to press the hand of
the Duc de Sairmeuse. First, he possessed, it was said, a property of
more than twenty millions in England. Then, he was the friend of the
King, and each neighbor had some favor to ask for himself, for his
relatives, or for his friends.

Poor king! He should have had entire France to divide like a cake
between these cormorants, whose voracious appetites it was impossible to
satisfy.

That evening, after a grand banquet at the Chateau de Courtornieu,
the duke slept in the Chateau de Sairmeuse, in the room which had been
occupied by Lacheneur, "like Louis XVIII.," he laughingly said, "in the
chamber of Bonaparte."

He was gay, chatty, and full of confidence in the future.

"Ah! it is good to be in one's own house!" he remarked to his son again
and again.

But Martial responded only mechanically. His mind was occupied with
thoughts of two women who had made a profound impression upon his by
no means susceptible heart that day. He was thinking of those two young
girls, so utterly unlike. Blanche de Courtornieu--Marie-Anne Lacheneur.

CHAPTER VIII

Only those who, in the bright springtime of life, have loved, have been
loved in return, and have suddenly seen an impassable gulf open between
them and happiness, can realize Maurice d'Escorval's disappointment.

All the dreams of his life, all his future plans, were based upon his
love for Marie-Anne.

If this love failed him, the enchanted castle which hope had erected
would crumble and fall, burying him in the ruins.

Without Marie-Anne he saw neither aim nor motive in his existence. Still
he did not suffer himself to be deluded by false hopes. Although at
first, his appointed meeting with Marie-Anne on the following day
seemed salvation itself, on reflection he was forced to admit that this
interview would change nothing, since everything depended upon the will
of another party--the will of M. Lacheneur.

The remainder of the day he passed in mournful silence. The dinner-hour
came; he took his seat at the table, but it was impossible for him
to swallow a morsel, and he soon requested his parents' permission to
withdraw.

M. d'Escorval and the baroness exchanged a sorrowful glance, but did not
allow themselves to offer any comment.

They respected his grief. They knew that his was one of those sorrows
which are only aggravated by any attempt at consolation.

"Poor Maurice!" murmured Mme. d'Escorval, as soon as her son had left
the ro