“Hold your tongue!” interrupted M. Lacheneur. “I dismiss you; you are no longer in my service.” He passed on, leaving the gardener petrified with astonishment, crossed the court-yard--a court-yard worthy of the mansion, bordered with velvet turf, with flowers, and with dense shrubbery. In the vestibule, inlaid with marble, three of his tenants sat awaiting him, for it was on Sunday that he always received the workmen who desired to confer with him. They rose at his approach, and removed their hats deferentially. But he did not give them time to utter a word. “Who permitted you to enter here?” he said, savagely, “and what do you desire? They sent you to play the spy on me, did they? Leave, I tell you!” The three farmers were even more bewildered and dismayed than the gardener had been, and their remarks must have been interesting. But M. Lacheneur could not hear them. He had opened the door of the grand salon, and dashed in, followed by his frightened daughter. Never had Marie-Anne seen her father in such a mood; and she trembled, her heart torn by the most frightful presentiments. She had heard it said that oftentimes, under the influence of some dire calamity, unfortunate men have suddenly lost their reason entirely; and she was wondering if her father had become insane. It would seem, indeed, that such was the case. His eyes flashed, convulsive shudders shook his whole body, a white foam gathered on his lips. He made the circuit of the room as a wild beast makes the circuit of his cage, uttering harsh imprecations and making frenzied gestures. His actions were strange, incomprehensible. Sometimes he seemed to be trying the thickness of the carpet with the toe of his boot; sometimes he threw himself upon a sofa or a chair, as if to test its softness. Occasionally, he paused abruptly before some one of the valuable pictures that covered the walls, or before a bronze. One might have supposed that he was taking an inventory, and appraising all the magnificent and costly articles which decorated this apartment, the most sumptuous in the chateau. “And I must renounce all this!” he exclaimed, at last. These words explained everything. “No, never!” he resumed, in a transport of rage; “never! never! I cannot! I will not!” Now Marie-Anne understood it all. But what was passing in her father’s mind? She wished to know; and, leaving the low chair in which she had been seated, she went to her father’s side. “Are you ill, father?” she asked, in her sweet voice; “what is the matter? What do you fear? Why do you not confide in me?--Am I not your daughter? Do you no longer love me?” At the sound of this dear voice, M. Lacheneur trembled like a sleeper suddenly aroused from the terrors of a nightmare, and he cast an indescribable glance upon his daughter.