Maurice and Marie-Anne had loved each other for many years.
As children, they had played together in the magnificent grounds surrounding the Chateau de Sairmeuse, and in the park at Escorval.
Together they chased the brilliant butterflies, searched for pebbles on the banks of the river, or rolled in the hay while their mothers sauntered through the meadows bordering the Oiselle.
For their mothers were friends.
Mme. Lacheneur had been reared like other poor peasant girls; that is to say, on the day of her marriage it was only with great difficulty she succeeded in inscribing her name upon the register.
But from the example of her husband she had learned that prosperity, as well asnoblesse, entails certain obligations upon one, and with rare courage, crowned with still rarer success, she had undertaken to acquire an education in keeping with her fortune and her new rank.
And the baroness had made no effort to resist the sympathy that attracted her to this meritorious young woman, in whom she had discerned a really superior mind and a truly refined nature.
When Mme. Lacheneur died, Mme. d’Escorval mourned for her as she would have mourned for a favorite sister.
From that moment Maurice’s attachment assumed a more serious character.
Educated in a Parisian lyceum, his teachers sometimes had occasion to complain of his want of application.
“If your professors are not satisfied with you,” said his mother, “you shall not accompany me to Escorval on the coming of your vacation, and you will not see your little friend.”
And this simple threat was always sufficient to make the school-boy resume his studies with redoubled diligence.
So each year, as it passed, strengthened thegrande passionwhich preserved Maurice from the restlessness and the errors of adolescence.
The two children were equally timid and artless, and equally infatuated with each other.
Long walks in the twilight under the eyes of their parents, a glance that revealed their delight at meeting each other, flowers exchanged between them—which were religiously preserved—such were their simple pleasures.
But that magical and sublime word, love—so sweet to utter, and so sweet to hear—had never once dropped from their lips.
The audacity of Maurice had never gone beyond a furtive pressure of the hand.
The parents could not be ignorant of this mutual affection; and if they pretended to shut their eyes, it was only because it did not displease them nor disturb their plans.
M. and Mme. d’Escorval saw no objection to their son’s marriage with a young girl whose nobility of character they appreciated, and who was as beautiful as she was good. That she was the richest heiress in all the country round about was naturally no objection.
So far as M. Lacheneur was concerned, he was delighted at the prospect of a marriage which would ally him, a former ploughboy, with an old family whose head was universally respected.
So, although no direct allusion to the subject had ever escaped the lips of the baron or of M. Lacheneur, there was a tacit agreement between the two families.
Yes, the marriage was considered a foregone conclusion.
And yet this impetuous and unexpected declaration by Maurice struck everyone dumb.
In spite of his agitation, the young man perceived the effect produced by his words, and frightened by his own boldness, he turned and looked questioningly at his father.
The baron’s face was grave, even sad; but his attitude expressed no displeasure.
This gave renewed courage to the anxious lover.
“You will excuse me, Monsieur,” he said, addressing Lacheneur, “for presenting my request in such a manner, and at such a time. But surely, when fate glowers ominously upon you, that is the time when your friends should declare themselves—and deem themselves fortunate if their devotion can make you forget the infamous treatment to which you have been subjected.”
As he spoke, he was watching Marie-Anne.
Blushing and embarrassed, she turned away her head, perhaps to conceal the tears which inundated her face—tears of joy and of gratitude.
The love of the man she adored came forth victorious from a test which it would not be prudent for many heiresses to impose.
Now she could truly say that she knew Maurice’s heart.
He, however, continued:
“I have not consulted my father, sir; but I know his affection for me and his esteem for you. When the happiness of my life is at stake, he will not oppose me. He, who married my dear mother without a dowry, must understand my feelings.”
He was silent, awaiting the verdict.
“I approve your course, my son,” said M. d’Escorval, deeply affected; “you have conducted yourself like an honorable man. Certainly you are very young to become the head of a family; but, as you say, circumstances demand it.”
He turned to M. Lacheneur, and added:
“My dear friend, I, in my son’s behalf, ask the hand of your daughter in marriage.”
Maurice had not expected so little opposition.
In his delight he was almost tempted to bless the hateful Duc de Sairmeuse, to whom he would owe his approaching happiness.
