And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Maurice d’Escorval, had not given a sign of life since he quitted her, five months before.

But suddenly, and without reason, Marie-Anne passed from the most profound admiration to the deepest distrust.

“What if Martial’s offer is only a trap?” This was the suspicion that darted through her mind.

“Ah!” she thought, “the Marquis de Sairmeuse would be a hero if he were sincere!”

And she did not wish him to be a hero.

The result of these suspicions was that she hesitated five days before repairing to the rendezvous where Father Poignot usually awaited her.

When she did go, she found, not the worthy farmer, but Abbe Midon, who had been greatly alarmed by her long absence.

It was night, but Marie-Anne, fortunately, knew Martial’s letter by heart.

The abbe made her repeat it twice, the second time very slowly, and when she had concluded: 

“This young man,” said the priest, “has the voice and the prejudices of his rank and of his education; but his heart is noble and generous.”

And when Marie-Anne disclosed her suspicions: 

“You are wrong, my child,” said he; “the Marquis is certainly sincere.  It would be wrong not to take advantage of his generosity.  Such, at least, is my opinion.  Intrust this letter to me.  I will consult the baron, and to-morrow I will tell you our decision.”

The abbe was awaiting her with feverish impatience on the same spot, when she rejoined him twenty-four hours later.

“Monsieur d’Escorval agrees with me that we must trust ourselves to the Marquis de Sairmeuse.  Only the baron, being innocent, cannot, will not, accept a pardon.  He demands a revision of the iniquitous judgment which condemned him.”

Although she must have foreseen this determination, Marie-Anne seemed stupefied.

“What!” said she.  “Monsieur d’Escorval will give himself up to his enemies?  Does not the Marquis de Sairmeuse promise him a letter of license, a safe-conduct from the King?”

“Yes.”

She could find no objection, so in a submissive tone, she said: 

“In this case, Monsieur, I must ask you for a rough draft of the letter I am to write to the marquis.”

The priest did not reply for a moment.  It was evident that he felt some misgivings.  At last, summoning all his courage, he said: 

“It would be better not to write.”

“But——­”

“It is not that I distrust the marquis, not by any means, but a letter is dangerous; it does not always reach the person to whom it is addressed.  You must see Monsieur de Sairmeuse.”

Marie-Anne recoiled in horror.

“Never! never!” she exclaimed.

The abbe did not seem surprised.

“I understand your repugnance, my child,” he said, gently; “your reputation has suffered greatly through the attentions of the marquis.”