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!”