He kissed Marie-Anne passionately, then lifted her, placed her in a chair, and freed himself from her detaining hands.

“Adieu!” he cried; “when you see me again, our father will be avenged!”

She sprang up to rush after him and to call him back.  Too late!

He had fled.

“It is over,” murmured the wretched girl; “my brother is lost.  Nothing will restrain him now.”

A vague, inexplicable, but horrible fear, contracted her heart.  She felt that she was being slowly but surely drawn into a whirlpool of passion, rancor, vengeance, and crime, and a voice whispered that she would be crushed.

But other thoughts soon replaced these gloomy presentiments.

One evening, while she was preparing her little table, she heard a rustling sound at the door.  She turned and looked; someone had slipped a letter under the door.

Courageously, and without an instant’s hesitation, she sprang to the door and opened it.  No one was there!

The night was dark, and she could distinguish nothing in the gloom without.  She listened; not a sound broke the stillness.

Agitated and trembling she picked up the letter, approached the light, and looked at the address.

“The Marquis de Sairmeuse!” she exclaimed, in amazement.

She recognized Martial’s handwriting.  So he had written to her!  He had dared to write to her!

Her first impulse was to burn the letter; she held it to the flame, then the thought of her friends concealed at Father Poignot’s farm made her withdraw it.  “For their sake,” she thought, “I must read it.”  She broke the seal with the arms of the De Sairmeuse family inscribed upon it, and read: 

“My dear Marie-Anne—­Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has given an entirely new, and certainly surprising, direction to events.

“Perhaps you have also understood the motives that guided him.  In that case I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you cannot refuse me your friendship and your esteem.

“But my work of reparation is not yet accomplished.  I have prepared everything for a revision of the judgment that condemned Baron d’Escorval to death, or for procuring a pardon.

“You must know where the baron is concealed.  Acquaint him with my plans and ascertain whether he prefers a revision of judgment, or a simple pardon.

“If he desires a new trial, I will give him a letter of license from the King.

“I await your reply before acting.

“Martial de Sairmeuse.”

Marie-Anne’s head whirled.

This was the second time that Martial had astonished her by the grandeur of his passion.

How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, had proved themselves to be.

One, Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, protected her still.

Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the convictions of his life and the prejudice of his race for her sake; and, with a noble recklessness, hazarded for her the political fortunes of his house.