“Would it be indiscreet in me to inquire what you intend to do?”

“Not the least in the world.  I am going to turn pedler.”

M. d’Escorval could not believe his ears.  “Pedler?” he repeated.

“Yes, Monsieur.  Look, there is my pack in that corner.”

“But this is absurd!” exclaimed M. d’Escorval.  “People can scarcely earn their daily bread in this way.”

“You are wrong, Monsieur.  I have considered the subject carefully; the profits are thirty per cent.  And if besides, there will be three of us to sell goods, for I shall confide one pack to my son, and another to Chanlouineau.”

“What!  Chanlouineau?”

“He has become my partner in the enterprise.”

“And his farm—­who will take care of that?”

“He will employ day-laborers.”

And then, as if wishing to make M. d’Escorval understand that his visit had lasted quite long enough, Lacheneur began arranging the little packages which were destined to fill the pack of the travelling merchant.

But the baron was not to be gotten rid of so easily, now that his suspicions had become almost a certainty.

“I must speak with you,” he said, brusquely.

M. Lacheneur turned.

“I am very busy,” he replied, with a very evident reluctance.

“I ask only five minutes.  But if you have not the time to spare to-day, I will return to-morrow—­day after to-morrow—­and every day until I can see you in private.”

Lacheneur saw plainly that it would be impossible to escape this interview, so, with the gesture of a man who resigns himself to a necessity, addressing his son and Chanlouineau, he said: 

“Go outside for a few moments.”

They obeyed, and as soon as the door had closed behind them, Lacheneur said: 

“I know very well, Monsieur, the arguments you intend to advance; and the reason of your coming.  You come to ask me again for Marie-Anne.  I know that my refusal has nearly killed Maurice.  Believe me, I have suffered cruelly at the thought; but my refusal is none the less irrevocable.  There is no power in the world capable of changing my resolution.  Do not ask my motives; I shall not reveal them; but rest assured that they are sufficient.”

“Are we not your friends?”

“You, Monsieur!” exclaimed Lacheneur, in tones of the most lively affection, “you! ah! you know it well!  You are the best, the only friends, I have here below.  I should be the basest and the most miserable of men if I did not guard the recollection of all your kindnesses until my eyes close in death.  Yes, you are my friends; yes, I am devoted to you—­and it is for that very reason that I answer:  no, no, never!”

There could no longer be any doubt.  M. d’Escorval seized Lacheneur’s hands, and almost crushing them in his grasp: 

“Unfortunate man!” he exclaimed, hoarsely, “what do you intend to do?  Of what terrible vengeance are you dreaming?”