Part 60 (1/2)

”Marie-Anne, your father and I have misjudged your brother. Poor Jean's appearance is terribly against him. His face indicates a treacherous, cowardly nature, his smile is cunning, and his eyes always shun yours.

We have distrusted him, but we should ask his pardon. A man who fights as I saw him fight, is deserving of confidence. For this combat in the public road, and in the darkness of the night, was terrible. They attacked each other silently but furiously. At last Jean fell.”

”Ah! my brother is dead!” exclaimed Marie-Anne.

”No,” responded Chanlouineau; ”at least we have reason to hope not; and I know he has not lacked any attention. This duel had another witness, a man named Poignot, whom you must remember; he was one of your father's tenants. He took Jean, promising me that he would conceal him and care for him.

”As for the marquis, he showed me that he too was wounded, and then he remounted his horse, saying:

”'What could I do? He would have it so.'”

Marie-Anne understood now.

”Give me the letter,” she said to Chanlouineau, ”I will go to the duke.

I will find some way to reach him, and then G.o.d will tell me what course to pursue.”

The n.o.ble peasant handed the girl the tiny sc.r.a.p of paper which might have been his own salvation.

”On no account,” said he, ”must you allow the duke to suppose that you have upon your person the proof with which you threaten him. Who knows of what he might be capable under such circ.u.mstances? He will say, at first, that he can do nothing--that he sees no way to save the baron.

You will tell him that he must find a means, if he does not wish this letter sent to Paris, to one of his enemies----”

He paused; he heard the grating of the bolt. Corporal Bavois reappeared.

”The half hour expired ten minutes ago,” he said, sadly. ”I have my orders.”

”Coming,” said Chanlouineau; ”all is ended!”

And handing Marie-Anne the second letter:

”This is for you,” he added. ”You will read it when I am no more. Pray, pray, do not weep thus! Be brave! You will soon be the wife of Maurice.

And when you are happy, think sometimes of the poor peasant who loved you so much.”

Marie-Anne could not utter a word, but she lifted her face to his.

”Ah! I dared not ask it!” he exclaimed.

And for the first time he clasped her in his arms and pressed his lips to her pallid cheek.

”Now adieu,” he said once more. ”Do not lose a moment. Adieu!”

CHAPTER XXIX

The prospect of capturing Lacheneur, the chief conspirator, excited the Marquis de Courtornieu so much that he had not been able to tear himself away from the citadel to return home to his dinner.

Remaining near the entrance of the dark corridor leading to Chanlouineau's cell, he watched Marie-Anne depart; but as he saw her go out into the twilight with a quick, alert step, he felt a sudden doubt of Chanlouineau's sincerity.

”Can it be that this miserable peasant has deceived me?” he thought.

So strong was this suspicion that he hastened after her, determined to question her--to ascertain the truth--to arrest her, if necessary.