ldly rushing
to his heart. He darted up the staircase.

A man was kneeling beside Marie-Anne, weeping bitterly. The expression
of his face, his attitude, his sobs betrayed the wildest despair. He was
so lost in grief that he did not observe the abbe's entrance.

Who was this mourner who had found his way to the house of death?

After a moment, the priest divined who the intruder was, though he did
not recognize him.

"Jean!" he cried, "Jean Lacheneur!"

With a bound the young man was on his feet, pale and menacing; a flame
of anger drying the tears in his eyes.

"Who are you?" he demanded, in a terrible voice. "What are you doing
here? What do you wish with me?"

By his peasant dress and by his long beard, the former cure of Sairmeuse
was so effectually disguised that he was obliged to tell who he really
was.

As soon as he uttered his name, Jean uttered a cry of joy.

"God has sent you here!" he exclaimed. "Marie-Anne cannot be dead! You,
who have saved so many others, will save her."

As the priest sadly pointed to heaven, Jean paused, his face more
ghastly than before. He understood now that there was no hope.

"Ah!" he murmured, with an accent of frightful despondency, "fate
shows us no mercy. I have been watching over Marie-Anne, though from
a distance; and this very evening I was coming to say to her: 'Beware,
sister--be cautious!'"

"What! you knew----"

"I knew she was in great danger; yes, Monsieur. An hour ago, while I was
eating my supper in a restaurant at Sairmeuse, Grollet's son entered.
'Is this you, Jean?' said he. 'I just saw Chupin hiding near your
sister's house; when he observed me he slunk away.' I ran here like
one crazed. But when fate is against a man, what can he do? I came too
late!"

The abbe reflected for a moment.

"Then you suppose that it was Chupin?"

"I do not suppose, sir; I _swear_ that it was he--the miserable
traitor!--who committed this foul deed."

"Still, what motive could he have had?"

Jean burst into one of those discordant laughs that are, perhaps, the
most frightful signs of despair.

"You may rest assured that the blood of the daughter will yield him
a richer reward than did the father's. Chupin has been the vile
instrument; but it was not he who conceived the crime. You will have to
seek higher for the culprit, much higher, in the finest chateau of the
country, in the midst of an army of valets at Sairmeuse, in short!"

"Wretched man, what do you