Hence, Marie-Anne had nothing to fear, and everything to hope.

But this conviction did not appease her sorrow.  Hers was one of those pure and proud natures that are more sensitive to the whisperings of conscience than to the clamors of the world.

She had been accused of having three lovers—­Chanlouineau, Martial, and Maurice.  The calumny had not moved her.  What tortured her was what these people did not know—­the truth.

Nor was this all.  The sublime instinct of maternity had been awakened within her.  When she saw the physician depart, bearing her child, she felt as if soul and body were being rent asunder.  When could she hope to see again this little son who was doubly dear to her by reason of the very sorrow and anguish he had cost her?  The tears gushed to her eyes when she thought that his first smile would not be for her.

Ah! had it not been for her promise to Maurice, she would unhesitatingly have braved public opinion, and kept her precious child.

Her brave and honest nature could have endured any humiliation far better than the continual lie she was forced to live.

But she had promised; Maurice was her husband, and reason told her that for his sake she must preserve not her honor, alas! but the semblance of honor.

And when she thought of her brother, her blood froze in her veins.

Having learned that Jean was roving about the country, she sent for him; but it was not without much persuasion that he consented to come to the Borderie.

It was easy to explain Chupin’s terror when one saw Jean Lacheneur.  His clothing was literally in tatters, his face wore an expression of ferocious despair, and a fierce unextinguishable hatred burned in his eyes.

When he entered the cottage, Marie-Anne recoiled in horror.  She did not recognize him until he spoke.

“It is I, sister,” he said, gloomily.

“You—­my poor Jean! you!”

He surveyed himself from head to foot, and said, with a sneering laugh: 

“Really, I should not like to meet myself at dusk in the forest.”

Marie-Anne shuddered.  She fancied that a threat lurked beneath these ironical words, beneath this mockery of himself.

“What a life yours must be, my poor brother!  Why did you not come sooner?  Now, I have you here, I shall not let you go.  You will not desert me.  I need protection and love so much.  You will remain with me?”

“It is impossible, Marie-Anne.”

“And why?”

A fleeting crimson suffused Jean Lacheneur’s cheek; he hesitated for a moment, then: 

“Because I have a right to dispose of my own life, but not of yours,” he replied.  “We can no longer be anything to each other.  I deny you to-day, that you may be able to deny me to-morrow.  Yes, I renounce you, who are my all—­the only person on earth whom I love.  Your most cruel enemies have not calumniated you more foully than I——­”