“Ah!” she thought, “the Marquis de Sairmeuse would be a hero if he were sincere!”
And she did not wish him to be a hero.
The result of these suspicions was that she hesitated five days before repairing to the rendezvous where Father Poignot usually awaited her.
When she did go, she found, not the worthy farmer, but Abbe Midon, who had been greatly alarmed by her long absence.
It was night, but Marie-Anne, fortunately, knew Martial’s letter by heart.
The abbe made her repeat it twice, the second time very slowly, and when she had concluded:
“This young man,” said the priest, “has the voice and the prejudices of his rank and of his education; but his heart is noble and generous.”
And when Marie-Anne disclosed her suspicions:
“You are wrong, my child,” said he; “the Marquis is certainly sincere. It would be wrong not to take advantage of his generosity. Such, at least, is my opinion. Intrust this letter to me. I will consult the baron, and to-morrow I will tell you our decision.”
The abbe was awaiting her with feverish impatience on the same spot, when she rejoined him twenty-four hours later.