e shame; it hides itself while it spies
into the affairs of its neighbors; but in the country it has no such
scruples.

When Marie-Anne emerged from the inn, she found a crowd awaiting her
with open mouths and staring eyes.

And more than twenty people making all sorts of comments, followed her
to the door of the notary.

He was a man of importance, this notary, and he welcomed Marie-Anne with
all the deference due an heiress of an unencumbered property, worth from
forty to fifty thousand francs.

But jealous of his renown for perspicuity, he gave her clearly to
understand that he, being a man of experience, had divined that love
alone had dictated Chanlouineau's last will and testament.

Marie-Anne's composure and resignation made him really angry.

"You forget what brings me here," she said; "you do not tell me what I
have to do!"

The notary, thus interrupted, made no further attempts at consolation.

"_Pestet!_" he thought, "she is in a hurry to get possession of her
property--the avaricious creature!"

Then aloud:

"The business can be terminated at once, for the justice of the peace
is at liberty to-day, and he can go with us to break the seals this
afternoon."

So, before evening, all the legal requirements were complied with, and
Marie-Anne was formally installed at the Borderie.

She was alone in Chanlouineau's house--alone! Night came on and a great
terror seized her heart. It seemed to her that the doors were about to
open, that this man who had loved her so much would appear before her,
and that she would hear his voice as she heard it for the last time in
his grim prison-cell.

She fought against these foolish fears, lit a lamp, and went through
this house--now hers--in which everything spoke so forcibly of its
former owner.

Slowly she examined the different rooms on the lower floor, noting the
recent repairs which had been made and the conveniences which had been
added, and at last she ascended to that room above which Chanlouineau
had made the tabernacle of his passion.

Here, everything was magnificent, far more so than his words had led her
to suppose. The poor peasant who made his breakfast off a crust and a
bit of onion had lavished a small fortune on the decorations of this
apartment, designed as a sanctuary for his idol.

"How he loved me!" murmured Marie-Anne, moved by that emotion, the bare
thought of which had awakened the jealousy of Maurice.

But she had neither the time