“You must go to Montaignac,” said he, “but it would be folly to disguise yourself. You would certainly be recognized, and the saying: ‘He who conceals himself is guilty,’ will assuredly be applied to you. You must go openly, with head erect, and you must even exaggerate the assurance of innocence. Go straight to the Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu. I will accompany you; we will go in the carriage.” Maurice seemed undecided. “Obey these counsels, my son,” said Mme. d’Escorval; “the abbe knows much better than we do what is best.” “I will obey, mother.” The cure had not waited for this assent to go and give an order for harnessing the horses. Mme. d’Escorval left the room to write a few lines to a lady friend, whose husband exerted considerable influence in Montaignac. Maurice and Marie-Anne were left alone. It was the first moment of freedom and solitude which they had found since Marie-Anne’s confession. They stood for a moment, silent and motionless, then Maurice advanced, and clasping her in his arms, he whispered: “Marie-Anne, my darling, my beloved, I did not know that one could love more fondly than I loved you yesterday; but now--And you--you wish for death when another precious life depends upon yours.” She shook her head sadly. “I was terrified,” she faltered. “The future of shame that I saw--that I still--alas! see before me, appalled me. Now I am resigned. I will uncomplainingly endure the punishment for my horrible fault--I will submit to the insults and disgrace that await me!” “Insults, to you! Ah! woe to who dares! But will you not now be my wife in the sight of men, as you are in the sight of God? The failure of your father’s scheme sets you free!” “No, no, Maurice, I am not free! Ah! it is you who are pitiless! I see only too well that you curse me, that you curse the day when we met for the first time! Confess it! Say it!” Marie-Anne lifted her streaming eyes to his. “Ah! I should lie if I said that. My cowardly heart has not that much courage! I suffer--I am disgraced and humiliated, but----” He could not finish; he drew her to him, and their lips and their tears met in one long kiss. “You love me,” exclaimed Maurice, “you love me in spite of all! We shall succeed. I will save your father, and mine--I will save your brother!” The horses were neighing and stamping in the courtyard. The abbe cried: “Come, let us start.” Mme. d’Escorval entered with a letter, which she handed to Maurice. She clasped in a long and convulsive embrace the son whom she feared she should never see again; then, summoning all her courage, she pushed him away, uttering only the single word: “Go!” He departed; and when the sound of the carriage-wheels had died away in the distance, Mme. d’Escorval and Marie-Anne fell upon their knees, imploring the mercy and aid of a just God. They could only pray. The cure and Maurice could act.