“And I, also, Monsieur Lacheneur,” she said, “desire to press your hand.  I wish to tell you that I esteem you as much as I despise the ingrates who have sought to humiliate you, when they should have fallen at your feet.  They are heartless monsters, the like of whom certainly cannot be found upon the earth.”

“Alas!” sighed the baron, “the allies have brought back others who, like these men, think the world created exclusively for their benefit.”

“And these people wish to be our masters,” growled Lacheneur.

By some strange fatality no one chanced to hear the remark made by M. Lacheneur.  Had they overheard and questioned him, he would probably have disclosed some of the projects which were as yet in embryo in his own mind; and in that case what disastrous consequences might have been averted.

M. d’Escorval had regained his usual coolness.

“Now, my dear friend,” he inquired, “what course do you propose to pursue with these members of the Sairmeuse family?”

“They will hear nothing more from me—­for some time, at least.”

“What!  Shall you not claim the ten thousand francs that they owe you?”

“I shall ask them for nothing.”

“You will be compelled to do so.  Since you have alluded to the legacy, your own honor will demand that you insist upon its payment by all legal methods.  There are still judges in France.”

M. Lacheneur shook his head.

“The judges will not accord me the justice I desire.  I shall not apply to them.”

“But——­”

“No, Monsieur, no.  I wish to have nothing to do with these men.  I shall not even go to the chateau to remove my clothing nor that of my daughter.  If they send it to us—­very well.  If it pleases them to keep it, so much the better.  The more shameful, infamous and odious their conduct appears, the better I shall be satisfied.”

The baron made no reply; but his wife spoke, believing she had a sure means of conquering this incomprehensible obstinacy.

“I should understand your determination if you were alone in the world,” said she, “but you have children.”

“My son is eighteen, Madame; he possesses good health and an excellent education.  He can make his own way in Paris, if he chooses to remain there.”

“But your daughter?”

“Marie-Anne will remain with me.”

M. d’Escorval thought it his duty to interfere.

“Take care, my dear friend, that your grief does not overthrow your reason,” said he.  “Reflect!  What will become of you—­your daughter and yourself?”

The wretched man smiled sadly.