To return to France was to expose themselves to frightful peril. What good would it do? Was not the misfortune irreparable? So Corporal Bavois suggested, very timidly it is true, for the old soldier trembled at the thought that they might suspect him of being afraid. But Maurice would not listen. He shuddered. He did not know what had transpired since their flight, but it seemed to him that the Baron d’Escorval must have been discovered and re-arrested at the same time that Lacheneur was captured. Accordingly they at once procured a vehicle to convey them to the frontier. One important question, however, remained to be decided. Should Maurice and Marie-Anne make their marriage public? She wished to do so, but Maurice with tears in his eyes entreated her to conceal it. “Our marriage certificate will not silence those who are disposed against us,” said he. “Let us keep our secret for the present. No doubt we shall only remain in France for a few days.” Unfortunately, Marie-Anne yielded. “Since you wish it,” said she, “I will obey you. No one shall know of it.” It was the evening of the seventeenth of April, the same day that Martial was married to Blanche, when the fugitives at last reached Father Poignot’s house. Maurice and Corporal Bavois were disguised as peasants and the old soldier had made a sacrifice that drew tears from his eyes; he had shaved off his moustaches. XXVI. When the Abbe Midon and Martial de Sairmeuse held their conference, to decide upon the arrangements for the Baron de Escorval’s escape, a difficulty presented itself which threatened to break off the negotiations. “Return my letter,” said Martial, “and I will save the baron.” “Save the baron,” replied the abbe, “and your letter shall be returned.” The idea that any one should suppose him to be influenced by danger when in reality he was only yielding to Marie-Anne’s tears, angered Martial beyond endurance. “These are my last words, sir,” he retorted, emphatically. “Give me the letter now, and I swear to you, by the honour of my name, that I will do everything that is possible for any human being to do to save the baron. If you distrust my word, good-evening.” The situation was desperate, the danger imminent, the time limited, and Martial’s tone betrayed an inflexible determination. The abbe could not hesitate. He drew the letter from his pocket and handing it to Martial: “Here it is, sir,” he said, solemnly, “remember that you have pledged the honour of your name.” “I will remember it, Monsieur le Cure. Go and obtain the ropes.”