Madame d’Escorval took a seat in her cart beside her husband. The priest stood watching them as they drove off, and it was not until the sound of the wheels had died away in the distance that he ventured to return to the Borderie. He was climbing the stairs again when he heard a faint moan in the room where Marie-Anne was lying. The sound sent all his blood wildly rushing to his heart, and with one bound he had reached the upper floor. Beside the corpse a young man was kneeling, weeping bitterly. The expression of his face, his attitude, his sobs betrayed the wildest despair. He was so lost in grief that he did not observe the abbe’s entrance. Who was this mourner who had found his way to the house of death? At last, however, though he did not recognize him, the priest divined who he must be. “Jean!” he cried, “Jean Lacheneur!” The young fellow sprang to his feet with a pale face and threatening look. “Who are you?” he asked vehemently. “What are you doing here? What do you want with me?” The former cure of Sairmeuse was so effectually disguised by his peasant dress and long beard, that he had to name himself. “You, Monsieur abbe,” exclaimed Jean. “It is God who has sent you here! Marie-Anne cannot be dead! You, who have saved so many others, will save her.” But as the priest sadly pointed to heaven, the young fellow paused, and his face became most ghastly looking than before. He understood now that there was no hope. “Ah!” he murmured in a desponding tone, “fate shows us no mercy. I have been watching over Marie-Anne, from a distance; and this evening I was coming to warn her to be cautious, for I knew she was in great danger. An hour ago, while I was eating my supper in a wine-shop at Sairmeuse, Grollet’s son came in. ‘Is that you, Jean?’ said he. ‘I just saw Chupin hiding near your sister’s house; when he observed me he slunk away.’ When I heard that, I hastened here like a crazy man. I ran, but when fate is against you, what can you do? I arrived too late!” The abbe reflected for a moment. “Then you suppose it was Chupin?” he asked. “I don’t suppose; I feel certain that it was he--the miserable traitor!--who committed this foul deed.” “Still, what motive could he have had?” With a discordant laugh that almost seemed a yell, Jean answered: “Oh, you may be certain that the daughter’s blood will yield him a richer reward than did the father’s. Chupin has been the instrument; but it was not he who conceived the crime. You will have to seek higher for the culprit, much higher, in the finest chateau of the country, in the midst of an army of retainers at Sairmeuse.” “Wretched man, what do you mean?” “What I say.” And he coldly added: “Martial de Sairmeuse is the assassin.” The priest recoiled. “You are mad!” he said severely.