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!”
CHAPTER IX
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 who had been, and who was no more.
Was
