She did follow him up the stairs and through two or three rooms. At last he opened a door and bade her enter; but, to her surprise, it was not the Duke de Sairmeuse who was in the room, but his son, Martial, who, was stretched upon a sofa, reading a paper by the light of a large candelabra. On perceiving Marie-Anne he sprang up, pale and agitated. “You here!” he stammered; and then, swiftly mastering his emotion, he bethought himself of the possible motive of such a visit: “Lacheneur must have been arrested,” he continued, “and wishing to save him from the military commission you have thought of me. Thank you for doing so, dear Marie-Anne, thank you for your confidence in me. I will not abuse it. Be reassured. We will save your father, I promise you--I swear it. We will find a means, for he must be saved. I will have it so!” As he spoke his voice betrayed the passionate joy that was surging in his heart. “My father has not been arrested,” said Marie-Anne, coldly. “Then,” said Martial, with some hesitation--”Then it is Jean who is a prisoner.” “My brother is in safety. If he survives his wounds he will evade all attempts at capture.” The pale face of the Marquis de Sairmeuse turned a deep crimson. Marie-Anne’s manner showed him that she was acquainted with the duel. It would have been useless to try and deny it; still he endeavoured to excuse himself. “It was Jean who challenged me,” he said; “I tried to avoid fighting, and I only defended my life in fair combat, and with equal weapons----” Marie-Anne interrupted him. “I do not reproach you, Monsieur le Marquis,” she said, quietly. “Ah! Marie-Anne, I am more severe than you. Jean was right to challenge me. I deserved his anger. He knew my guilty thoughts, of which you were ignorant. Oh! Marie-Anne, if I wronged you in thought it was because I did not know you. Now I know that you, above all others, are pure and chaste----” He tried to take her hands, but she instantly repulsed him, and broke into a fit of passionate sobbing. Of all the blows she had received this last was most terrible. What shame and humiliation? Now, indeed, her cup of sorrow was filled to overflowing. “Chaste and pure!” he had said. Oh, the bitter mockery of those words! But Martial misunderstood the meaning of her grief. “Your indignation is just,” he resumed, with growing eagerness. “But if I have injured you even in thought, I now offer you reparation. I have been a fool--a miserable fool--for I love you; I love, and can love you only. I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse. I am wealthy. I entreat you, I implore you to be my wife.” Marie-Anne listened in utter bewilderment. But an hour before Chanlouineau in his cell cried aloud that he died for love of her, and now it was Martial, who avowed his willingness to sacrifice his ambition and his future for her sake. And the poor peasant condemned to death, and the son of the all-powerful Duke de Sairmeuse, had confessed their passion in almost the same words.