hing, yes, anything,
even to deliver up M. Lacheneur.

To capture Lacheneur! Such a prospect had powerful attractions for the
Marquis de Courtornieu.

"Do you know, then, where this brigand is concealed?" he inquired.

Chanlouineau admitted that he did not know, but declared that
Marie-Anne, Lacheneur's daughter, knew her father's hiding-place. She
had, he declared, perfect confidence in him; and if they would only send
for her, and allow him ten minutes' private conversation with her,
he was sure he could obtain the secret of her father's place of
concealment. So the bargain was quickly concluded.

The prisoner's life was promised, him in exchange for the life of
Lacheneur.

A soldier, who chanced to be Corporal Bavois, was sent to summon
Marie-Anne.

And Chanlouineau waited in terrible anxiety. No one had told him what
had taken place at Escorval, but he divined it by the aid of that
strange prescience which so often illuminates the mind when death is
near at hand.

He was almost certain that Mme. d'Escorval was in Montaignac; he was
equally certain that Marie-Anne was with her; and if she were, he knew
that she would come.

And he waited, counting the seconds by the throbbings of his heart.

He waited, understanding the cause of every sound without,
distinguishing with the marvellous acuteness of senses excited to the
highest pitch by passion, sounds which would have been inaudible to
another person.

At last, at the end of the corridor, he heard the rustling of a dress
against the wall.

"It is she," he murmured.

Footsteps approached; the heavy bolts were drawn back, the door opened,
and Marie-Anne entered, accompanied by Corporal Bavois.

"Monsieur de Courtornieu promised me that we should be left alone!"
exclaimed Chanlouineau.

"Therefore, I go at once," replied the old soldier. "But I have orders
to return for mademoiselle in half an hour."

When the door closed behind the worthy corporal, Chanlouineau took
Marie-Anne's hand and drew her to the tiny grafted window.

"Thank you for coming," said he, "thank you. I can see you and speak to
you once more. Now that my hours are numbered, I may reveal the secret
of my soul and of my life. Now, I can venture to tell you how ardently I
have loved you--how much I still love you."

Involuntarily Marie-Anne drew away her hand and stepped back.

This outburst of passion, at such a moment, seemed at once unspeakably
sad and frightful.

"Have I, th