Monsieur Lecoq by Émile Gaboriau (romance novel chinese novels .txt) 📕

the time when your friends should declare themselves⁠—and deem themselves fortunate if their devotion can make you forget the infamous treatment to which you have been subjected.”

As he spoke, he was watching Marie-Anne.

Blushing and embarrassed, she turned away her head, perhaps to conceal the tears which inundated her face⁠—tears of joy and of gratitude.

The love of the man she adored came forth victorious from a test which it would not be prudent for many heiresses to impose.

Now she could truly say that she knew Maurice’s heart.

He, however, continued:

“I have not consulted my father, sir; but I know his affection for me and his esteem for you. When the happiness of my life is at stake, he will not oppose me. He, who married my dear mother without a dowry, must understand my feelings.”

He was silent, awaiting the verdict.

“I approve your course, my son,” said M. d’Escorval, deeply affected; “you have conducted yourself like an honorable man. Certainly you are very young to become the head of a family; but, as you say, circumstances demand it.”

He turned to M. Lacheneur, and added:

“My dear friend, I, in my son’s behalf, ask the hand of your daughter in marriage.”

Maurice had not expected so little opposition.

In his delight he was almost tempted to bless the hateful Duc de Sairmeuse, to whom he would owe his approaching happiness.

He sprang toward his father, and seizing his hands, he raised them to his lips, faltering:

“Thanks! you are so good! I love you! Oh, how happy I am!”

Alas! the poor boy was in too much haste to rejoice.

A gleam of pride flashed in M. Lacheneur’s eyes; but his face soon resumed its gloomy expression.

“Believe me, Monsieur le Baron, I am deeply touched by your grandeur of soul⁠—yes, deeply touched. You wish to make me forget my humiliation; but, for this very reason, I should be the most contemptible of men if I did not refuse the great honor you desire to confer upon my daughter.”

“What!” exclaimed the baron, in utter astonishment; “you refuse?”

“I am compelled to do so.”

Thunderstruck at first, Maurice afterward renewed the attack with an energy which no one had ever suspected in his character before.

“Do you, then, wish to ruin my life, Monsieur?” he exclaimed; “to ruin our life; for if I love Marie-Anne, she also loves me.”

It was easy to see that he spoke the truth. The unhappy girl, crimson with happy blushes the moment before, had suddenly become whiter than marble, as she looked imploringly at her father.

“It cannot be,” repeated M. Lacheneur; “and the day will come when you will bless the decision I make known at this moment.”

Alarmed by her son’s evident agony, Mme. d’Escorval interposed:

“You must have reasons for this refusal.”

“None that I can disclose, Madame. But never while I live shall my daughter be your son’s wife!”

“Ah! it will kill my child!” exclaimed the baroness.

M. Lacheneur shook his head.

“Monsieur Maurice,” said he, “is young; he will console himself⁠—he will forget.”

“Never!” interrupted the unhappy lover⁠—“never!”

“And your daughter?” inquired the baroness.

Ah! this was the weak spot in his armor; the instinct of a mother was not mistaken. M. Lacheneur hesitated a moment; but he finally conquered the weakness that had threatened to master him.

“Marie-Anne,” he replied, slowly, “knows her duty too well not to obey when I command. When I tell her the motive that governs my conduct, she will become resigned; and if she suffers, she will know how to conceal her sufferings.”

He paused suddenly. They heard in the distance a firing of musketry, the discharge of rifles, whose sharp ring overpowered even the sullen roar of cannon.

Every face grew pale. Circumstances imparted to these sounds an ominous significance.

With the same anguish clutching the hearts of both, M. d’Escorval and Lacheneur sprang out upon the terrace.

But all was still again. Extended as was the horizon, the eye could discern nothing unusual. The sky was blue; not a particle of smoke hung over the trees.

“It is the enemy,” muttered M. Lacheneur, in a tone which told how gladly he would have shouldered his gun, and, with five hundred others, marched against the united allies.

He paused. The explosions were repeated with still greater violence, and for a period of five minutes succeeded each other without cessation.

M. d’Escorval listened with knitted brows.

“That is not the fire of an engagement,” he murmured.

To remain long in such a state of uncertainty was out of the question.

“If you will permit me, father,” ventured Maurice, “I will go and ascertain⁠—”

“Go,” replied the baron, quietly; “but if it is anything, which I doubt, do not expose yourself to danger; return.”

“Oh! be prudent!” insisted Mme. d’Escorval, who already saw her son exposed to the most frightful peril.

“Be prudent!” entreated Marie-Anne, who alone understood what attractions danger might have for a despairing and unhappy man.

These precautions were unnecessary. As Maurice was rushing to the door, his father stopped him.

“Wait,” said he; “here is someone who can probably give us information.”

A man had just appeared around a turn of the road leading to Sairmeuse.

He was advancing bareheaded in the middle of the dusty road, with hurried strides, and occasionally brandishing his stick, as if threatening an enemy visible to himself alone.

Soon they were able to distinguish his features.

“It is Chanlouineau!” exclaimed M. Lacheneur.

“The owner of the vineyards on the Borderie?”

“The same! The handsomest young farmer in the country, and the best also. Ah! he has good blood in his veins; we may well be proud of him.”

“Ask him to stop,” said M. d’Escorval.

Lacheneur leaned over the balustrade, and, forming a trumpet out of his two hands, he called:

“Oh! Chanlouineau!”

The robust young farmer raised his head.

“Come up,” shouted Lacheneur; “the baron wishes to speak with you.”

Chanlouineau responded by a gesture of assent. They saw him enter the gate, cross the garden, and at last appear at the door of the drawing-room.

His features were distorted with fury, his disordered clothing gave evidence of a serious conflict. His cravat was gone, and his torn shirt-collar revealed his muscular throat.

“Where is this fighting?” demanded Lacheneur eagerly; “and with whom?”

Chanlouineau gave a nervous laugh which