he concocted, and which she
forced Aunt Medea to circulate everywhere, did not produce the desired
effect.

Marie-Anne's reputation was, of course, ruined by them; but Martial's
visits, instead of ceasing, became longer and more frequent.
Dissatisfied with his progress, and fearful that he was being duped, he
even watched the house.

So it happened that, one evening, when he was quite sure that Lacheneur,
his son, and Chanlouineau were absent, Martial saw a man leave the house
and hasten across the fields.

He rushed after him, but the man escaped him.

He believed, however, that he recognized Maurice d'Escorval.

CHAPTER XVIII

After his son's confession, M. d'Escorval was prudent enough to make no
allusion to the hopes he, himself, entertained.

"My poor Maurice," he thought, "is heart-broken, but resigned. It is
better for him to remain without hope than to be exposed to the danger
of another disappointment."

But passion is not always blind. What the baron concealed, Maurice
divined; and he clung to this faint hope as tenaciously as a drowning
man clings to the plank which is his only hope of salvation.

If he asked his parents no questions it was only because he was
convinced that they would not tell him the truth.

But he watched all that went on in the house with that subtleness of
penetration which fever so often imparts.

Not one of his father's movements escaped his vigilant eye and ear.

Consequently, he heard him put on his boots, ask for his hat, and select
a cane from among those standing in the vestibule. He also heard the
outer gate grate upon its hinges.

"My father is going out," he said to himself.

And weak as he was, he succeeded in dragging himself to the window in
time to satisfy himself of the truth of his conjectures.

"If my father is going out," he thought, "it can only be to visit
Monsieur Lacheneur---then he has not relinquished all hope."

An arm-chair was standing nearby; he sank into it, intending to watch
for his father's return; by doing so, he might know his destiny a few
moments sooner.

Three long hours passed before the baron returned.

By his father's dejected manner he plainly saw that all hope was lost.
He was sure of it; as sure as the criminal who reads the fatal verdict
in the solemn face of the judge.

He had need of all his energy to regain his couch. For a moment he felt
that he was dying.

But he was ashamed of this weakness, which he judged u