“Give me the letter,” she said to Chanlouineau, “I will go to the duke. I will find some way to reach him, and then God will tell me what course to pursue.”
The noble peasant handed the girl the tiny scrap of paper which might have been his own salvation.
“On no account,” said he, “must you allow the duke to suppose that you have upon your person the proof with which you threaten him. Who knows of what he might be capable under such circumstances? He will say, at first, that he can do nothing—that he sees no way to save the baron. You will tell him that he must find a means, if he does not wish this letter sent to Paris, to one of his enemies——”
He paused; he heard the grating of the bolt. Corporal Bavois reappeared.
“The half hour expired ten minutes ago,” he said, sadly. “I have my orders.”
“Coming,” said Chanlouineau; “all is ended!”
And handing Marie-Anne the second letter:
“This is for you,” he added. “You will read it when I am no more. Pray, pray, do not weep thus! Be brave! You will soon be the wife of Maurice. And when you are happy, think sometimes of the poor peasant who loved you so much.”
Marie-Anne could not utter a word, but she lifted her face to his.
“Ah! I dared not ask it!” he exclaimed.