One would have sworn that he was speaking the truth, so persuasive was his voice, so entirely did the expression of his face, his glance, and his gestures accord with his words.

And Maurice, who felt—­who was certain that the young man was lying, impudently lying, was abashed by this scientific prevarication which is so universally practised in good society, and of which he was entirely ignorant.

But what did the marquis desire here—­and why this farce?

“Need I tell you, Mademoiselle,” he resumed, “all that I suffered last evening in the little drawing-room in the presbytery?  No, never in my whole life can I recollect such a cruel moment.  I understood, and I did honor to Monsieur Lacheneur’s heroism.  Hearing of our arrival, he, without hesitation, without delay, hastened to voluntarily surrender a princely fortune—­and he was insulted.  This excessive injustice horrified me.  And if I did not openly protest against it—­if I did not show my indignation—­it was only because contradiction drives my father to the verge of frenzy.  And what good would it have done for me to protest?  The filial love and piety which you displayed were far more powerful in their effect than any words of mine would have been.  You were scarcely out of the village before Monsieur de Sairmeuse, already ashamed of his injustice, said to me:  ’I have been wrong, but I am an old man; it is hard for me to decide to make the first advance; you, Marquis, go and find Monsieur Lacheneur, and obtain his forgiveness.’”

Marie-Anne, redder than a peony, and terribly embarrassed, lowered her eyes.

“I thank you, Monsieur,” she faltered, “in the name of my father—­”

“Oh! do not thank me,” interrupted Martial, earnestly; “it will be my duty, on the contrary, to render you thanks, if you can induce Monsieur Lacheneur to accept the reparation which is due him—­and he will accept it, if you will only condescend to plead our cause.  Who could resist your sweet voice, your beautiful, beseeching eyes?”

However inexperienced Maurice might be, he could no longer fail to comprehend Martial’s intentions.  This man whom he mortally hated already, dared to speak of love to Marie-Anne, and before him, Maurice.  In other words, the marquis, not content with having ignored and insulted him, presumed to take an insolent advantage of his supposed simplicity.

The certainty of this insult sent all his blood in a boiling torrent to his brain.

He seized Martial by the arm, and with irresistible power whirled him twice around, then threw him more than ten feet, exclaiming: 

“This last is too much, Marquis de Sairmeuse!”

Maurice’s attitude was so threatening that Martial fully expected another attack.  The violence of the shock had thrown him down upon one knee; without rising, he lifted his gun, ready to take aim.

It was not from anything like cowardice on the part of the Marquis de Sairmeuse that he decided to fire upon an unarmed foe; but the affront which he had received was so deadly and so ignoble in his opinion, that he would have shot Maurice like a dog, rather than feel the weight of his finger upon him again.