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 veritable grand 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.
CHAPTER VIII
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