He sprang toward his father, and seizing his hands, he raised them to his lips, faltering:
“Thanks! you are so good! I love you! Oh, how happy I am!”
Alas! the poor boy was in too much haste to rejoice.
A gleam of pride flashed in M. Lacheneur’s eyes; but his face soon resumed its gloomy expression.
“Believe me, Monsieur le Baron, I am deeply touched by your grandeur of soul—yes, deeply touched. You wish to make me forget my humiliation; but, for this very reason, I should be the most contemptible of men if I did not refuse the great honor you desire to confer upon my daughter.”
“What!” exclaimed the baron, in utter astonishment; “you refuse?”
“I am compelled to do so.”
Thunderstruck at first, Maurice afterward renewed the attack with an energy which no one had ever suspected in his character before.
“Do you, then, wish to ruin my life, Monsieur?” he exclaimed; “to ruinourlife; for if I love Marie-Anne, she also loves me.”
It was easy to see that he spoke the truth. The unhappy girl, crimson with happy blushes the moment before, had suddenly become whiter than marble, as she looked imploringly at her father.
“It cannot be,” repeated M. Lacheneur; “and the day will come when you will bless the decision I make known at this moment.”
Alarmed by her son’s evident agony, Mme. d’Escorval interposed:
“You must have reasons for this refusal.”
“None that I can disclose, Madame. But never while I live shall my daughter be your son’s wife!”
“Ah! it will kill my child!” exclaimed the baroness.
M. Lacheneur shook his head.
“Monsieur Maurice,” said he, “is young; he will console himself—he will forget.”
“Never!” interrupted the unhappy lover—“never!”
“And your daughter?” inquired the baroness.
Ah! this was the weak spot in his armor; the instinct of a mother was not mistaken. M. Lacheneur hesitated a moment; but he finally conquered the weakness that had threatened to master him.
“Marie-Anne,” he replied, slowly, “knows her duty too well not to obey when I command. When I tell her the motive that governs my conduct, she will become resigned; and if she suffers, she will know how to conceal her sufferings.”
He paused suddenly. They heard in the distance a firing of musketry, the discharge of rifles, whose sharp ring overpowered even the sullen roar of cannon.
Every face grew pale. Circumstances imparted to these sounds an ominous significance.
With the same anguish clutching the hearts of both, M. d’Escorval and Lacheneur sprang out upon the terrace.
But all was still again. Extended as was the horizon, the eye could discern nothing unusual. The sky was blue; not a particle of smoke hung over the trees.
“It is the enemy,” muttered M. Lacheneur, in a tone which told how gladly he would have shouldered his gun, and, with five hundred others, marched against the united allies.
He paused. The explosions were repeated with still greater violence, and for a period of five minutes succeeded each other without cessation.
M. d’Escorval listened with knitted brows.
“That is not the fire of an engagement,” he murmured.
To remain long in such a state of uncertainty was out of the question.
“If you will permit me, father,” ventured Maurice, “I will go and ascertain——”
“Go,” replied the baron, quietly; “but if it is anything, which I doubt, do not expose yourself to danger; return.”
“Oh! be prudent!” insisted Mme. d’Escorval, who already saw her son exposed to the most frightful peril.
“Be prudent!” entreated Marie-Anne, who alone understood what attractions danger might have for a despairing and unhappy man.
These precautions were unnecessary. As Maurice was rushing to the door, his father stopped him.
“Wait,” said he; “here is someone who can probably give us information.”
A man had just appeared around a turn of the road leading to Sairmeuse.
He was advancing bareheaded in the middle of the dusty road, with hurried strides, and occasionally brandishing his stick, as if threatening an enemy visible to himself alone.
Soon they were able to distinguish his features.
“It is Chanlouineau!” exclaimed M. Lacheneur.
“The owner of the vineyards on the Borderie?”
“The same! The handsomest young farmer in the country, and the best also. Ah! he has good blood in his veins; we may well be proud of him.”
“Ask him to stop,” said M. d’Escorval.
Lacheneur leaned over the balustrade, and, forming a trumpet out of his two hands, he called:
“Oh! Chanlouineau!”
The robust young farmer raised his head.
“Come up,” shouted Lacheneur; “the baron wishes to speak with you.”
