CHAPTER IX
The Reche, literally translated the "Waste," where Marie-Anne hadpromised to meet Maurice, owed its name to the rebellious and sterilecharacter 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 allattempts 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 arestraight and strong, for the floods of winter have deposited in someof the clefts of the rock sufficient soil to sustain them and the wildclematis and honeysuckle that cling to their branches.
On reaching this grove, Maurice consulted his watch. It marked the hourof mid-day. He had supposed that he was late, but he was more than anhour in advance of the appointed time.
He seated himself upon a high rock, from which he could survey theentire Reche, and waited.
The day was magnificent; the air intensely hot. The rays of the Augustsun fell with scorching violence upon the sandy soil, and withered thefew plants which had sprung up since the last rain.
The stillness was profound, almost terrible. Not a sound broke thesilence, not even the buzzing of an insect, nor a whisper of breeze inthe trees. All nature seemed sleeping. And on no side was there anythingto remind one of life, motion, or mankind.
This repose of nature, which contrasted so vividly with the tumultraging in his own heart, exerted a beneficial effect upon Maurice.These few moments of solitude afforded him an opportunity to regain hiscomposure, to collect his thoughts scattered by the storm of passionwhich had swept over his soul, as leaves are scattered by the fierceNovember gale.
With sorrow comes experience, and that cruel knowledge of life whichteaches one to guard one's self against one's hopes.
It was not until he heard the conversation of these peasants thatMaurice fully realized the horror of Lacheneur's position. Suddenlyprecipitated 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 not the excessive misery of such a position a sufficient explanationof the strangest and wildest resolutions?
This thought made Maurice tremble. Connecting the stories of thepeasants with the words addressed to Chanlouineau at Escorval by M.Lacheneur on the preceding evening, he arrived at the conclusion thatthis report of Marie-Anne's approaching marriage to the young farmer wasnot 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 analliance of which he had been proud in his days of prosperity. Could itbe in order to satisfy his wounded pride, then? Perhaps he did not wishit to be said that he owed anything to a son-in-law.
Maurice was exhausting all his ingenuity and penetration in endeavoringto solve this mystery, when at last, on a foot-path which crosses thewaste, a woman appeared--Marie-Anne.
He rose, but fearing observation, did not venture to leave the shelterof the grove.
Marie-Anne must have felt a similar fear, for she hurried on, castinganxious glances on every side as she ran. Maurice remarked, not withoutsurprise, that she was bare-headed, and that she had neither shawl norscarf about her shoulders.
As she reached the edge of the wood, he sprang toward her, and catchingher hand raised it to his lips.
But this hand, which she had so often yielded to him, was now gentlywithdrawn, with so sad a gesture that he could not help feeling therewas no hope.
"I came, Maurice," she began, "because I could not endure the thought ofyour anxiety. By doing so I have betrayed my father's confidence--he wasobliged to leave home. I hastened here. And yet I promised him, only twohours ago, that I would never see you again. You hear me--never!"
She spoke hurriedly, but Maurice was appalled by the firmness of heraccent.
Had he been less agitated, he would have seen what a terrible effortthis semblance of calmness cost the young girl. He would have understoodit from her pallor, from the contraction of her lips, from the rednessof the eyelids which she had vainly bathed with fresh water, and whichbetrayed the tears that had fallen during the night.
"If I have come," she continued, "it is only to tell you that, foryour own sake, as well as for mine, there must not remain in the secretrecesses of your heart even the slightest shadow of a hope. All is over;we are separated forever! Only weak natures revolt against a destinywhich they cannot alter. Let us accept our fate uncomplainingly. Iwished to see you once more, and to say this: Have courage, Maurice. Goaway--leave Escorval--forget me!"
"Forget you, Marie-Anne!" exclaimed the wretched young man, "forgetyou!"
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 Iwas! 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 ina passion of fury; "but I shall know--I will present such arguments thathe will be forced to yield. What right has he to ruin my happiness withhis caprices? I love you---by right of this love, you are mine--minerather than his! I will make him understand this, you shall see. Whereis he? Where can I find him?"
Already he was starting to go, he knew not where. Marie-Anne caught himby 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 thereasons of my father's refusal; and though his decision should cost memy life, I approve it. Do not go to find my father. If, moved by yourprayers, 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 headdressed to this woman whom he loved so deeply, he exclaimed:
"Is it for Chanlouineau, then, that you are reserving your consent? Hebelieves so since he goes about everywhere saying that you will soon behis wife."
Marie-Anne shuddered as if a knife had entered her very heart; and yetthere 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?" sheasked, sadly. "Must I declare that if even I suspect such an arrangementbetween Chanlouineau and my father, I have not been consulted? Must Itell you that there are some sacrifices which are beyond the strengthof poor human nature? Understand this: I have found strength to renouncethe 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 thesublime expression of her face.
Reason returned; he realized the enormity of his suspicions, and washorrified 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 rapidlysucceeded each other, or M. Lacheneur's secrets, or Marie-Anne'sreticence, matter to him now?
He was seeking some chance of salvation; he believed that he had foundit.
"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 bearher away; but she checked him by a single look.
"Fly!" said she, reproachfully; "fly! and is it you, Maurice, whocounsel me thus? What! while misfortune is crushing my poor fa
ther tothe earth, shall I add despair and shame to his sorrows? His friendshave deserted him; shall I, his daughter, also abandon him? Ah! if Idid that, I should be the vilest, the most cowardly of creatures! Ifmy father, yesterday, when I believed him the owner of Sairmeuse, haddemanded the sacrifice to which I consented last evening, I might,perhaps, have resolved upon the extreme measure you have counselled. Inbroad daylight I might have left Sairmeuse on the arm of my lover. Itis not the world that I fear! But if one might consent to fly from thechateau of a rich and happy father, one _cannot_ consent to desert thepoor abode of a despairing and penniless parent. Leave me, Maurice,where honor holds me. It will not be difficult for me, who am thedaughter of generations of peasants, to become a peasant. Go! I cannotendure more! Go! and remember that one cannot be utterly wretched ifone's conscience is clean, and one's duty fulfilled!"
Maurice was about to reply, when a crackling of dry branches made himturn his head.
Scarcely ten paces off, Martial de Sairmeuse was standing motionless,leaning upon his gun.