Anyone not belonging to that class of spoiled fools which surround a throne would have been deeply touched.

But the duke thought this grand act of honesty and of generosity the most simple and natural thing in the world.

“That is very well, so far as the principal is concerned,” said he.  “Let us speak now of the interest.  Sairmeuse, if I remember rightly, yielded an average income of one thousand louis per year.  These revenues, well invested, should have amounted to a very considerable amount.  Where is this?”

This claim, thus advanced and at such a moment, was so outrageous, that Martial, disgusted, made a sign to his father, which the latter did not see.

But the cure hoping to recall the extortioner to something like a sense of shame, exclaimed: 

“Monsieur le Duc!  Oh, Monsieur le Duc!”

Lacheneur shrugged his shoulders with an air of resignation.

“The income I have used for my own living expenses, and in educating my children; but most of it has been expended in improving the estate, which today yields an income twice as large as in former years.”

“That is to say, for twenty years, Monsieur Lacheneur has played the part of lord of the manor.  A delightful comedy.  You are rich now, I suppose.”

“I possess nothing.  But I hope you will allow me to take ten thousand francs, which your aunt gave to me.”

“Ah! she gave you ten thousand francs?  And when?”

“On the same evening that she gave me the eighty thousand francs intended for the purchase of the estate.”

“Perfect!  What proof can you furnish that she gave you this sum?”

Lacheneur stood motionless and speechless.  He tried to reply, but he could not.  If he opened his lips it would only be to pour forth a torrent of menaces, insults, and invectives.

Marie-Anne stepped quickly forward.

“The proof, Monsieur,” said she, in a clear, ringing voice, “is the word of this man, who, of his own free will, comes to return to you—­to give you a fortune.”

As she sprang forward her beautiful dark hair escaped from its confinement, the rich blood crimsoned her cheeks, her dark eyes flashed brilliantly, and sorrow, anger, horror at the humiliation, imparted a sublime expression to her face.

She was so beautiful that Martial regarded her with wonder.

“Lovely!” he murmured, in English; “beautiful as an angel!”

These words, which she understood, abashed Marie-Anne.  But she had said enough; her father felt that he was avenged.

He drew from his pocket a roll of papers, and throwing them upon the table:  “Here are your titles,” he said, addressing the duke in a tone full of implacable hatred.  “Keep the legacy that your aunt gave me, I wish nothing of yours.  I shall never set foot in Sairmeuse again.  Penniless I entered it, penniless I will leave it!”

He quitted the room with head proudly erect, and when they were outside, he said but one word to his daughter: