Her first impulse was to burn the letter; she held it to the flame, then the thought of her friends concealed at Father Poignot’s farm made her withdraw it. “For their sake,” she thought, “I must read it.” She broke the seal with the arms of the De Sairmeuse family inscribed upon it, and read: “My dear Marie-Anne--Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has given an entirely new, and certainly surprising, direction to events. “Perhaps you have also understood the motives that guided him. In that case I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you cannot refuse me your friendship and your esteem. “But my work of reparation is not yet accomplished. I have prepared everything for a revision of the judgment that condemned Baron d’Escorval to death, or for procuring a pardon. “You must know where the baron is concealed. Acquaint him with my plans and ascertain whether he prefers a revision of judgment, or a simple pardon. “If he desires a new trial, I will give him a letter of license from the King. “I await your reply before acting. “Martial de Sairmeuse.” Marie-Anne’s head whirled. This was the second time that Martial had astonished her by the grandeur of his passion. How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, had proved themselves to be. One, Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, protected her still. Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the convictions of his life and the prejudice of his race for her sake; and, with a noble recklessness, hazarded for her the political fortunes of his house. And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Maurice d’Escorval, had not given a sign of life since he quitted her, five months before. But suddenly, and without reason, Marie-Anne passed from the most profound admiration to the deepest distrust. “What if Martial’s offer is only a trap?” This was the suspicion that darted through her mind. “Ah!” she thought, “the Marquis de Sairmeuse would be a hero if he were sincere!” And she did not wish him to be a hero. The result of these suspicions was that she hesitated five days before repairing to the rendezvous where Father Poignot usually awaited her. When she did go, she found, not the worthy farmer, but Abbe Midon, who had been greatly alarmed by her long absence. It was night, but Marie-Anne, fortunately, knew Martial’s letter by heart. The abbe made her repeat it twice, the second time very slowly, and when she had concluded: “This young man,” said the priest, “has the voice and the prejudices of his rank and of his education; but his heart is noble and generous.” And when Marie-Anne disclosed her suspicions: “You are wrong, my child,” said he; “the Marquis is certainly sincere. It would be wrong not to take advantage of his generosity. Such, at least, is my opinion. Intrust this letter to me. I will consult the baron, and to-morrow I will tell you our decision.”