He paused with a nervous laugh, and then, still more slowly, he added: 

“That is what the Sairmeuse and Courtornieu have to expect from me.”

It was impossible to mistake the meaning of Jean Lacheneur’s words.  His threats were not the wild ravings of anger.  His quiet manner, his icy tones, his automatic gestures betrayed one of those cold rages which endure so long as the man lives.

He took good care to make himself understood, for between his teeth he added: 

“Undoubtedly, these people are very high, and I am very low; but when a tiny worm fastens itself to the roots of a giant oak, that tree is doomed.”

Marie-Anne knew all too well the uselessness of prayers and entreaties.

And yet she could not, she must not allow her brother to depart in this mood.

She fell upon her knees, and with clasped hands and supplicating voice: 

“Jean,” said she, “I implore you to renounce these projects.  In the name of our mother, return to your better self.  These are crimes which you are meditating!”

With a glance of scorn and a shrug of the shoulders, he replied: 

“Have done with this.  I was wrong to confide my hopes to you.  Do not make me regret that I came here.”

Then the sister tried another plan.  She rose, forced her lips to smile, and as if nothing unpleasant had passed between them, she begged Jean to remain with her that evening, at least, and share her frugal supper.

“Remain,” she entreated; “that is not much to do—­and it will make me so happy.  And since it will be the last time we shall see each other for years, grant me a few hours.  It is so long since we have met.  I have suffered so much.  I have so many things to tell you!  Jean, my dear brother, can it be that you love me no longer?”

One must have been bronze to remain insensible to such prayers.  Jean Lacheneur’s heart swelled almost to bursting; his stern features relaxed, and a tear trembled in his eye.

Marie-Anne saw that tear.  She thought she had conquered, and clapping her hands in delight, she exclaimed: 

“Ah! you will remain! you will remain!”

No.  Jean had already mastered his momentary weakness, though not without a terrible effort; and in a harsh voice: 

“Impossible! impossible!” he repeated.

Then, as his sister clung to him imploringly, he took her in his arms and pressed her to his heart.

“Poor sister—­poor Marie-Anne—­you will never know what it costs me to refuse you, to separate myself from you.  But this must be.  In even coming here I have been guilty of an imprudent act.  You do not understand to what perils you will be exposed if people suspect any bond between us.  I trust you and Maurice may lead a calm and happy life.  It would be a crime for me to mix you up with my wild schemes.  Think of me sometimes, but do not try to see me, or even to learn what has become of me.  A man like me struggles, triumphs, or perishes alone.”