“That is to say, for twenty years, Monsieur Lacheneur has played the part of lord of the manor. A delightful comedy. You are rich now, I suppose.” “I possess nothing. But I hope you will allow me to take ten thousand francs, which your aunt gave to me.” “Ah! she gave you ten thousand francs? And when?” “On the same evening that she gave me the eighty thousand francs intended for the purchase of the estate.” “Perfect! What proof can you furnish that she gave you this sum?” Lacheneur stood motionless and speechless. He tried to reply, but he could not. If he opened his lips it would only be to pour forth a torrent of menaces, insults, and invectives. Marie-Anne stepped quickly forward. “The proof, Monsieur,” said she, in a clear, ringing voice, “is the word of this man, who, of his own free will, comes to return to you--to give you a fortune.” As she sprang forward her beautiful dark hair escaped from its confinement, the rich blood crimsoned her cheeks, her dark eyes flashed brilliantly, and sorrow, anger, horror at the humiliation, imparted a sublime expression to her face. She was so beautiful that Martial regarded her with wonder. “Lovely!” he murmured, in English; “beautiful as an angel!” These words, which she understood, abashed Marie-Anne. But she had said enough; her father felt that he was avenged. He drew from his pocket a roll of papers, and throwing them upon the table: “Here are your titles,” he said, addressing the duke in a tone full of implacable hatred. “Keep the legacy that your aunt gave me, I wish nothing of yours. I shall never set foot in Sairmeuse again. Penniless I entered it, penniless I will leave it!” He quitted the room with head proudly erect, and when they were outside, he said but one word to his daughter: “Well!” “You have done your duty,” she replied; “it is those who have not done it, who are to be pitied!” She had no opportunity to say more. Martial came running after them, anxious for another chance of seeing this young girl whose beauty had made such an impression upon him. “I hastened after you,” he said, addressing Marie-Anne, rather than M. Lacheneur, “to reassure you. All this will be arranged, Mademoiselle. Eyes so beautiful as yours should never know tears. I will be your advocate with my father--” “Mademoiselle Lacheneur has no need of an advocate!” a harsh voice interrupted. Martial turned, and saw the young man, who, that morning, went to warn M. Lacheneur of the duke’s arrival. “I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse,” he said, insolently. “And I,” said the other, quietly, “am Maurice d’Escorval.” They surveyed each other for a moment; each expecting, perhaps, an insult from the other. Instinctively, they felt that they were to be enemies; and the bitterest animosity spoke in the glances they exchanged. Perhaps they felt a presentiment that they were to be champions of two different principles, as well as rivals. Martial, remembering his father, yielded.