Marie-Anne bowed her head, blushing with shame to the roots of her hair; still she made no attempt at denial. “I was not my own mistress,” she stammered; “my father commanded and threatened, and I--I obeyed him.” “That matters little,” he interrupted; “a pure minded young girl should not have acted so.” This was the only reproach he allowed himself to utter, and he even regretted it, perhaps because he did not wish her to know how deeply he was wounded, perhaps because--as he afterwards declared--he could not overcome his love for her. “Now,” he resumed, “I understand your presence here. You come to ask mercy for M. d’Escorval.” “Not mercy, but justice. The baron is innocent.” Martial drew close to Marie-Anne, and lowering his voice: “If the father is innocent,” he whispered, “then it is the son who is guilty.” She recoiled in terror. What! he knew the secret which the judges could not, or would not penetrate! But seeing her anguish, he took pity on her. “Another reason,” said he, “for attempting to save the baron! If his blood were shed upon the guillotine there would be an abyss between you and Maurice which neither of you could cross. So I will join my efforts to yours.” Blushing and embarrassed, Marie-Anne dared not thank him; for was she not about to requite his generosity by charging him with a complicity of which, as she well knew, he was innocent. Indeed, she would have by far preferred to find him angry and revengeful. Just then a valet opened the door, and the Duke de Sairmeuse entered. “Upon my word!” he exclaimed, as he crossed the threshold, “I must confess that Chupin is an admirable hunter. Thanks to him--” He paused abruptly: he had not perceived Marie-Anne until now. “What! Lacheneur’s daughter!” said he, with an air of intense surprise. “What does she want here?” The decisive moment had come--the baron’s life depended upon Marie-Anne’s courage and address. Impressed by this weighty responsibility she at once recovered all her presence of mind. “I have a revelation to sell to you, sir,” she said, with a resolute air. The duke looked at her with mingled wonder and curiosity; then, laughing heartily, he threw himself on to the sofa, exclaiming: “Sell it, my pretty one--sell it! I can’t speak of that until I am alone with you.” At a sign from his father, Martial left the room. “Now tell me what it is,” said the duke. She did not lose a moment. “You must have read the circular convening the conspirators,” she began. “Certainly; I have a dozen copies of it in my pocket.” “Who do you suppose wrote it?” “Why, the elder d’Escorval, or your father.” “You are mistaken, sir; that letter was prepared by the Marquis de Sairmeuse, your son.” The duke sprang to his feet, his face purple with anger. “Zounds! girl! I advise you to bridle your tongue!” cried he.