ss. "Had I been
conscious, I would never have accepted hospitality which is likely to
bring dire misfortune on your family. Alas! your acquaintance with
me has cost you too many tears and too much sorrow already. Do
you understand now why I wished you to regard us as strangers? A
presentiment told me that my family would be fatal to yours!"

"Poor child!" exclaimed Mme. d'Escorval; "where will you go?"

Marie-Anne lifted her beautiful eyes to the heaven in which she placed
her trust.

"I do not know, Madame," she replied; "but duty commands me to go. I
must learn what has become of my father and my brother, and share their
fate."

"What!" exclaimed Maurice; "still this thought of death. You, who no
longer----"

He paused; a secret which was not his own had almost escaped his lips.
But visited by a sudden inspiration, he threw himself at his mother's
feet.

"Oh, my mother! my dearest mother, do not allow her to depart. I may
perish in my attempt to save my father. She will be your daughter
then--she whom I have loved so much. You will encircle her with your
tender and protecting love----"

Marie-Anne remained.

CHAPTER XXV

The secret which approaching death had wrestled from Marie-Anne in the
fortification at the Croix d'Arcy, Mme. d'Escorval was ignorant of when
she joined her entreaties to those of her son to induce the unfortunate
girl to remain.

But the fact occasioned Maurice scarcely an uneasiness.

His faith in his mother was complete, absolute; he was sure that she
would forgive when she learned the truth.

Loving and chaste wives and mothers are always most indulgent to those
who have been led astray by the voice of passion.

Such noble women can, with impunity, despise and brave the prejudices of
hypocrites.

These reflections made Maurice feel more tranquil in regard to
Marie-Anne's future, and he now thought only of his father.

Day was breaking; he declared that he would assume some disguise and go
to Montaignac at once.

On hearing these words, Mme. d'Escorval turned and hid her face in the
sofa-cushions to stifle her sobs.

She was trembling for her husband's life, and now her son must
precipitate himself into danger. Perhaps before the sun sank to rest,
she would have neither husband nor son.

And yet she did not say "no." She felt that Maurice was only fulfilling
a sacred duty. She would have loved him less had she supposed him
capable of cowardly hesitation. She would hav