g her little table, she heard a
rustling sound at the door. She turned and looked; someone had slipped a
letter under the door.

Courageously, and without an instant's hesitation, she sprang to the
door and opened it. No one was there!

The night was dark, and she could distinguish nothing in the gloom
without. She listened; not a sound broke the stillness.

Agitated and trembling she picked up the letter, approached the light,
and looked at the address.

"The Marquis de Sairmeuse!" she exclaimed, in amazement.

She recognized Martial's handwriting. So he had written to her! He had
dared to write to her!

Her first impulse was to burn the letter; she held it to the flame, then
the thought of her friends concealed at Father Poignot's farm made her
withdraw it. "For their sake," she thought, "I must read it." She broke
the seal with the arms of the De Sairmeuse family inscribed upon it, and
read:

"My dear Marie-Anne--Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has given
an entirely new, and certainly surprising, direction to events.

"Perhaps you have also understood the motives that guided him. In that
case I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you cannot refuse me your
friendship and your esteem.

"But my work of reparation is not yet accomplished. I have prepared
everything for a revision of the judgment that condemned Baron
d'Escorval to death, or for procuring a pardon.

"You must know where the baron is concealed. Acquaint him with my plans
and ascertain whether he prefers a revision of judgment, or a simple
pardon.

"If he desires a new trial, I will give him a letter of license from the
King.

"I await your reply before acting.

"Martial de Sairmeuse."

Marie-Anne's head whirled.

This was the second time that Martial had astonished her by the grandeur
of his passion.

How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, had
proved themselves to be.

One, Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, protected her still.

Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the convictions of his life and
the prejudice of his race for her sake; and, with a noble recklessness,
hazarded for her the political fortunes of his house.

And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Maurice
d'Escorval, had not given a sign of life since he quitted her, five
months before.

But suddenly, and without reason, Marie-Anne passed from the most
profound admiration to the deepest distrust.