Chanlouineau responded by a gesture of assent. They saw him enter the gate, cross the garden, and at last appear at the door of the drawing-room.
His features were distorted with fury, his disordered clothing gave evidence of a serious conflict. His cravat was gone, and his torn shirt-collar revealed his muscular throat.
“Where is this fighting?” demanded Lacheneur eagerly; “and with whom?”
Chanlouineau gave a nervous laugh which resembled a roar of rage.
“They are not fighting,” he replied; “they are amusing themselves. This firing which you hear is in honor of Monsieur le Duc de Sairmeuse.”
“Impossible!”
“I know it very well; and yet, what I have told you is the truth. It is the work of that miserable wretch and thief, Chupin. Ah,canaille! If I ever find him within reach of my arm he will never steal again.”
M. Lacheneur was confounded.
“Tell us what has happened,” he said, excitedly.
“Oh, it is as clear as daylight. When the duke arrived at Sairmeuse, Chupin, the old scoundrel, with his two rascally boys, and that old hag, his wife, ran after the carriage like beggars after a diligence, crying, ‘Vive Monsieur le Duc!’ The duke was enchanted, for he doubtless expected a volley of stones, and he placed a six-franc piece in the hand of each of the wretches. This money gave Chupin an appetite for more, so he took it into his head to give this old noble a reception like that which was given to the Emperor. Having learned through Bibiaine, whose tongue is as long as a viper’s, all that has passed at the presbytery, between you, Monsieur Lacheneur, and the duke, he came and proclaimed it in the market-place. When they heard it, all who had purchased national lands were frightened. Chupin had counted on this, and soon he began telling the poor fools that they must burn powder under the duke’s nose if they wished him to confirm their titles to their property.”
“And did they believe him?”
“Implicitly. It did not take them long to make their preparations. They went to the town hall and took the firemen’s rifles, and the guns used for firing a salute on fete days; the mayor gave them the powder, and you heard——
“When I left Sairmeuse there were more than two hundred idiots before the presbytery, shouting:
“Vive Monseigneur! Vive le Duc de Sairmeuse!”
It was as d’Escorval had thought.
“The same pitiful farce that was played in Paris, only on a smaller scale,” he murmured. “Avarice and human cowardice are the same the world over!”
Meanwhile, Chanlouineau was going on with his recital.
“To make the fete complete, the devil must have warned all the nobility in the neighborhood, for they all came running. They say that Monsieur de Sairmeuse is a favorite with the King, and that he can get anything he wishes. So you can imagine how they all greeted him! I am only a poor peasant, but never would I lie down in the dust before any man as these old nobles who are so haughty with us, did before the duke. They kissed his hands, and he allowed them to do it. He walked about the square with the Marquis de Courtornieu——”
“And his son?” interrupted Maurice.
“The Marquis Martial, is it not? He is also walking before the church with Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu upon his arm. Ah! I do not understand how people can call her pretty—a little bit of a thing, so blond that one might suppose her hair was gray. Ah! how those two laughed and made fun of the peasants. They say they are going to marry each other. And even this evening there is to be a banquet at the Chateau de Courtornieu in honor of the duke.”
He had told all he knew. He paused.
“You have forgotten only one thing,” said M. Lacheneur; “that is, to tell us how your clothing happened to be torn, as if you had been fighting.”
The young farmer hesitated for a moment, then replied, somewhat brusquely:
“I can tell you, all the same. While Chupin was preaching, I also preached, but not in the same strain. The scoundrel reported me. So, in crossing the square, the duke paused before me and remarked: ‘So you are an evil-disposed person?’ I said no, but that I knew my rights. Then he took me by the coat and shook me, and told me that he would cure me, and that he would take possession ofhisvineyard again.Saint Dieu! When I felt the old rascal’s hand upon me my blood boiled. I pinioned him. Fortunately, six or seven men fell upon me, and compelled me to let him go. But he had better make up his mind not to come prowling around my vineyard!”
He clinched his hands, his eyes blazed ominously, his whole person breathed an intense desire for vengeance.
And M. d’Escorval was silent, fearing to aggravate this hatred, so imprudently kindled, and whose explosion, he believed, would be terrible.
M. Lacheneur had risen from his chair.
“I must go and take possession of my cottage,” he remarked to Chanlouineau; “you will accompany me; I have a proposition to make to you.”
