“Poisoned!” he murmured; “poisoned with arsenic.” He rose to his feet, and cast a bewildered glance around the room. His eyes fell upon his medicine-chest, open upon the table. He rushed to it and unhesitatingly took out a vial, uncorked it, and inverted it on the palm of his hand--it was empty. “I was not mistaken!” he exclaimed. But he had no time to lose in conjectures. The first thing to be done was to induce the baron to return to the farm-house without telling him the terrible misfortune which had occurred. To find a pretext was easy enough. The priest hastened back to the wagon, and with well-affected calmness told the baron that it would be impossible for him to take up his abode at the Borderie at present, that several suspicious-looking characters had been seen prowling about, and that they must be more prudent than ever, now they could rely upon the kindly intervention of Martial de Sairmeuse. At last, but not without considerable reluctance, the baron yielded. “You desire it, cure,” he sighed, “so I obey. Come, Poignot, my boy, take me back to your father’s house.” Mme. d’Escorval took a seat in the cart beside her husband; the priest watched them as they drove away, and not until the sound of their carriage-wheels had died away in the distance did he venture to go back to the Borderie. He was ascending the stairs when he heard moans that seemed to issue from the chamber of death. The sound sent all his blood wildly rushing to his heart. He darted up the staircase. A man was kneeling beside Marie-Anne, weeping bitterly. The expression of his face, his attitude, his sobs betrayed the wildest despair. He was so lost in grief that he did not observe the abbe’s entrance. Who was this mourner who had found his way to the house of death? After a moment, the priest divined who the intruder was, though he did not recognize him. “Jean!” he cried, “Jean Lacheneur!” With a bound the young man was on his feet, pale and menacing; a flame of anger drying the tears in his eyes. “Who are you?” he demanded, in a terrible voice. “What are you doing here? What do you wish with me?” By his peasant dress and by his long beard, the former cure of Sairmeuse was so effectually disguised that he was obliged to tell who he really was. As soon as he uttered his name, Jean uttered a cry of joy. “God has sent you here!” he exclaimed. “Marie-Anne cannot be dead! You, who have saved so many others, will save her.” As the priest sadly pointed to heaven, Jean paused, his face more ghastly than before. He understood now that there was no hope. “Ah!” he murmured, with an accent of frightful despondency, “fate shows us no mercy. I have been watching over Marie-Anne, though from a distance; and this very evening I was coming to say to her: ‘Beware, sister--be cautious!’” “What! you knew----”