M. Lacheneur was terribly agitated.

“I do not know what you mean,” he faltered, forgetting his feigned anger; “I have no projects.”

“Would you assert this upon oath?  Why are you casting these bullets?  You are clumsy conspirators.  You should lock your door; someone else might have entered.”

And adding example to precept, he turned and pushed the bolt.

“This is only an imprudence,” he continued; “but to reject a soldier who comes to you voluntarily would be a fault for which your associate would have a right to call you to account.  I have no desire, understand me, to force myself into your confidence.  No, I give myself to you blindly, body and soul.  Whatever your cause may be, I declare it mine; what you wish, I wish; I adopt your plans; your enemies are my enemies; command, I will obey.  I ask only one favor, that of fighting, of triumphing, or of dying by your side.”

“Oh! refuse, father!” exclaimed Marie-Anne; “refuse.  To accept this offer would be a crime!”

“A crime!  And why, if you please?”

“Because our cause is not your cause; because its success is doubtful; because dangers surround us on every side.”

A scornful exclamation from Maurice interrupted her.

“And it is you who think to dissuade me by pointing out the dangers that threaten you, the dangers that you are braving——­”

“Maurice!”

“So if imminent peril menaced me, instead of coming to my aid you would desert me?  You would hide yourself, saying, ’Let him perish, so that I be saved!’ Speak!  Would you do this?”

She averted her face and made no reply.  She could not force herself to utter an untruth; and she was unwilling to answer:  “I would act as you are acting.”  She waited for her father’s decision.

“If I should comply with your request, Maurice,” said M. Lacheneur, “in less than three days you would curse me, and ruin us by some outburst of anger.  You love Marie-Anne.  Could you see, unmoved, the frightful position in which she is placed?  Remember, she must not discourage the addresses either of Chanlouineau or of the Marquis de Sairmeuse.  You regard me—­oh, I know as well as you do that it is a shameful and odious role that I impose upon her—­that she is compelled to play a part in which she will lose a young girl’s most precious possession—­her reputation.”

Maurice did not wince.  “So be it,” he said, calmly.  “Marie-Anne’s fate will be that of all women who have devoted themselves to the political advancement of the man whom they love, be he father, brother, or lover.  She will be slandered, insulted, calumniated.  What does it matter?  She may continue her task.  I consent to it, for I shall never doubt her, and I shall know how to hold my peace.  If we succeed, she shall be my wife; if we fail——­”

The gesture which concluded the sentence said more strongly than any protestations, that he was ready, resigned to anything.