M. and Mme. d’Escorval endeavored to detain him, but he would not allow himself to be persuaded, and he departed with his daughter.
But Maurice did not despair; Marie-Anne had promised to meet him the following day in the pine-grove near the Reche.
The demonstrations which had greeted the Duc de Sairmeuse had been correctly reported by Chanlouineau.
Chupin had found the secret of kindling to a white heat the enthusiasm of the cold and calculating peasants who were his neighbors.
He was a dangerous rascal, the old robber, shrewd and cautious; bold, as those who possess nothing can afford to be; as patient as a savage; in short, one of the most consummate scoundrels that ever existed.
The peasants feared him, and yet they had no conception of his real character.
All his resources of mind had, until now, been expended in evading the precipice of the rural code.
To save himself from falling into the hands of the gendarmes, and to steal a few sacks of wheat, he had expended treasures of intrigue which would have made the fortunes of twenty diplomats.
Circumstances, as he always said, had been against him.
So he desperately caught at the first and only opportunity worthy of his talent, which had ever presented itself.
Of course, the wily rustic had said nothing of the true circumstances which attended the restoration of Sairmeuse to its former owner.
From him, the peasants learned only the bare fact; and the news spread rapidly from group to group.
“Monsieur Lacheneur has given up Sairmeuse,” said he. “Chateau, forests, vineyards, fields—he surrenders everything.”
This was enough, and more than enough to terrify every land-owner in the village.
If Lacheneur, this man who was so powerful in their eyes, considered the danger so threatening that he deemed it necessary or advisable to make a complete surrender, what was to become of them—poor devils—without aid, without counsel, without defence?
They were told that the government was about to betray their interests; that a decree was in process of preparation which would render their title-deeds worthless. They could see no hope of salvation, except through the duke’s generosity—that generosity which Chupin painted with the glowing colors of the rainbow.
When one is not strong enough to weather the gale, one must bow like the reed before it and rise again after the storm has passed; such was their conclusion.
And they bowed. And their apparent enthusiasm was all the more vociferous on account of the rage and fear that filled their hearts.
A close observer would have detected an undercurrent of anger and menace in their shouts.
Each man also said to himself:
“What do we risk by crying, ‘Vive le Duc?’ Nothing; absolutely nothing. If he is contented with that as a compensation for his lost property—good! If he is not content, we shall have time afterward to adopt other measures.”
So they shouted themselves hoarse.
And while the duke was sipping his coffee in the little drawing-room of the presbytery, he expressed his lively satisfaction at the scene without.
He, thisgrand seigneurof times gone by, this man of absurd prejudices and obstinate illusions; the unconquerable, and the incorrigible—he took these acclamations, “truly spurious coin,” as Chateaubriand says, for ready money.
“How you have deceived me, cure,” he was saying to Abbe Midon. “How could you declare that your people were unfavorably disposed toward us? One is compelled to believe that these evil intentions exist only in your own mind and in your own heart.”
Abbe Midon was silent. What could he reply?
He could not understand this sudden revolution in public opinion—this abrupt change from gloom and discontent to excessive gayety.
There is somebody at the bottom of all this, he thought.
It was not long before it became apparent who that somebody was.
Emboldened by his success without, Chupin ventured to present himself at the presbytery.
He entered the drawing-room with his back rounded into a circle, scraping and cringing, an obsequious smile upon his lips.
And through the half-open door one could discern, in the shadows of the passage, the far from reassuring faces of his two sons.
He came as an ambassador, he declared, after an interminable litany of protestations—he came to implore monseigneur to show himself upon the public square.
“Ah, well—yes,” exclaimed the duke, rising; “yes, I will yield to the wishes of these good people. Follow me, Marquis!”
As he appeared at the door of the presbytery, a loud shout rent the air; the rifles were discharged, the guns belched forth their smoke and fire. Never had Sairmeuse heard such a salvo of artillery. Three windows in the Boeuf Couronne were shattered.
A veritablegrand seigneur, the Duc de Sairmeuse knew how to preserve an appearance of haughtiness and indifference. Any display of emotion was, in his opinion, vulgar; but, in reality, he was delighted, charmed.
So delighted that he desired to reward his welcomers.
