“Come in!” cried a female voice when M. d’Escorval rapped at the door of the cottage. He lifted the latch, and entered a small room with white-washed walls, having no other ceiling than the thatched roof, and no other flooring than the bare ground. A table with a wooden bench on either side stood in the middle of this humble chamber, in one corner of which was an old bedstead. On a stool near the narrow casement sat Marie-Anne, working at a piece of embroidery, and clad in a peasant-girl’s usual garb. At the sight of M. d’Escorval, she rose to her feet, and for a moment they remained standing in front of one another, she apparently calm, he visibly agitated. Lacheneur’s daughter was paler than usual, she seemed even thinner, but there was a strange, touching charm about her person; the consciousness of duty nobly fulfilled, of resignation calling for accomplishment, lending, as it were, a new radiance to her beauty. Remembering his son, M. d’Escorval was surprised at Marie-Anne’s tranquillity. “You don’t inquire after Maurice,” he said, with a touch of reproachfulness in his voice. “I had news of him this morning, as I have had every day,” quietly replied Marie-Anne. “I know that he is getting better, and that he was able to take some food yesterday.” “You have not forgotten him, then?” She trembled; a faint blush suffused her cheeks and forehead, but it was in a calm voice that she replied: “Maurice knows that it would be impossible for me to forget him, even if I wished to do so.” “And yet you told him that you approved your father’s decision!” “Yes, I told him so; and I shall have the courage to repeat it.” “But you have made Maurice most wretched and unhappy, my dear child; he almost died of grief.” She raised her head proudly, looked M. d’Escorval fully in the face and answered, “Do you think then that I haven’t suffered myself?” M. d’Escorval was abashed for a moment; but speedily recovering himself, he took hold of Marie-Anne’s hand and, pressing it affectionately, exclaimed: “So Maurice loves you, and you love him; you are both suffering: he has nearly died of grief and still you reject him!” “It must be so, sir.” “You say this, my dear child--you say this, and you undoubtedly believe it. But I, who have sought to discover the necessity of this immense sacrifice, have quite failed to find any plausible reason. Explain to me why it must be so, Marie-Anne. Have you no confidence in me? Am I not an old friend? It may be that your father in his despair has adopted extreme resolutions. Let me know them and we will conquer them together. Lacheneur knows how deeply I am attached to him. I will speak to him: he will listen to _me_.” “I can tell you nothing, sir.” “What! you remain inflexible when a father entreats you to assist him, when he says to you: ‘Marie-Anne, you hold my son’s happiness, life, and reason in your hands. Can you be so cruel----’”