en I spoke
to this young lady of her husband, she blushed scarlet. The man who
accompanies you has terrible mustaches for a farmer. Besides, you
must remember that there have been troubles across the frontier at
Montaignac."

From crimson Maurice had turned white. He felt that he was
discovered--that he was in this man's power.

What should he do?

What good would denial do?

He reflected that confession is sometimes the height of prudence, and
that extreme confidence often meets with sympathy and protection; so, in
a voice trembling with anxiety, he said:

"You are not mistaken, Monsieur. My friend and myself both are
fugitives, undoubtedly condemned to death in France at this moment."

And without giving the doctor time to respond, he narrated the
terrible events that had happened at Sairmeuse, and the history of his
unfortunate love-affair.

He omitted nothing. He neither concealed his own name nor that of
Marie-Anne.

When his recital was completed, the physician pressed his hand.

"It is just as I supposed," said he. "Believe me, Monsieur--Dubois, you
must not tarry here. What I have discovered others will discover. And
above all, do not warn the hotel-keeper of your departure. He has not
been deceived by your explanation. Self-interest alone has kept his
mouth closed. He has seen your money, and so long as you spend it at his
house he will hold his tongue; but if he discovers that you are going
away, he will probably betray you."

"Ah! sir, but how is it possible for us to leave this place?"

"In two days the young lady will be on her feet again," interrupted the
physician. "And take my advice. At the next village, stop and give your
name to Mademoiselle Lacheneur."

"Ah! sir," Maurice exclaimed; "have you considered the advice you offer
me? How can I, a proscribed man--a man condemned to death perhaps--how
can I obtain the necessary papers?"

The physician shook his head.

"Excuse me, you are no longer in France, Monsieur d'Escorval, you are in
Piedmont."

"Another difficulty!"

"No, because in this country, people marry, or at least they can marry,
without all the formalities that cause you so much anxiety."

"Is it possible?" Maurice exclaimed.

"Yes, if you can find a priest who will consent to your union, inscribe
your name upon his parish register and give you a certificate, you will
be so indissolubly united, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and you, that the
court of Rome would never grant y