The brow of the former master of Sairmeuse remained overcast.

“Why did you not inform me of the honor that the baron had done me, Marie-Anne?” he said sternly.

She tried to speak, but could not; and it was the baron who replied: 

“Why, I have but just come, my dear friend.”

M. Lacheneur looked suspiciously, first at his daughter, then at the baron.

“What did they say to each other while they were alone?” he was evidently wondering.

But, however great may have been his disquietude, he seemed to master it; and it was with his old-time affability of manner that he invited M. d’Escorval to follow him into the adjoining room.

“It is my reception-room and my cabinet combined,” he said, smiling.

This room, which was much larger than the first, was as scantily furnished; but it contained several piles of small books and an infinite number of tiny packages.

Two men were engaged in arranging and sorting these articles.

One was Chanlouineau.

M. d’Escorval did not remember that he had ever seen the other, who was a young man.

“This is my son, Jean, Monsieur,” said Lacheneur.  “He has changed since you last saw him ten years ago.”

It was true.  It had been, at least, ten years since the baron had seen Lacheneur’s son.

How time flies!  He had left him a boy; he found him a man.

Jean was just twenty; but his haggard features and his precocious beard made him appear much older.

He was tall and well formed, and his face indicated more than average intelligence.

Still he did not impress one favorably.  His restless eyes were always invading yours; and his smile betrayed an unusual degree of shrewdness, amounting almost to cunning.

As his father presented him, he bowed profoundly; but he was very evidently out of temper.

M. Lacheneur resumed: 

“Having no longer the means to maintain Jean in Paris, I have made him return.  My ruin will, perhaps, be a blessing to him.  The air of great cities is not good for the son of a peasant.  Fools that we are, we send them there to teach them to rise above their fathers.  But they do nothing of the kind.  They think only of degrading themselves.”

“Father,” interrupted the young man; “father, wait, at least, until we are alone!”

“Monsieur d’Escorval is not a stranger.”  Chanlouineau evidently sided with the son, since he made repeated signs to M. Lacheneur to be silent.

Either he did not see them, or he pretended not to see them, for he continued: 

“I must have wearied you, Monsieur, by telling you again and again:  ’I am pleased with my son.  He has a commendable ambition; he is working faithfully; he will succeed.’  Ah!  I was a poor, foolish father!  The friend who carried Jean the order to return has enlightened me, to my sorrow.  This model young man you see here left the gaming-house only to run to public balls.  He was in love with a wretched little ballet-girl in some low theatre; and to please this creature, he also went upon the stage, with his face painted red and white.”