The baron was silent.  This was in substance what Marie-Anne had said to him, only under another form.

“But there is still a wiser course that you might pursue.  Everything here is certain to augment the sorrow and despair which afflicts your son.  There is not a path, nor a tree, nor a flower which does not cruelly remind him of his former happiness.  Leave this place; take him with you, and go far away.”

“Ah! how can I do this?  Fouche has virtually imprisoned me here.”

“All the more reason why you should listen to my advice.  You were a friend of the Emperor, hence you are regarded with suspicion; you are surrounded by spies.  Your enemies are watching for an opportunity to ruin you.  The slightest pretext would suffice to throw you into prison—­a letter, a word, an act capable of being misconstrued.  The frontier is not far off; go, and wait in a foreign land for happier times.”

“That is something which I will not do,” said M. d’Escorval, proudly.

His words and accent showed the folly of further discussion.  Lacheneur understood this only too well, and seemed to despair.

“Ah! you are like Abbe Midon,” he said, sadly; “you will not believe.  Who knows how much your coming here this morning will cost you?  It is said that no one can escape his destiny.  But if some day the hand of the executioner is laid upon your shoulder, remember that I warned you, and do not curse me.”

He paused, and seeing that even this sinister prophecy produced no impression upon the baron, he pressed his hand as if to bid him an eternal farewell, and opened the door to admit the Marquis de Sairmeuse.

Martial was, perhaps, annoyed at meeting M. d’Escorval; but he nevertheless bowed with studied politeness, and began a lively conversation with M. Lacheneur, telling him that the articles he had selected at the chateau were on their way.

M. d’Escorval could do no more.  To speak with Marie-Anne was impossible:  Chanlouineau and Jean would not let him go out of their sight.

He reluctantly departed, and oppressed by cruel forebodings, he descended the hill which he had climbed an hour before so full of hope.

What should he say to Maurice?

He had reached the little grove of pines when a hurried footstep behind him made him turn.

The Marquis de Sairmeuse was following him, and motioned him to stop.  The baron paused, greatly surprised; Martial, with that air of ingenuousness which he knew so well how to assume, and in an almost brusque tone, said: 

“I hope, Monsieur, that you will excuse me for having followed you, when you hear what I have to say.  I am not of your party; I loathe what you adore; but I have none of the passion nor the malice of your enemies.  For this reason I tell you that if I were in your place I would take a journey.  The frontier is but a few miles away; a good horse, a short gallop, and you have crossed it.  A word to the wise is—­salvation!”