Four and twenty hours later the abbe and Marie-Anne met again at the same spot. “M. d’Escorval,” said the priest, “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--in one word, a new trial.” Marie-Anne had foreseen this determination, and yet she could not help exclaiming: “What! M. d’Escorval means to give himself up to his enemies! To risk his life on the chance of acquittal?” The priest nodded assent, and then knowing that it was quite useless to attempt arguing the point Marie-Anne submissively remarked: “In this case, I must ask you for a rough draft of the letter I ought to write to the marquis.” For a moment the priest did not reply. He evidently had some misgivings. At last, summoning all his courage, he answered. “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 doesn’t always reach the person it’s addressed to. You must see M. de Sairmeuse.” Marie-Anne recoiled. “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 marquis’s attentions. But duty calls, and this is not the time to hesitate. You know that the baron is innocent, and you know, alas, that your father’s mad enterprise has ruined him. You must, at least, make this atoning sacrifice.” He then explained to her everything she would have to say, and did not leave her until she had promised to see the marquis in person. It must not be supposed that Marie-Anne’s aversion to this interview was due to the reason which the abbe assigned. Her reputation! Alas, she knew that it was lost for ever. A fortnight before the prospect of such a meeting would have in no wise disquieted her. Then, though she no longer hated Martial, she thought of him with indifference, whereas now---- Perhaps, in choosing the Croix d’Arcy for the rendezvous, she hoped that this spot with its cruel memories would restore aversion to her heart. As she walked along towards the meeting place, she said to herself that no doubt Martial would wound her feelings by his usual tone of careless gallantry. But in this she was mistaken. The young marquis was greatly agitated, but he did not utter a word unconnected with the purport of the meeting. It was only when the conference was over, and he had consented to all the conditions suggested by the abbe, that he sadly remarked: “We are friends, are we not?” And in an almost inaudible voice she answered, “Yes.”