Part 62 (1/2)
”I no more belong to myself than you belong to yourself, Monsieur,” she faltered.
A gleam of hatred, quickly extinguished, shone in Martial's eye.
”Always Maurice!” said he.
”Always.”
She expected an angry outburst, but he remained perfectly calm.
”Then,” said he, with a forced smile, ”I must believe this and other evidence. I must believe that you have forced me to play a most ridiculous part. Until now I doubted it.”
The poor girl bowed her head, crimsoning with shame to the roots of her hair; but she made no attempt at denial.
”_I_ was not my own mistress,” she stammered; ”my father commanded and threatened, and I--I obeyed him.”
”That matters little,” he interrupted; ”your role has not been that which a pure young girl should play.”
It was the only reproach he had uttered, and still he regretted it, perhaps because he did not wish her to know how deeply he was wounded, perhaps because--as he afterward declared--he could not overcome his love for Marie-Anne.
”Now,” he resumed, ”I understand your presence here. You come to ask mercy for Monsieur d'Escorval.”
”Not mercy, but justice. The baron is innocent.”
Martial approached Marie-Anne, and lowering his voice:
”If the father is innocent,” he whispered, ”then it is the son who is guilty.”
She recoiled in terror. He knew the secret which the judges could not, or would not penetrate.
But seeing her anguish, he had pity.
”Another reason,” said he, ”for attempting to save the baron! His blood shed upon the guillotine would form an impa.s.sable gulf between Maurice and you. I will join my efforts to yours.”
Blus.h.i.+ng and embarra.s.sed, Marie-Anne dared not thank him. How was she about to reward his generosity? By vilely traducing him. Ah! she would infinitely have preferred to see him angry and revengeful.
Just then a valet opened the door, and the Duc de Sairmeuse, still in full uniform, entered.
”Upon my word!” he exclaimed, as he crossed the threshold, ”I must confess that Chupin is an admirable hunter. Thanks to him----”
He paused abruptly; he had not perceived Marie-Anne until now.
”The daughter of that scoundrel Lacheneur!” said he, with an air of the utmost surprise. ”What does she desire here?”
The decisive moment had come--the life of the baron hung upon Marie-Anne's courage and address. The consciousness of the terrible responsibility devolving upon her restored her self-control and calmness as if by magic.
”I have a revelation to sell to you, Monsieur,” she said, resolutely.
The duke regarded her with mingled wonder and curiosity; then, laughing heartily, he threw himself upon a sofa, exclaiming:
”Sell it, my pretty one--sell it!”