Then hastily opening the missive, she found that it was as follows: “My dear Marie-Anne--Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has given an entirely new and certainly surprising turn to events. Perhaps you have also understood the motives that guided him. In that case I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you can no longer refuse me your esteem. But my work of reparation is not yet perfect. I have prepared everything for a revision of the judgment that condemned the Baron d’Escorval to death, or for having him pardoned. You must know where the baron is concealed. Acquaint him with my plans and ascertain whether he prefers a revision of judgment, or a simple pardon. If he wishes for a new trial, I will give him a letter of licence from the king. I await your reply before acting. MARTIAL DE SAIRMEUSE.” Marie-Anne’s head whirled. This was the second time that Martial had astonished her by the chivalrous spirit of his love. How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, had proved themselves to be. One of them Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, had sought to protect her from beyond the grave. The other, Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the connections and prejudices of his caste, and hazarded with noble recklessness the political fortunes of his house, so as to insure as far as possible her own happiness and that of those she loved. And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Maurice d’Escorval, had not given as much as a sign of life since he left her five months before. But suddenly and without reason, Marie-Anne passed from profound admiration to deep distrust. “What if Martial’s offer were 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 her suspicions was that she hesitated five days before repairing to the meeting place where Father Poignot usually awaited her. When she did go, in lieu of the worthy farmer she found the Abbe Midon, who had been greatly alarmed by her prolonged absence. It was night time, 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, he remarked: “This young man no doubt has the prejudices of his rank and his education; but his heart is noble and generous.” And when Marie-Anne disclosed her suspicions: “You are wrong, my child,” he added, “the marquis is certainly sincere, and it would be unwise not to take advantage of his generosity. Such, at least, is my opinion. Entrust this letter to me. I will consult the baron, and to-morrow you shall know our decision.”