Ah! there was no necessity for that. The heroic peasant had thrown himself upon his straw pallet, oppressed with feverish anxiety.
Would Marie-Anne know how to make the best use of the weapon which he had placed in her hands?
If he hoped so, it was because she would have as her counsellor and guide a man in whose judgment he had the most implicit confidence—Abbe Midon.
“Martial will be afraid of the letter,” he said to himself, again and again; “certainly he will be afraid.”
In this Chanlouineau was entirely mistaken. His discernment and intelligence were certainly above his station, but he was not sufficiently acute to read a character like that of the young Marquis de Sairmeuse.
The document which he had written in a moment of abandon and blindness, was almost without influence in determining his course.
He pretended to be greatly alarmed, in order to frighten his father; but in reality he considered the threat puerile.
Marie-Anne would have obtained the same assistance from him if she had not possessed this letter.
Other influences had decided him: the difficulties and dangers of the undertaking, the risks to be incurred, the prejudices to be braved.
To save the life of Baron d’Escorval—an enemy—to wrest him from the execution on the very steps of the scaffold, as it were, seemed to him a delightful enterprise. And to assure the happiness of the woman he adored by saving the life of an enemy, even after his suit had been refused, seemed a chivalrous act worthy of him.