It was very dark, but had it been as light as day the former cure of Sairmeuse might have encountered any of his old parishioners without the least danger of detection. His hair and his beard had been allowed to grow; his tonsure had entirely disappeared, and his sedentary life had caused him to become much stouter. He was clad like all the well-to-do peasants of the neighborhood, and his face was hidden by a large slouch hat. He had not felt so tranquil in mind for months. Obstacles which had appeared almost insurmountable had vanished. In the near future he saw the baron declared innocent by impartial judges; he saw himself reinstalled in the presbytery of Sairmeuse. The recollection of Maurice was the only thing that marred his happiness. Why did he not give some sign of life? “But if he had met with any misfortune we should have heard of it,” thought the priest. “He has with him a brave man--an old soldier who would risk anything to come and tell us.” He was so absorbed in these thoughts that he did not observe that Mme. d’Escorval was leaning more and more heavily upon his arm. “I am ashamed to confess it,” she said at last, “but I can go no farther. It has been so long since I was out of doors that I have almost forgotten how to walk.” “Fortunately, we are almost there,” replied the priest. A moment after young Poignot stopped his cart in the road, at the entrance of the little footpath leading to the Borderie. “Our journey is ended!” he remarked to the baron. Then he uttered a low whistle, like that which he had given a few hours before, to warn Marie-Anne of his arrival. No one appeared; he whistled again, louder this time; then with all his might--still no response. Mme. d’Escorval and the abbe had now overtaken the cart. “It is very strange that Marie-Anne does not hear me,” remarked young Poignot, turning to them. “We cannot take the baron to the house until we have seen her. She knows that very well. Shall I run up and warn her?” “She is asleep, perhaps,” replied the abbe; “you stay with your horse, my boy, and I will go and wake her.” Certainly he did not feel the slightest disquietude. All was calm and still; a bright light was shining through the windows of the second story. Still, when he saw the open door, a vague presentiment of evil stirred his heart. “What can this mean?” he thought. There was no light in the lower rooms, and the abbe was obliged to feel for the staircase with his hands. At last he found it and went up. But upon the threshold of the chamber he paused, petrified with horror by the spectacle before him. Poor Marie-Anne was lying on the floor. Her eyes, which were wide open, were covered with a white film; her black and swollen tongue was hanging from her mouth. “Dead!” faltered the priest, “dead!” But this could not be. The abbe conquered his weakness, and approaching the poor girl, he took her hand. It was icy cold; the arm was rigid as iron.