“What am I doing! What right have I to think of my friends, when upon my promptness and upon my courage depends the life of an innocent man compromised by them?” Maurice, the abbe, and the officers surrounded the brave young girl. They wished to know what she was about to attempt, and to dissuade her from incurring useless danger. She refused to reply to their pressing questions. They wished to accompany her, or, at least, to follow her at a distance, but she declared that she must go alone. “I will return in less than two hours, and then we can decide what must be done,” said she, as she hastened away. To obtain an audience with the Duc de Sairmeuse was certainly a difficult matter; Maurice and the abbe had proved that only too well the previous day. Besieged by weeping and heart-broken families, he shut himself up securely, fearing, perhaps, that he might be moved by their entreaties. Marie-Anne knew this, but it did not alarm her. Chanlouineau had given her a word, the same which he had used; and this word was a key which would unlock the most firmly and obstinately locked doors. In the vestibule of the house occupied by the Duc de Sairmeuse, three or four valets stood talking. “I am the daughter of Monsieur Lacheneur,” said Marie-Anne, addressing one of them. “I must speak to the duke at once, on matters connected with the revolt.” “The duke is absent.” “I came to make a revelation.” The servant’s manner suddenly changed. “In that case follow me, Mademoiselle.” She followed him up the stairs and through two or three rooms. At last he opened a door, saying, “enter.” She went in. It was not the Duc de Sairmeuse who was in the room, but his son, Martial. Stretched upon a sofa, he was reading a paper by the light of a large candelabra. On seeing Marie-Anne he sprang up, as pale and agitated as if the door had given passage to a spectre. “You!” he stammered. But he quickly mastered his emotion, and in a second his quick mind revolved all the possibilities that might have produced this visit: “Lacheneur has been arrested!” he exclaimed, “and you, wishing to save him from the fate which the military commission will pronounce upon him, have thought of me. Thank you, dearest Marie-Anne, thank you for your confidence. I will not abuse it. Let your heart be reassured. We will save your father, I promise you--I swear it. How, I do not yet know. But what does that matter? It is enough that he shall be saved. I will have it so!” His voice betrayed the intense passion and 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 escape all attempts at capture.” From white the Marquis de Sairmeuse had turned as red as fire. By Marie-Anne’s manner he saw that she knew of the duel. He made no attempt to deny it; but he tried to excuse himself.