The priest hastened back to the wagon, and with well-affected calmness told the baron that it would be impossible for him to take up his abode at the Borderie at present, that several suspicious-looking characters had been seen prowling about, and that they must be more prudent than ever, now they could rely upon the kindly intervention of Martial de Sairmeuse.

At last, but not without considerable reluctance, the baron yielded.

“You desire it, cure,” he sighed, “so I obey.  Come, Poignot, my boy, take me back to your father’s house.”

Mme. d’Escorval took a seat in the cart beside her husband; the priest watched them as they drove away, and not until the sound of their carriage-wheels had died away in the distance did he venture to go back to the Borderie.

He was ascending the stairs when he heard moans that seemed to issue from the chamber of death.  The sound sent all his blood wildly rushing to his heart.  He darted up the staircase.

A man was kneeling beside Marie-Anne, weeping bitterly.  The expression of his face, his attitude, his sobs betrayed the wildest despair.  He was so lost in grief that he did not observe the abbe’s entrance.

Who was this mourner who had found his way to the house of death?

After a moment, the priest divined who the intruder was, though he did not recognize him.

“Jean!” he cried, “Jean Lacheneur!”

With a bound the young man was on his feet, pale and menacing; a flame of anger drying the tears in his eyes.

“Who are you?” he demanded, in a terrible voice.  “What are you doing here?  What do you wish with me?”

By his peasant dress and by his long beard, the former cure of Sairmeuse was so effectually disguised that he was obliged to tell who he really was.

As soon as he uttered his name, Jean uttered a cry of joy.

“God has sent you here!” he exclaimed.  “Marie-Anne cannot be dead!  You, who have saved so many others, will save her.”

As the priest sadly pointed to heaven, Jean paused, his face more ghastly than before.  He understood now that there was no hope.

“Ah!” he murmured, with an accent of frightful despondency, “fate shows us no mercy.  I have been watching over Marie-Anne, though from a distance; and this very evening I was coming to say to her:  ’Beware, sister—­be cautious!’”

“What! you knew——­”

“I knew she was in great danger; yes, Monsieur.  An hour ago, while I was eating my supper in a restaurant at Sairmeuse, Grollet’s son entered.  ‘Is this you, Jean?’ said he.  ’I just saw Chupin hiding near your sister’s house; when he observed me he slunk away.’  I ran here like one crazed.  But when fate is against a man, what can he do?  I came too late!”

The abbe reflected for a moment.

“Then you suppose that it was Chupin?”

“I do not suppose, sir; I swear that it was he—­the miserable traitor!—­who committed this foul deed.”