If she had allowed herself to tell the whole truth, Marie-Anne would have answered “Yes;” for the Marquis de Sairmeuse did inspire her with almost insurmountable aversion. “I no more belong to myself than you belong to yourself,” she faltered.
A gleam of hatred shone for a second in Martial’s eyes. “Always Maurice!” said he.
“Always.”
She expected an angry outburst, but he remained perfectly calm. “Then,” said he, with a forced smile, “I must believe this and other evidence. I must believe that you forced me to play a ridiculous part. Until now I doubted it.”
Marie-Anne bowed her head, blushing with shame to the roots of her hair; still she made no attempt at denial. “I was not my own mistress,” she stammered; “my father commanded and threatened, and I—I obeyed him.”
“That matters little,” he interrupted; “a pure minded young girl should not have acted so.” This was the only reproach he allowed himself to utter, and he even regretted it, perhaps because he did not wish her to know how deeply he was wounded, perhaps because—as he afterwards declared—he could not overcome his love for her. “Now,” he resumed, “I understand your presence here. You come to ask mercy for M. d’Escorval.”
“Not mercy, but justice. The baron is innocent.”
Martial drew close to Marie-Anne, and lowering his voice: “If the father is innocent,” he whispered, “then it is the son who is guilty.”
She recoiled in terror. What! he knew the secret which the judges could not, or would not penetrate!
But seeing her anguish, he took pity on her. “Another reason,” said he, “for attempting to save the baron! If his blood were shed upon the guillotine there would be an abyss between you and Maurice which neither of you could cross. So I will join my efforts to yours.”