midst of the most terrible scenes, did not strike him then.
Lacheneur's house absorbed all his attention.

His imagination pictured vividly the sufferings of this unfortunate man,
who, only two days before, had relinquished the splendors of the Chateau
de Sairmeuse to repair to this wretched abode.

He rapped at the door of the cottage.

"Come in!" said a voice.

The baron lifted the latch and entered.

The room was small, with un-white-washed walls, but with no other floor
than the ground; no ceiling save the thatch that formed the roof.

A bed, a table and two wooden benches constituted the entire furniture.

Seated upon a stool, near the tiny window, sat Marie-Anne, busily at
work upon a piece of embroidery.

She had abandoned her former mode of dress, and her costume was that
worn by the peasant girls.

When M. d'Escorval entered she rose, and for a moment they remained
silently standing, face to face, she apparently calm, he visibly
agitated.

He was looking at Marie-Anne; and she seemed to him transfigured. She
was much paler and considerably thinner; but her beauty had a strange
and touching charm--the sublime radiance of heroic resignation and of
duty nobly fulfilled.

Still, remembering his son, he was astonished to see this tranquillity.

"You do not ask me for news of Maurice," he said, reproachfully.

"I had news of him this morning, Monsieur, as I have had every day. I
know that he is improving; and that, since day before yesterday, he has
been allowed to take a little nourishment."

"You have not forgotten him, then?"

She trembled; a faint blush suffused throat and forehead, but it was in
a calm voice that she replied:

"Maurice knows that it would be impossible for me to forget him, even if
I wished to do so."

"And yet you have told him that you approve your father's decision!"

"I told him so, Monsieur, and I shall have the courage to repeat it."

"But you have made Maurice wretched, unhappy, child; he has almost
died."

She raised her head proudly, sought M. d'Escorval's eyes, and when she
had found them:

"Look at me, Monsieur. Do you think that I, too, do not suffer?"

M. d'Escorval was abashed for a moment; but recovering himself, he took
Marie-Anne's hand, and pressing it affectionately, he said:

"So Maurice loves you; you love him; you suffer; he has nearly died, and
still you reject him!"

"It must be so, Monsieur."

"You say this, my dear child--you say this, an