A glance over the deeds handed him by Lacheneur had shown him that Sairmeuse had been restored to him intact.
The portions of the immense domain which had been detached and sold separately were of relatively minor importance.
The duke thought it would be politic, and, at the same time, inexpensive, to abandon all claim to these few acres, which were now shared by forty or fifty peasants.
“My friends,” he exclaimed, in a loud voice, “I renounce, for myself and for my descendants, all claim to the lands belonging to my house which you have purchased. They are yours—I give them to you!”
By this absurd pretence of a gift, M. de Sairmeuse thought to add the finishing touch to his popularity. A great mistake! It simply assured the popularity of Chupin, the organizer of the farce.
And while the duke was promenading through the crowd with a proud and self-satisfied air, the peasants were secretly laughing and jeering at him.
And if they promptly took sides with him against Chanlouineau, it was only because his gift was still fresh in their minds; except for this——
But the duke had not time to think much about this encounter, which produced a vivid impression upon his son.
One of his former companions in exile, the Marquis de Courtornieu, whom he had informed of his arrival, hastened to welcome him, accompanied by his daughter, Mlle. Blanche.
Martial could do no less than offer his arm to the daughter of his father’s friend; and they took a leisurely promenade in the shade of the lofty trees, while the duke renewed his acquaintance with all the nobility of the neighborhood.
There was not a single nobleman who did not hasten to press the hand of the Duc de Sairmeuse. First, he possessed, it was said, a property of more than twenty millions in England. Then, he was the friend of the King, and each neighbor had some favor to ask for himself, for his relatives, or for his friends.
Poor king! He should have had entire France to divide like a cake between these cormorants, whose voracious appetites it was impossible to satisfy.
That evening, after a grand banquet at the Chateau de Courtornieu, the duke slept in the Chateau de Sairmeuse, in the room which had been occupied by Lacheneur, “like Louis XVIII.,” he laughingly said, “in the chamber of Bonaparte.”
He was gay, chatty, and full of confidence in the future.
“Ah! it is good to be in one’s own house!” he remarked to his son again and again.
But Martial responded only mechanically. His mind was occupied with thoughts of two women who had made a profound impression upon his by no means susceptible heart that day. He was thinking of those two young girls, so utterly unlike. Blanche de Courtornieu—Marie-Anne Lacheneur.
Only those who, in the bright springtime of life, have loved, have been loved in return, and have suddenly seen an impassable gulf open between them and happiness, can realize Maurice d’Escorval’s disappointment.
All the dreams of his life, all his future plans, were based upon his love for Marie-Anne.
If this love failed him, the enchanted castle which hope had erected would crumble and fall, burying him in the ruins.
Without Marie-Anne he saw neither aim nor motive in his existence. Still he did not suffer himself to be deluded by false hopes. Although at first, his appointed meeting with Marie-Anne on the following day seemed salvation itself, on reflection he was forced to admit that this interview would change nothing, since everything depended upon the will of another party—the will of M. Lacheneur.
The remainder of the day he passed in mournful silence. The dinner-hour came; he took his seat at the table, but it was impossible for him to swallow a morsel, and he soon requested his parents’ permission to withdraw.
M. d’Escorval and the baroness exchanged a sorrowful glance, but did not allow themselves to offer any comment.
They respected his grief. They knew that his was one of those sorrows which are only aggravated by any attempt at consolation.
“Poor Maurice!” murmured Mme. d’Escorval, as soon as her son had left the room. And, as her husband made no reply: “Perhaps,” she added, hesitatingly, “perhaps it will not be prudent for us to leave him too entirely to the dictates of his despair.”
The baron shuddered. He divined only too well the terrible apprehensions of his wife.
“We have nothing to fear,” he replied, quickly; “I heard Marie-Anne promise to meet Maurice to-morrow in the grove on the Reche.”
The anxious mother breathed more freely. Her blood had frozen with horror at the thought that her son might, perhaps, be contemplating suicide; but she was a mother, and her husband’s assurances did not satisfy her.
She hastily ascended the stairs leading to her son’s room, softly opened the door, and looked in. He was so engrossed in his gloomy revery that he had heard nothing, and did not even suspect the presence of the anxious mother who was watching over him.
