Darker and darker grew the brow of the young lord, as he listened; for he could not fail to perceive the obstacles which were opposed to the atrocious wrong he meditated. Yet he listened sullenly to the end. “Ha!” he replied, moodily, “no droits, only dues, and those satisfied! The worse for them, by heaven and hell, and all who dwell therein!” He paused a moment, with his hands clinched, and the veins upon his brow swollen into thick, azure cords, by the rush of the hot blood; and then resumed, in a low, hissing tone, widely different from his usually slow and modulated voice:-- “Who be they, Michael Rubempré? I would give half my lands, they could be proved _serfs_. Can not this be done, Michael?” “Impossible, beau sire!” replied the old man, firmly, though there was much of anxiety, and even of alarm, in his eye; “utterly impossible. The forefathers of Maurice Champrèst came into the lands of Roche d’or with the first Canillac, and he holds the same farm still, under the first grant, by tenure of man-service, only on the field of battle. He is your lordship’s greatest vassal, and brings five spears and as many crossbows to the banner of Roche d’or, serving himself on horseback.” “Ha! curses on it! curses on it! And she--who is she! By heaven, she is the loveliest creature I ever looked upon! Who is she? ha!” “Her grandfather, beau sire, then a serf--permitted, through the exigency of the times, to bear arms in the field--saved the life of your lordship’s grandsire, by taking in his breast the pike-thrust intended for his lord. For this good deed, he was manumitted, with his wife and son, who is now a free vassal and a large tenant of Roche d’or, bringing six crossbows to your banner. Marguerite was selected by the marquise to wait on Mademoiselle de Canillac de Roche d’or, and was educated with her, almost as a friend. She is the best girl, too, in all the village.” “Ha! so much the worse! Curses on it--twenty thousand curses!” And he had turned his horse’s head again, to ride on his way, apparently convinced that for this time, at least, his wicked will must be balked of its fulfilment; but at this moment, the voice of the tempter, Canillac the madman--mad in his crimes alone, for his wily and diverse intellect was clear as that of Catiline, whom he in some sort resembled--addressed him, calm, yet cutting and sarcastic:-- “What is it that has moved you so much, beau cousin? Methinks your people’s greeting should enliven, not depress you.” “Tush!” the young man replied, almost savagely; “tush! You are no fool, Canillac!” “Not much, I think; though they do call me _Canillac le fou_! But what then, what then, beau cousin?”