What a terrible thing has happened! No, no, a thousand times no; she shall not leave me. Now that I have the right to watch over her, never will I abandon her. This morning a farm servant came over to the château. He brought me a letter from Marie. She besought me to come to her instantly. An hour after I was at the farm. I found Marie and her aunt both in tears. "What is the matter? What has happened?" I cried out. "We have had a letter," said Madame Kerouët, "a letter from M. Duvallon; he says that he is coming here to-day to take away Marie, by order of M. Belmont." "And you would allow her to go?" I exclaimed. "And you, Marie, would you consent to go?" Marie, pale as death, passed her hands over her eyes and cried out: "What an awakening! _Mon Dieu!_ what shall I do? I am lost." I made an expressive sign to Marie. Her aunt, preoccupied by her own distress, had not heard her. "Ah, _mon Dieu!_" said Madame Kerouët. "Give up my child! I never will have the strength to do it." "You shall not give her up, you ought not, good mother! You must not give her up to such a man as Duvallon." "Alas! monsieur, what objection can we make? Is not M. Duvallon the intimate friend of M. Belmont? Has he not received his orders?" "It is just because he is the intimate friend of a man like Belmont that you must be on your guard against him." Marie and Madame Kerouët stared at me with astonishment, but I continued: "Listen to me, you, Madame Kerouët, and you, Marie. Allow me to receive M. Duvallon; I will take it upon myself to make him listen to reason. When do you expect him to arrive?" "If he comes when he says he will, it will be by the diligence from Bourges. He will get here at three o'clock," said Madame Kerouët. "Make him no promises, but send him to me, and let us hope for the best." And on a signal from Marie I went out. After awhile, at five o'clock, I heard the noise of a _carriole_ in the courtyard of the château. I could not repress an exclamation of anger. I felt the blood rush to my face, and my temples throb violently. M. Duvallon was ushered in. I beheld a robust man of great height, apparently about sixty years of age. His complexion was high-coloured, his manner impertinent, vulgar, but self-satisfied. He was dressed like a Frenchman on a journey, that is to say, shabbily. I made him a sign to be seated, and he sat down. "Monsieur," said I to him, "I beg your pardon for any trouble I may have given you, but I am charged by Madame Kerouët, who leases one of my farms, and who has some confidence in me--" "_Parbleu!_ her niece has confidence in you, too, and a great deal too much of it!" cried out the man, rudely interrupting me. "It is true, monsieur," said I, trying to keep my temper, "I have the honour of being one of Madame Belmont's friends."