ns. I entreat you, I implore you to be my wife."

Marie-Anne listened in utter bewilderment. Vertigo seized her; even
reason seemed to totter upon its throne.

But now, it had been Chanlouineau who, in his prison-cell, cried that he
died for love of her. Now, it was Martial who avowed his willingness to
sacrifice his ambition and his future for her sake.

And the poor peasant condemned to death, and the son of the all-powerful
Duc de Sairmeuse, had avowed their passion in almost the very same
words.

Martial paused, awaiting some response--a word, a gesture. But
Marie-Anne remained mute, motionless, frozen.

"You are silent," he cried, with increased vehemence. "Do you question
my sincerity? No, it is impossible! Then why this silence? Do you fear
my father's opposition? You need not. I know how to gain his consent.
Besides, what does his approbation matter to us? Have we any need of
him? Am I not my own master? Am I not rich--immensely rich? I should be
a miserable fool, a coward, if I hesitated between his stupid prejudices
and the happiness of my life."

He was evidently obliging himself to weigh all the possible objections,
in order to answer them and overrule them.

"Is it on account of your family that you hesitate?" he continued. "Your
father and brother are pursued, and France is closed against them. Very
well, we will leave France, and they shall come and live near you. Jean
will no longer dislike me when you are my wife. We will all live in
England or in Italy. Now I am grateful for the fortune that will enable
me to make life a continual enchantment for you. I love you--and in the
happiness and tender love which shall be yours in the future, I will
compel you to forget all the bitterness of the past!"

Marie-Anne knew the Marquis de Sairmeuse well enough to understand the
intensity of the love revealed by these astounding propositions.

And for that very reason she hesitated to tell him that he had won this
triumph over his pride in vain.

She was anxiously wondering to what extremity his wounded vanity would
carry him, and if a refusal would not transform him into a bitter enemy.

"Why do you not answer?" asked Martial, with evident anxiety.

She felt that she must reply, that she must speak, say something; but
she could not unclose her lips.

"I am only a poor girl, Monsieur le Marquis," she murmured, at last. "If
I accepted your offer, you would regret it continually."

"Never!"

"But you