LITMIR.BIZ

CHAPTER VI

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      Maurice and Marie-Anne had loved each other for many years.

      As children, they had played together in the magnificent grounds surrounding the Chateau de Sairmeuse, and in the park at Escorval.

      Together they chased the brilliant butterflies, searched for pebbles on the banks of the river, or rolled in the hay while their mothers sauntered through the meadows bordering the Oiselle.

      For their mothers were friends.

      Mme. Lacheneur had been reared like other poor peasant girls; that is to say, on the day of her marriage it was only with great difficulty she succeeded in inscribing her name upon the register.

      But from the example of her husband she had learned that prosperity, as well as noblesse, entails certain obligations upon one, and with rare courage, crowned with still rarer success, she had undertaken to acquire an education in keeping with her fortune and her new rank.

      And the baroness had made no effort to resist the sympathy that attracted her to this meritorious young woman, in whom she had discerned a really superior mind and a truly refined nature.

      When Mme. Lacheneur died, Mme. d’Escorval mourned for her as she would have mourned for a favorite sister.

      From that moment Maurice’s attachment assumed a more serious character.

      Educated in a Parisian lyceum, his teachers sometimes had occasion to complain of his want of application.

      “If your professors are not satisfied with you,” said his mother, “you shall not accompany me to Escorval on the coming of your vacation, and you will not see your little friend.”

      And this simple threat was always sufficient to make the school-boy resume his studies with redoubled diligence.

      So each year, as it passed, strengthened the grande passion which preserved Maurice from the restlessness and the errors of adolescence.

      The two children were equally timid and artless, and equally infatuated with each other.

      Long walks in the twilight under the eyes of their parents, a glance that revealed their delight at meeting each other, flowers exchanged between them—which were religiously preserved—such were their simple pleasures.

      But that magical and sublime word, love—so sweet to utter, and so sweet to hear—had never once dropped from their lips.

      The audacity of Maurice had never gone beyond a furtive pressure of the hand.

      The parents could not be ignorant of this mutual affection; and if they pretended to shut their eyes, it was only because it did not displease them nor disturb their plans.

      M. and Mme. d’Escorval saw no objection to their son’s marriage with a young girl whose nobility of character they appreciated, and who was as beautiful as she was good. That she was the richest heiress in all the country round about was naturally no objection.

      So far as M. Lacheneur was concerned, he was delighted at the prospect of a marriage which would ally him, a former ploughboy, with an old family whose head was universally respected.

      So, although no direct allusion to the subject had ever escaped the lips of the baron or of M. Lacheneur, there was a tacit agreement between the two families.

      Yes, the marriage was considered a foregone conclusion.

      And yet this impetuous and unexpected declaration by Maurice struck everyone dumb.

      In spite of his agitation, the young man perceived the effect produced by his words, and frightened by his own boldness, he turned and looked questioningly at his father.

      The baron’s face was grave, even sad; but his attitude expressed no displeasure.

      This gave renewed courage to the anxious lover.

      “You will excuse me, Monsieur,” he said, addressing Lacheneur, “for presenting my request in such a manner, and at such a time. But surely, when fate glowers ominously upon you, that is the time when your friends should declare themselves—and deem themselves fortunate if their devotion can make you forget the infamous treatment to which you have been subjected.”

      As he spoke, he was watching Marie-Anne.

      Blushing and embarrassed, she turned away her head, perhaps to conceal the tears which inundated her face—tears of joy and of gratitude.

      The love of the man she adored came forth victorious from a test which it would not be prudent for many heiresses to impose.

      Now she could truly say that she knew Maurice’s heart.

      He,

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