It was not the Duc de Sairmeuse who was in the room, but his son, Martial.
Stretched upon a sofa, he was reading a paper by the light of a large candelabra.
On seeing Marie-Anne he sprang up, as pale and agitated as if the door had given passage to a spectre.
“You!” he stammered.
But he quickly mastered his emotion, and in a second his quick mind revolved all the possibilities that might have produced this visit:
“Lacheneur has been arrested!” he exclaimed, “and you, wishing to save him from the fate which the military commission will pronounce upon him, have thought of me. Thank you, dearest Marie-Anne, thank you for your confidence. I will not abuse it. Let your heart be reassured. We will save your father, I promise you—I swear it. How, I do not yet know. But what does that matter? It is enough that he shall be saved. I will have it so!”
His voice betrayed the intense passion and joy that was surging in his heart.
“My father has not been arrested,” said Marie-Anne, coldly.
“Then,” said Martial, with some hesitation, “then it is Jean who is a prisoner.”
“My brother is in safety. If he survives his wounds he will escape all attempts at capture.”