert tread had become slow and dragging, often she sat for whole days motionless in her chair, her eyes fixed upon vacancy, her lips contracted as if by a spasm, while great tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

Abbe Midon, who was greatly disquieted on her account, often attempted to question her.

“You are suffering, my child,” he said, kindly.  “What is the matter?”

“I am not ill, Monsieur.”

“Why do you not confide in me?  Am I not your friend?  What do you fear?”

She shook her head sadly and replied: 

“I have nothing to confide.”

She said this, and yet she was dying of sorrow and anguish.

Faithful to the promise she had made Maurice, she had said nothing of her condition, or of the marriage solemnized in the little church at Vigano.  And she saw with inexpressible terror, the approach of the moment when she could no longer keep her secret.  Her agony was frightful; but what could she do!

Fly? but where should she go?  And by going, would she not lose all chance of hearing from Maurice, which was the only hope that sustained her in this trying hour?

She had almost determined on flight when circumstances—­providentially, it seemed to her—­came to her aid.