He was sitting at the window, his elbows resting upon the sill, his head supported by his hands, looking out into the night.
There was no moon, but the night was clear, and over beyond the light fog that indicated the course of the Oiselle one could discern the imposing mass of the Chateau de Sairmeuse, with its towers and fanciful turrets.
More than once he had sat thus silently gazing at this chateau, which sheltered what was dearest and most precious in all the world to him.
From his windows he could see those of the room occupied by Marie-Anne; and his heart always quickened its throbbing when he saw them illuminated.
“She is there,” he thought, “in her virgin chamber. She is kneeling to say her prayers. She murmurs my name after that of her father, imploring God’s blessing upon us both.”
But this evening he was not waiting for a light to gleam through the panes of that dear window.
Marie-Anne was no longer at Sairmeuse—she had been driven away.
Where was she now? She, accustomed to all the luxury that wealth could procure, no longer had any home except a poor thatch-covered hovel, whose walls were not even whitewashed, whose only floor was the earth itself, dusty as the public highway in summer, frozen or muddy in winter.
She was reduced to the necessity of occupying herself the humble abode she, in her charitable heart, had intended as an asylum for one of her pensioners.
What was she doing now? Doubtless she was weeping.
At this thought poor Maurice was heartbroken.
What was his surprise, a little after midnight, to see the chateau brilliantly illuminated.
The duke and his son had repaired to the chateau after the banquet given by the Marquis de Courtornieu was over; and, before going to bed, they made a tour of inspection through this magnificent abode in which their ancestors had lived. They, therefore, might be said to have taken possession of the mansion whose threshold M. de Sairmeuse had not crossed for twenty-two years, and which Martial had never seen.
Maurice saw the lights leap from story to story, from casement to casement, until at last even the windows of Marie-Anne’s room were illuminated.
At this sight the unhappy youth could not restrain a cry of rage.
These men, these strangers, dared enter this virgin bower, which he, even in thought, scarcely dared to penetrate.
They trampled carelessly over the delicate carpet with their heavy boots. Maurice trembled in thinking of the liberties which they, in their insolent familiarity, might venture upon. He fancied he could see them examining and handling the thousand petty trifles with which young girls love to surround themselves; they opened the presses, perhaps they were reading an unfinished letter lying upon her writing-desk.
Never until this evening had Martial supposed he could hate another as he hated these men.
At last, in despair, he threw himself upon his bed, and passed the remainder of the night in thinking over what he should say to Marie-Anne on the morrow, and in seeking some issue from this inextricable labyrinth.
He rose before daybreak, and wandered about the park like a soul in distress, fearing, yet longing, for the hour that would decide his fate. Mme. d’Escorval was obliged to exert all her authority to make him take some nourishment. He had quite forgotten that he had passed twenty-four hours without eating.
When eleven o’clock sounded he left the house.
The lands of the Reche are situated on the other side of the Oiselle. Maurice, to reach his destination, was obliged to cross the river at a ferry only a short distance from his home. When he reached the river-bank he found six or seven peasants who were waiting to cross.
These people did not observe Maurice. They were talking earnestly, and he listened.
“It is certainly true,” said one of the men. “I heard it from Chanlouineau himself only last evening. He was wild with delight. ‘I invite you all to the wedding!’ he cried. ‘I am betrothed to Monsieur Lacheneur’s daughter; the affair is decided.’”
This astounding news positively stunned Maurice. He was actually unable to think or to move.
“Besides, he has been in love with her for a long time. Everyone knows that. One had only to see his eyes when he met her—coals of fire were nothing to them. But while her father was so rich he did not dare to speak. Now that the old man has met with these reverses, he ventures to offer himself, and is accepted.”
“An unfortunate thing for him,” remarked a little old man.
“Why so?”
“If Monsieur Lacheneur is ruined, as they say——”
The others laughed heartily.
“Ruined—Monsieur Lacheneur!” they exclaimed in chorus. “How absurd! He is richer than all of us together. Do you suppose that he has been stupid enough not to have laid anything aside during all these years? He has put this money not in grounds, as he pretends, but somewhere else.”
“You are saying what is untrue!” interrupted Maurice, indignantly. “Monsieur Lacheneur left Sairmeuse as poor as he entered it.”
