d
all--family, friends, fortune, the present and the future--even his
daughter's honor--the idea which had caused so much blood to flow,
which had cost the life of so many innocent men, and which had finally
conducted him to the scaffold.

"Jean," she murmured, "remember our father."

The young man's face became livid; his hands clinched involuntarily, but
he controlled his anger.

Advancing toward his sister, in a cold, quiet tone that added a
frightful violence to his threats, he said:

"It is because I remember my father that justice shall be done. Ah!
these miserable nobles would not display such audacity if all sons had
my resolution. A scoundrel would hesitate before attacking a good man if
he was obliged to say to himself: 'I cannot strike this honest man, for
though he die, his children will surely call me to account. Their fury
will fall on me and mine; they will pursue us sleeping and waking,
pursue us without ceasing, everywhere, and pitilessly. Their hatred
always on the alert, will accompany us and surround us. It will be
an implacable, merciless warfare. I shall never venture forth without
fearing a bullet; I shall never lift food to my lips without dread of
poison. And until we have succumbed, they will prowl about our house,
trying to slip in through tiniest opening, death, dishonor, ruin,
infamy, and misery!'"

He paused with a nervous laugh, and then, still more slowly, he added:

"That is what the Sairmeuse and Courtornieu have to expect from me."

It was impossible to mistake the meaning of Jean Lacheneur's words. His
threats were not the wild ravings of anger. His quiet manner, his icy
tones, his automatic gestures betrayed one of those cold rages which
endure so long as the man lives.

He took good care to make himself understood, for between his teeth he
added:

"Undoubtedly, these people are very high, and I am very low; but when
a tiny worm fastens itself to the roots of a giant oak, that tree is
doomed."

Marie-Anne knew all too well the uselessness of prayers and entreaties.

And yet she could not, she must not allow her brother to depart in this
mood.

She fell upon her knees, and with clasped hands and supplicating voice:

"Jean," said she, "I implore you to renounce these projects. In the name
of our mother, return to your better self. These are crimes which you
are meditating!"

With a glance of scorn and a shrug of the shoulders, he replied:

"Have done with this. I wa