In a moment all the household were busied in fulfilling the cure’s orders. He took advantage of the opportunity to draw the baron aside in the embrasure of a window. “What has happened?” he asked. “A disappointment in love,” M. d’Escorval replied, with a despairing gesture. “Monsieur Lacheneur has refused the hand of his daughter, which I asked in behalf of my son. Maurice was to have seen Marie-Anne to-day. What passed between them I do not know. The result you see.” The baroness re-entered the room, and the two men said no more. A truly funereal silence pervaded the apartment, broken only by the moans of Maurice. His excitement instead of abating had increased in violence. Delirium peopled his brain with phantoms; and the name of Marie-Anne, Martial de Sairmeuse and Chanlouineau dropped so incoherently from his lips that it was impossible to read his thoughts. How long that night seemed to M. d’Escorval and his wife, those only know who have counted each second beside the sick-bed of some loved one. Certainly their confidence in the companion in their vigil was great; but he was not a regular physician like the other, the one whose coming they awaited. Just as the light of the morning made the candles turn pale, they heard the furious gallop of a horse, and soon the doctor from Montaignac entered. He examined Maurice carefully, and, after a short conference with the priest: “_I_ see no immediate danger,” he declared. “All that can be done has been done. The malady must be allowed to take its course. I will return.” He did return the next day and many days after, for it was not until a week had passed that Maurice was declared out of danger. Then he confided to his father all that had taken place in the grove on the Reche. The slightest detail of the scene had engraved itself indelibly upon his memory. When the recital was ended: “Are you quite sure,” asked his father, “that you correctly understood Marie-Anne’s reply? Did she tell you that if her father gave his consent to your marriage, she would refuse hers?” “Those were her very words.” “And still she loves you?” “I am sure of it.” “You were not mistaken in Monsieur Lacheneur’s tone when he said to you: ‘Go, you little wretch! do you wish to render all my precautions useless?’” “No.” M. d’Escorval sat for a moment in silence. “This passes comprehension,” he murmured at last. And so low that his son could not hear him, he added: “I will see Lacheneur to-morrow; this mystery must be explained.” CHAPTER XVI The cottage where M. Lacheneur had taken refuge was situated on a hill overlooking the water. It was, as he had said, a small and humble dwelling, but it was rather less miserable than the abodes of most of the peasants of the district. It was only one story high, but it was divided into three rooms, and the roof was covered with thatch.