On recognizing M. d’Escorval’s son, the peasants became extremely cautious. He questioned them, but could obtain only vague and unsatisfactory answers. A peasant, when interrogated, will never give a response which he thinks will be displeasing to his questioner; he is afraid of compromising himself.
The news he had heard, however, caused Maurice to hasten on still more rapidly after crossing the Oiselle.
“Marie-Anne marry Chanlouineau!” he repeated; “it is impossible! it is impossible!”
The Reche, literally translated the “Waste,” where Marie-Anne had promised to meet Maurice, owed its name to the rebellious and sterile character of the soil.
Nature seemed to have laid her curse upon it. Nothing would grow there. The ground was covered with stones, and the sandy soil defied all attempts to enrich it.
A few stunted oaks rose here and there above the thorns and broom-plant.
But on the lowlands of the Reche is a flourishing grove. The firs are straight and strong, for the floods of winter have deposited in some of the clefts of the rock sufficient soil to sustain them and the wild clematis and honeysuckle that cling to their branches.
On reaching this grove, Maurice consulted his watch. It marked the hour of mid-day. He had supposed that he was late, but he was more than an hour in advance of the appointed time.
He seated himself upon a high rock, from which he could survey the entire Reche, and waited.
The day was magnificent; the air intensely hot. The rays of the August sun fell with scorching violence upon the sandy soil, and withered the few plants which had sprung up since the last rain.
The stillness was profound, almost terrible. Not a sound broke the silence, not even the buzzing of an insect, nor a whisper of breeze in the trees. All nature seemed sleeping. And on no side was there anything to remind one of life, motion, or mankind.
This repose of nature, which contrasted so vividly with the tumult raging in his own heart, exerted a beneficial effect upon Maurice. These few moments of solitude afforded him an opportunity to regain his composure, to collect his thoughts scattered by the storm of passion which had swept over his soul, as leaves are scattered by the fierce November gale.
With sorrow comes experience, and that cruel knowledge of life which teaches one to guard one’s self against one’s hopes.
It was not until he heard the conversation of these peasants that Maurice fully realized the horror of Lacheneur’s position. Suddenly precipitated from the social eminence which he had attained, he found, in the valley of humiliations into which he was cast, only hatred, distrust, and scorn. Both factions despised and denied him. Traitor, cried one; thief, cried the other. He no longer held any social status. He was the fallen man, the man whohadbeen, and who was no more.
Was not the excessive misery of such a position a sufficient explanation of the strangest and wildest resolutions?
This thought made Maurice tremble. Connecting the stories of the peasants with the words addressed to Chanlouineau at Escorval by M. Lacheneur on the preceding evening, he arrived at the conclusion that this report of Marie-Anne’s approaching marriage to the young farmer was not so improbable as he had at first supposed.
But why should M. Lacheneur give his daughter to an uncultured peasant? From mercenary motives? Certainly not, since he had just refused an alliance of which he had been proud in his days of prosperity. Could it be in order to satisfy his wounded pride, then? Perhaps he did not wish it to be said that he owed anything to a son-in-law.
Maurice was exhausting all his ingenuity and penetration in endeavoring to solve this mystery, when at last, on a foot-path which crosses the waste, a woman appeared—Marie-Anne.
He rose, but fearing observation, did not venture to leave the shelter of the grove.
Marie-Anne must have felt a similar fear, for she hurried on, casting anxious glances on every side as she ran. Maurice remarked, not without surprise, that she was bare-headed, and that she had neither shawl nor scarf about her shoulders.
As she reached the edge of the wood, he sprang toward her, and catching her hand raised it to his lips.
But this hand, which she had so often yielded to him, was now gently withdrawn, with so sad a gesture that he could not help feeling there was no hope.
“I came, Maurice,” she began, “because I could not endure the thought of your anxiety. By doing so I have betrayed my father’s confidence—he was obliged to leave home. I hastened here. And yet I promised him, only two hours ago, that I would never see you again. You hear me—never!”
She spoke hurriedly, but Maurice was appalled by the firmness of her accent.
Had he been less agitated, he would have seen what a terrible effort this semblance of calmness cost the young girl. He would have understood it from her pallor, from the contraction of her lips, from the redness of the eyelids which she had vainly bathed with fresh water, and which betrayed the tears that had fallen during the night.
