The abbe was awaiting her with feverish impatience on the same spot, when she rejoined him twenty-four hours later. “Monsieur d’Escorval agrees with me that we must trust ourselves to the Marquis de Sairmeuse. Only the baron, being innocent, cannot, will not, accept a pardon. He demands a revision of the iniquitous judgment which condemned him.” Although she must have foreseen this determination, Marie-Anne seemed stupefied. “What!” said she. “Monsieur d’Escorval will give himself up to his enemies? Does not the Marquis de Sairmeuse promise him a letter of license, a safe-conduct from the King?” “Yes.” She could find no objection, so in a submissive tone, she said: “In this case, Monsieur, I must ask you for a rough draft of the letter I am to write to the marquis.” The priest did not reply for a moment. It was evident that he felt some misgivings. At last, summoning all his courage, he said: “It would be better not to write.” “But----” “It is not that I distrust the marquis, not by any means, but a letter is dangerous; it does not always reach the person to whom it is addressed. You must see Monsieur de Sairmeuse.” Marie-Anne recoiled in horror. “Never! never!” she exclaimed. The abbe did not seem surprised. “I understand your repugnance, my child,” he said, gently; “your reputation has suffered greatly through the attentions of the marquis.” “Oh! sir, I entreat you.” “But one should not hesitate, my child, when duty speaks. You owe this sacrifice to an innocent man who has been ruined through your father.” He explained to her all that she must say, and did not leave her until she had promised to see the marquis in person. But the cause of her repugnance was not what the abbe supposed. Her reputation! Alas! she knew that was lost forever. No, it was not that. A fortnight before she would not have been disquieted by the prospect of this interview. Then, though she no longer hated Martial, he was perfectly indifferent to her, while now---- Perhaps in choosing the Croix d’Arcy for the place of meeting, she hoped that this spot, haunted by so many cruel memories, would restore her former aversion. On pursuing the path leading to the place of rendezvous, she said to herself that Martial would undoubtedly wound her by the tone of careless gallantry which was habitual to him. But in this she was mistaken. Martial was greatly agitated, but he did not utter a word that was not connected with the baron. It was only when the conference was ended, and he had consented to all the conditions, that he said, sadly: “We are friends, are we not?” In an almost inaudible voice she answered: “Yes.” And that was all. He remounted his horse which had been held by a servant, and departed in the direction of Montaignac. Breathless, with cheeks on fire, Marie-Anne watched him as he disappeared; and then her inmost heart was revealed as by a lightning flash.