Jean averted his glance; his face coloured, and it was with evident hesitation that he replied--”Because I’ve a right to dispose of my own life, but not of yours. We can’t be anything to each other any longer. I deny you to-day, so that you may be able to deny me to-morrow. Yes, although you are now the only person on earth I love. I must and do renounce you. Your worst enemies haven’t slandered you more foully than I have done, for before numerous witnesses I have openly declared that I would never set my foot inside a house given you by Chanlouineau.” “What, you said that--you, Jean--you, my brother?” “Yes, I said it, and with a purpose; for it must be supposed that there is a deadly feud between us, so that neither you nor Maurice d’Escorval may be accused of complicity in any deed of mine.” Marie-Anne gazed at her brother wonderingly. “He is mad!” she murmured, and then with a burst of energy, she added, “What do you mean to do? Tell me; I must know.” “Nothing! leave me to myself.” “Jean!” “Leave me to myself,” he repeated roughly. Marie-Anne felt that her apprehensions were correct. “Take care, take care,” she said entreatingly. “Do not tamper with such matters. God’s justice will punish those who have wronged us.” But nothing could move Jean Lacheneur, or divert him from his purpose. With a hoarse, discordant laugh, he clapped his hand on his gun and retorted, “That’s my justice!” Marie-Anne almost tottered as she heard these words. She discerned in her brother’s mind the same fixed, fatal idea which had lured her father on to destruction--the idea for which he had sacrificed everything--family, friends, fortune, and even his daughter’s honour, the idea which had caused so much bloodshed, which had cost the lives of so many innocent men, and had finally led him to the scaffold himself. “Jean,” she murmured, “remember our father.”