Already he was starting to go, he knew not where.  Marie-Anne caught him by the arm.

“Remain,” she commanded, “remain!  So you have failed to understand me, Maurice.  Ah, well! you must know the truth.  I am acquainted now with the reasons of my father’s refusal; and though his decision should cost me my life, I approve it.  Do not go to find my father.  If, moved by your prayers, he gave his consent, I should have the courage to refuse mine!”

Maurice was so beside himself that this reply did not enlighten him.  Crazed with anger and despair, and with no remorse for the insult he addressed to this woman whom he loved so deeply, he exclaimed: 

“Is it for Chanlouineau, then, that you are reserving your consent?  He believes so since he goes about everywhere saying that you will soon be his wife.”

Marie-Anne shuddered as if a knife had entered her very heart; and yet there was more sorrow than anger in the glance she cast upon Maurice.

“Must I stoop so low as to defend myself from such an imputation?” she asked, sadly.  “Must I declare that if even I suspect such an arrangement between Chanlouineau and my father, I have not been consulted?  Must I tell you that there are some sacrifices which are beyond the strength of poor human nature?  Understand this:  I have found strength to renounce the man I love—­I shall never be able to accept another in his place!”

Maurice hung his head, abashed by her earnest words, dazzled by the sublime expression of her face.

Reason returned; he realized the enormity of his suspicions, and was horrified with himself for having dared to give utterance to them.

“Oh! pardon!” he faltered, “pardon!”

What did the mysterious causes of all these events which had so rapidly succeeded each other, or M. Lacheneur’s secrets, or Marie-Anne’s reticence, matter to him now?

He was seeking some chance of salvation; he believed that he had found it.

“We must fly!” he exclaimed:  “fly at once without pausing to look back.  Before night we shall have passed the frontier.”

He sprang toward her with outstretched arms, as if to seize her and bear her away; but she checked him by a single look.

“Fly!” said she, reproachfully; “fly! and is it you, Maurice, who counsel me thus?  What! while misfortune is crushing my poor father to the earth, shall I add despair and shame to his sorrows?  His friends have deserted him; shall I, his daughter, also abandon him?  Ah! if I did that, I should be the vilest, the most cowardly of creatures!  If my father, yesterday, when I believed him the owner of Sairmeuse, had demanded the sacrifice to which I consented last evening, I might, perhaps, have resolved upon the extreme measure you have counselled.  In broad daylight I might have left Sairmeuse on the arm of my lover.  It is not the world that I fear!  But if one might consent to fly from the chateau of a rich and happy father, one cannot consent to desert the poor abode of a despairing and penniless parent.  Leave me, Maurice, where honor holds me.  It will not be difficult for me, who am the daughter of generations of peasants, to become a peasant.  Go!  I cannot endure more!  Go! and remember that one cannot be utterly wretched if one’s conscience is clean, and one’s duty fulfilled!”