The house was silent. One might have supposed the hotel deserted. At last, a little before four o’clock, the abbe came in, followed by the lawyer to whom the baron had confided his last wishes. “My husband!” exclaimed Mme. d’Escorval, springing wildly from her chair. The priest bowed his head; she understood. “Death!” she faltered. “They have condemned him!” And overcome by the terrible blow, she sank back, inert, with hanging arms. But the weakness did not last long; she again sprang up, her eyes brilliant with heroic resolve. “We must save him!” she exclaimed. “We must wrest him from the scaffold. Up, Maurice! up, Marie-Anne! No more weak lamentations, we must to work! You, also, gentlemen, will aid me. I can count upon your assistance, Monsieur le Cure. What are we going to do? I do not know! But something must be done. The death of this just man would be too great a crime. God will not permit it.” She suddenly paused, with clasped hands, and eyes uplifted to heaven, as if seeking divine inspiration. “And the King,” she resumed; “will the King consent to such a crime? No. A king can refuse mercy, but he cannot refuse justice. I will go to him. I will tell him all! Why did not this thought come to me sooner? We must start for Paris without losing an instant. Maurice, you will accompany me. One of you gentlemen will go at once and order post-horses.” Thinking they would obey her, she hastened into the next room to make preparations for her journey. “Poor woman!” the lawyer whispered to the abbe, “she does not know that the sentence of a military commission is executed in twenty-four hours.” “Well?” “It requires four days to make the journey to Paris.” He reflected a moment, then added: “But, after all, to let her go would be an act of mercy. Did not Ney, on the morning of his execution, implore the King to order the removal of his wife who was sobbing and moaning in his cell?” The abbe shook his head. “No,” said he; “Madame d’Escorval will never forgive us if we prevent her from receiving her husband’s last farewell.” She, at that very moment, re-entered the room, and the priest was trying to gather courage to tell her the cruel truth, when someone knocked violently at the door. One of the officers went to open it, and Bavois, the corporal of grenadiers, entered, his right hand lifted to his cap, as if he were in the presence of his superior officer. “Is Mademoiselle Lacheneur here?” he demanded. Marie-Anne came forward. “I am she, Monsieur,” she replied; “what do you desire of me?” “I am ordered, Mademoiselle, to conduct you to the citadel.” “Ah!” exclaimed Maurice, in a ferocious tone; “so they imprison women also!” The worthy corporal struck himself a heavy blow upon the forehead. “I am an old stupid!” he exclaimed, “and express myself badly. I meant to say that I came to seek mademoiselle at the request of one of the condemned, a man named Chanlouineau, who desires to speak with her.”