“If I have come,” she continued, “it is only to tell you that, for your own sake, as well as for mine, there must not remain in the secret recesses of your heart even the slightest shadow of a hope. All is over; we are separated forever! Only weak natures revolt against a destiny which they cannot alter. Let us accept our fate uncomplainingly. I wished to see you once more, and to say this: Have courage, Maurice. Go away—leave Escorval—forget me!”
“Forget you, Marie-Anne!” exclaimed the wretched young man, “forget you!”
His eyes met hers, and in a husky voice he added:
“Will you then forget me?”
“I am a woman, Maurice—”
But he interrupted her:
“Ah! I did not expect this,” he said, despondently. “Poor fool that I was! I believed that you would find a way to touch your father’s heart.”
She blushed slightly, hesitated, and said:
“I have thrown myself at my father’s feet; he repulsed me.”
Maurice was thunderstruck, but recovering himself:
“It was because you did not know how to speak to him!” he exclaimed in a passion of fury; “but I shall know—I will present such arguments that he will be forced to yield. What right has he to ruin my happiness with his caprices? I love you—-by right of this love, you are mine—mine rather than his! I will make him understand this, you shall see. Where is he? Where can I find him?”
Already he was starting to go, he knew not where. Marie-Anne caught him by the arm.
“Remain,” she commanded, “remain! So you have failed to understand me, Maurice. Ah, well! you must know the truth. I am acquainted now with the reasons of my father’s refusal; and though his decision should cost me my life, I approve it. Do not go to find my father. If, moved by your prayers, he gave his consent, I should have the courage to refuse mine!”
Maurice was so beside himself that this reply did not enlighten him. Crazed with anger and despair, and with no remorse for the insult he addressed to this woman whom he loved so deeply, he exclaimed:
“Is it for Chanlouineau, then, that you are reserving your consent? He believes so since he goes about everywhere saying that you will soon be his wife.”
Marie-Anne shuddered as if a knife had entered her very heart; and yet there was more sorrow than anger in the glance she cast upon Maurice.
“Must I stoop so low as to defend myself from such an imputation?” she asked, sadly. “Must I declare that if even I suspect such an arrangement between Chanlouineau and my father, I have not been consulted? Must I tell you that there are some sacrifices which are beyond the strength of poor human nature? Understand this: I have found strength to renounce the man I love—I shall never be able to accept another in his place!”
Maurice hung his head, abashed by her earnest words, dazzled by the sublime expression of her face.
Reason returned; he realized the enormity of his suspicions, and was horrified with himself for having dared to give utterance to them.
“Oh! pardon!” he faltered, “pardon!”
What did the mysterious causes of all these events which had so rapidly succeeded each other, or M. Lacheneur’s secrets, or Marie-Anne’s reticence, matter to him now?
He was seeking some chance of salvation; he believed that he had found it.
“We must fly!” he exclaimed: “fly at once without pausing to look back. Before night we shall have passed the frontier.”
He sprang toward her with outstretched arms, as if to seize her and bear her away; but she checked him by a single look.
“Fly!” said she, reproachfully; “fly! and is it you, Maurice, who counsel me thus? What! while misfortune is crushing my poor father to the earth, shall I add despair and shame to his sorrows? His friends have deserted him; shall I, his daughter, also abandon him? Ah! if I did that, I should be the vilest, the most cowardly of creatures! If my father, yesterday, when I believed him the owner of Sairmeuse, had demanded the sacrifice to which I consented last evening, I might, perhaps, have resolved upon the extreme measure you have counselled. In broad daylight I might have left Sairmeuse on the arm of my lover. It is not the world that I fear! But if one might consent to fly from the chateau of a rich and happy father, onecannotconsent to desert the poor abode of a despairing and penniless parent. Leave me, Maurice, where honor holds me. It will not be difficult for me, who am the daughter of generations of peasants, to become a peasant. Go! I cannot endure more! Go! and remember that one cannot be utterly wretched if one’s conscience is clean, and one’s duty fulfilled!”
Maurice was about to reply, when a crackling of dry branches made him turn his head.
Scarcely ten paces off, Martial de Sairmeuse was standing motionless, leaning upon his gun.