CHAPTER VIII
Only those who, in the bright springtime of life, have loved, have beenloved in return, and have suddenly seen an impassable gulf open betweenthem and happiness, can realize Maurice d'Escorval's disappointment.
All the dreams of his life, all his future plans, were based upon hislove for Marie-Anne.
If this love failed him, the enchanted castle which hope had erectedwould crumble and fall, burying him in the ruins.
Without Marie-Anne he saw neither aim nor motive in his existence. Stillhe did not suffer himself to be deluded by false hopes. Although atfirst, his appointed meeting with Marie-Anne on the following dayseemed salvation itself, on reflection he was forced to admit that thisinterview would change nothing, since everything depended upon the willof another party--the will of M. Lacheneur.
The remainder of the day he passed in mournful silence. The dinner-hourcame; he took his seat at the table, but it was impossible for himto swallow a morsel, and he soon requested his parents' permission towithdraw.
M. d'Escorval and the baroness exchanged a sorrowful glance, but did notallow themselves to offer any comment.
They respected his grief. They knew that his was one of those sorrowswhich are only aggravated by any attempt at consolation.
"Poor Maurice!" murmured Mme. d'Escorval, as soon as her son had leftthe room. And, as her husband made no reply: "Perhaps," she added,hesitatingly, "perhaps it will not be prudent for us to leave him tooentirely to the dictates of his despair."
The baron shuddered. He divined only too well the terrible apprehensionsof his wife.
"We have nothing to fear," he replied, quickly; "I heard Marie-Annepromise to meet Maurice to-morrow in the grove on the Reche."
The anxious mother breathed more freely. Her blood had frozen withhorror at the thought that her son might, perhaps, be contemplatingsuicide; but she was a mother, and her husband's assurances did notsatisfy her.
She hastily ascended the stairs leading to her son's room, softly openedthe door, and looked in. He was so engrossed in his gloomy revery thathe had heard nothing, and did not even suspect the presence of theanxious mother who was watching over him.
He was sitting at the window, his elbows resting upon the sill, his headsupported by his hands, looking out into the night.
There was no moon, but the night was clear, and over beyond the lightfog that indicated the course of the Oiselle one could discern theimposing mass of the Chateau de Sairmeuse, with its towers and fancifulturrets.
More than once he had sat thus silently gazing at this chateau, whichsheltered 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 themilluminated.
"She is there," he thought, "in her virgin chamber. She is kneeling tosay her prayers. She murmurs my name after that of her father, imploringGod's blessing upon us both."
But this evening he was not waiting for a light to gleam through thepanes 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 couldprocure, no longer had any home except a poor thatch-covered hovel,whose walls were not even whitewashed, whose only floor was the earthitself, dusty as the public highway in summer, frozen or muddy inwinter.
She was reduced to the necessity of occupying herself the humble abodeshe, in her charitable heart, had intended as an asylum for one of herpensioners.
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 chateaubrilliantly illuminated.
The duke and his son had repaired to the chateau after the banquet givenby the Marquis de Courtornieu was over; and, before going to bed, theymade a tour of inspection through this magnificent abode in whichtheir ancestors had lived. They, therefore, might be said to havetaken possession of the mansion whose threshold M. de Sairmeuse had notcrossed for twenty-two years, and which Martial had never seen.
Maurice saw the lights leap from story to story, from casement tocasement, until at last even the windows of Marie-Anne's room wereilluminated.
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 heavyboots. Maurice trembled in thinking of the liberties which they, intheir insolent familiarity, might venture upon. He fancied he could seethem examining and handling the thousand petty trifles with which younggirls love to surround themselves; they opened the presses, perhaps theywere reading an unfinished letter lying upon her writing-desk.
Never until this evening had Martial supposed he could hate another ashe hated these men.
At last, in despair, he threw himself upon his bed, and passed theremainder of the night in thinking over what he should say to Marie-Anneon the morrow, and in seeking some issue from this inextricablelabyrinth.
He rose before daybreak, and wandered about the park like a soul indistress, fearing, yet longing, for the hour that would decide his fate.Mme. d'Escorval was obliged to exert all her authority to make him takesome nourishment. He had quite forgotten that he had passed twenty-fourhours 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 ata ferry only a short distance from his home. When he reached theriver-bank he found six or seven peasants who were waiting to cross.
These people did not observe Maurice. They were talking earnestly, andhe listened.
"It is certainly true," said one of the men. "I heard it fromChanlouineau himself only last evening. He was wild with delight. 'Iinvite you all to the wedding!' he cried. 'I am betrothed to MonsieurLacheneur's daughter; the affair is decided.'"
This astounding news positively stunned Maurice. He was actually unableto think or to move.
"Besides, he has been in love with her for a long time. Everyone knowsthat. One had only to see his eyes when he met her--coals of fire werenothing to them. But while her father was so rich he did not dare tospeak. Now that the old man has met with these reverses, he ventures tooffer 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 beenstupid enough not to have laid anything aside during all these years? Hehas 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 extremelycautious. He questioned them, but could obtain only vague andunsatisfactory answers. A peasant, when interrogated, will never givea response which he thinks will be displeasing to his questioner; he isafraid of compromising himself.
The news he had heard, however, caused Maurice to hasten on still morerapidly after crossing the Oiselle.
"Marie-Anne marry Chanlouineau!" he repeated; "it is impossible! it isimpossible!"