“It is just as I supposed,” said he. “Believe me, Monsieur--Dubois, you must not tarry here. What I have discovered others will discover. And above all, do not warn the hotel-keeper of your departure. He has not been deceived by your explanation. Self-interest alone has kept his mouth closed. He has seen your money, and so long as you spend it at his house he will hold his tongue; but if he discovers that you are going away, he will probably betray you.” “Ah! sir, but how is it possible for us to leave this place?” “In two days the young lady will be on her feet again,” interrupted the physician. “And take my advice. At the next village, stop and give your name to Mademoiselle Lacheneur.” “Ah! sir,” Maurice exclaimed; “have you considered the advice you offer me? How can I, a proscribed man--a man condemned to death perhaps--how can I obtain the necessary papers?” The physician shook his head. “Excuse me, you are no longer in France, Monsieur d’Escorval, you are in Piedmont.” “Another difficulty!” “No, because in this country, people marry, or at least they can marry, without all the formalities that cause you so much anxiety.” “Is it possible?” Maurice exclaimed. “Yes, if you can find a priest who will consent to your union, inscribe your name upon his parish register and give you a certificate, you will be so indissolubly united, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and you, that the court of Rome would never grant you a divorce.” To suspect the truth of these affirmations was difficult, and yet Maurice doubted still. “So, sir,” he said, hesitatingly, “in case I was able to find a priest----” The physician was silent. One might have supposed he was blaming himself for meddling with matters that did not concern him. Then, almost brusquely, he said: “Listen to me attentively, Monsieur d’Escorval. I am about to take my leave, but before I go, I shall take occasion to recommend a good deal of exercise for the sick lady--I will do this before your host. Consequently, day after to-morrow, Wednesday, you will hire mules, and you, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and your old friend, the soldier, will leave the hotel as if going on a pleasure excursion. You will push on to Vigano, three leagues from here, where I live. I will take you to a priest, one of my friends; and he, upon my recommendation, will perform the marriage ceremony. Now reflect, shall I expect you on Wednesday?” “Oh, yes, yes, Monsieur. How can I ever thank you?” “By not thanking me at all. See, here is the innkeeper; you are Monsieur Dubois, again.” Maurice was intoxicated with joy. He understood the irregularity of such a marriage, but he knew it would reassure Marie-Anne’s troubled conscience. Poor girl! she was suffering an agony of remorse. It was that which was killing her. He did not speak to her on the subject, however, fearing something might occur to interfere with the project. But the old physician had not given his word lightly, and everything took place as he had promised.