When he left his cell, without knowing whether or not his letter had availed, he counted the condemned with poignant anxiety.
His eyes betrayed such an agony of anguish that the priest who accompanied him leaned toward him and whispered:
“For whom are you looking, my son?”
“For Baron d’Escorval.”
“He escaped last night.”
“Ah! now I shall die content!” exclaimed the heroic peasant.
He died as he had sworn he would die, without even changing color—calm and proud, the name of Marie-Anne upon his lips.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Ah, well, there was one woman, a fair young girl, whose heart had not been touched by the sorrowful scenes of which Montaignac had been the theatre.