But Chanlouineau did not immediately follow them to the spot they considered best adapted for a prolonged defence; he called Maurice and drew him a little aside. “You must leave us at once M. d’Escorval,” he said, in a rough voice.
“I—I came here, Chanlouineau, as you did, to do my duty.”
“Your duty, sir, is to serve Marie-Anne. Go at once, and take her with you.”
“I shall remain,” said Maurice firmly.
He was going to join his comrades when Chanlouineau stopped him. “You have no right to sacrifice your life here,” he said quickly. “It belongs to the woman who has given herself to you.”
“Wretch! how dare you—”
Chanlouineau sadly shook his head. “What is the use of denying it?” said he. “It was so great a temptation that only an angel could have resisted it. It was not your fault, nor was it hers. Lacheneur was a bad father. There was a day when I wanted either to kill myself or to kill you, I didn’t know which. Ah! you certainly were near death that day. You were scarcely five paces from the muzzle of my gun. It was God who stayed my hand by reminding me what her despair would be. But now that I have to die, and Lacheneur as well, some one must take care of Marie-Anne. Swear that you will marry her. You may be involved in some difficulty on account of this affair; but I have the means of saving you.”
He was suddenly interrupted by a fusillade. The Duke de Sairmeuse’s soldiers were approaching. “Good heavens!” exclaimed Chanlouineau, “and Marie-Anne.”
They rushed in pursuit of her, and Maurice was the first to find her, standing in the centre of the open space clinging to the neck of her father’s horse. He took her in his arms, trying to drag her away. “Come!” said he, “come!”
But she refused. “Leave me, leave me!” she entreated.