."

Then he asked himself who the murderer could be.

"Is it possible that Martial assassinated Chupin after he murdered
Marie-Anne? To kill an accomplice is an effectual way of assuring one's
self of his silence."

He had reached the Borderie, and was about going upstairs, when he
thought he heard the sound of voices in the back room.

"That is strange," he said to himself. "Who can it be?"

And impelled by curiosity, he went and tapped upon the communicating
door.

The abbe instantly made his appearance, hurriedly closing the door
behind him. He was very pale, and visibly agitated.

"Who is it?" inquired Jean, eagerly.

"It is--it is. Guess who it is."

"How can I guess?"

"Maurice d'Escorval and Corporal Bavois."

"My God!"

"And it is a miracle that he has not been upstairs."

"But whence does he come? Why have we received no news of him?"

"I do not know. He has been here only five minutes. Poor boy! after
I told him that his father was safe, his first words were: 'And
Marie-Anne?' He loves her more devotedly than ever. He comes with his
heart full of her, confident and hopeful; and I tremble--I fear to tell
him the truth."

"Oh, terrible! terrible!"

"I have warned you; be prudent--and now, come in."

They entered the room together; and Maurice and the old soldier greeted
Jean with the most ardent expressions of friendship.

They had not seen each other since the duel on the Reche, which had been
interrupted by the arrival of the soldiers; and when they parted that
day they scarcely expected to meet again.

"And now we are together once more," said Maurice, gayly, "and we have
nothing to fear."

Never had the unfortunate man seemed so cheerful; and it was with the
most jubilant air that he explained the reason of his long silence.

"Three days after we crossed the frontier," said he, "Corporal Bavois
and I reached Turin. It was time, for we were tired out. We went to a
small inn, and they gave us a room with two beds.

"That evening, while we were undressing, the corporal said to me: 'I
am capable of sleeping two whole days without waking.' I, too, promised
myself a rest of at least twelve hours. We reckoned without our host, as
you will see.

"It was scarcely daybreak when we were awakened by a great tumult. A
dozen rough-looking men entered our room, and ordered us, in Italian, to
dress ourselves. They were too strong for us, so we obeyed; and an hour
later we were in prison, confi