He felt a wild longing to chastise the insolent wretch.

Fortunately—­unfortunately, perhaps—­his hand was arrested by the recollection of a phrase which he had heard his father repeat a thousand times: 

“Calmness and irony are the only weapons worthy of the strong.”

And he possessed sufficient strength of will to appear calm, while, in reality, he was beside himself with passion.  It was Martial who lost his self-control, and who threatened him.

“Ah! yes, I will find you again, upstart!” repeated Maurice, through his set teeth as he watched his enemy move away.

For Martial had turned and discovered that Marie-Anne and her father had left him.  He saw them standing about a hundred paces from him.  Although he was surprised at their indifference, he made haste to join them, and addressed M. Lacheneur.

“We are just going to your father’s house,” was the response he received, in an almost ferocious tone.

A glance from Marie-Anne commanded silence.  He obeyed, and walked a few steps behind them, with his head bowed upon his breast, terribly anxious, and seeking vainly to explain what had passed.

His attitude betrayed such intense sorrow that his mother divined it as soon as she caught sight of him.

All the anguish which this courageous woman had hidden for a month, found utterance in a single cry.

“Ah! here is misfortune!” said she, “we shall not escape it.”

It was, indeed, misfortune.  One could not doubt it when one saw M. Lacheneur enter the drawing-room.

He advanced with the heavy, uncertain step of a drunken man, his eye void of expression, his features distorted, his lips pale and trembling.

“What has happened?” asked the baron, eagerly.

But the other did not seem to hear him.

“Ah!  I warned her,” he murmured, continuing a monologue which had begun before he entered the room.  “I told my daughter so.”

Mme. d’Escorval, after kissing Marie-Anne, drew the girl toward her.

“What has happened?  For God’s sake, tell me what has happened!” she exclaimed.

With a gesture expressive of the most sorrowful resignation, the girl motioned her to look and to listen to M. Lacheneur.

He had recovered from that stupor—­that gift of God—­which follows cries that are too terrible for human endurance.  Like a sleeper who, on waking, finds his miseries forgotten during his slumber, lying in wait for him, he regained with consciousness the capacity to suffer.

“It is only this, Monsieur le Baron,” replied the unfortunate man in a harsh, unnatural voice:  “I rose this morning the richest proprietor in the country, and I shall lay down to-night poorer than the poorest beggar in this commune.  I had everything; I no longer have anything—­nothing but my two hands.  They earned me my bread for twenty-five years; they will earn it for me now until the day of my death.  I had a beautiful dream; it is ended.”