ortless room of a miserable country inn, attended by an old woman
whom she did not know, and with no other protection than that of an old
soldier--a deserter, whose life was in constant danger--and that of her
proscribed lover.

From this total wreck of her cherished ambitions, of her hopes, of her
fortune, of her happiness, and of her future, she had not even saved her
honor.

But was she alone responsible? Who had imposed upon her the odious role
which she had played with Maurice, Martial, and Chanlouineau?

As this last name darted through her mind, the scene in the prison-cell
rose suddenly and vividly before her.

Chanlouineau had given her a letter, saying as he did so:

"You will read this when I am no more."

She might read it now that he had fallen beneath the bullets of the
soldiery. But what had become of it? From the moment that he gave it to
her until now she had not once thought of it.

She raised herself in bed, and in an imperious voice:

"My dress," she said to the old nurse, seated beside her; "give me my
dress."

The woman obeyed; with an eager hand Marie-Anne examined the pocket.

She uttered an exclamation of joy on finding the letter there.

She opened it, read it slowly twice, then, sinking back on her pillows,
she burst into tears.

Maurice anxiously approached her.

"What is the matter?" he inquired anxiously.

She handed him the letter, saying: "Read."

Chanlouineau was only a poor peasant. His entire education had been
derived from an old country pedagogue, whose school he attended for
three winters, and who troubled himself much less about the progress of
his students than about the size of the books which they carried to and
from the school.

This letter, which was written upon the commonest kind of paper, was
sealed with a huge wafer, as large as a two-sou piece, which he had
purchased from a grocer in Sairmeuse.

The chirography was labored, heavy and trembling; it betrayed the stiff
hand of a man more accustomed to guiding the plough than the pen.

The lines zigzagged toward the top or toward the bottom of the page, and
faults of orthography were everywhere apparent.

But if the writing was that of a vulgar peasant, the thoughts it
expressed were worthy of the noblest, the proudest in the land.

This was the letter which Chanlouineau had written, probably on the eve
of the insurrection:

"Marie-Anne--The outbreak is at hand. Whether it succeeds, or whether it