This obstinate serenity disappointed the baron’s expectations.  He could not have received a heavier blow.

“Take care, Lacheneur,” he said, sternly.  “Think of the situation in which you place your daughter, between Chanlouineau, who wishes to make her his wife, and Monsieur de Sairmeuse, who desires to make her——­”

“Who desires to make her his mistress—­is that what you mean?  Oh, say the word.  But what does that matter?  I am sure of Marie-Anne.”

M. d’Escorval shuddered.

“In other words,” said he, in bitter indignation, “you make your daughter’s honor and reputation your stake in the game you are playing.”

This was too much.  Lacheneur could restrain his furious passion no longer.

“Well, yes!” he exclaimed, with a frightful oath, “yes, you have spoken the truth.  Marie-Anne must be, and will be, the instrument of my plans.  A man situated as I am is free from the considerations that restrain other men.  Fortune, friends, life, honor—­I have been forced to sacrifice all.  Perish my daughter’s virtue—­perish my daughter herself—­what do they matter, if I can but succeed?”

He was terrible in his fanaticism; and in his mad excitement he clinched his hands as if he were threatening some invisible enemy; his eyes were wild and bloodshot.

The baron seized him by the coat as if to prevent his escape.

“You admit it, then?” he said.  “You wish to revenge yourself on the Sairmeuse family, and you have made Chanlouineau your accomplice?”

But Lacheneur, with a sudden movement, freed himself.

“I admit nothing,” he replied.  “And yet I wish to reassure you——­”

He raised his hand as if to take an oath, and in a solemn voice, he said: 

“Before God, who hears my words, by all that I hold sacred in this world, by the memory of my sainted wife who lies beneath the sod, I swear that I am plotting nothing against the Sairmeuse family; that I had no thought of touching a hair of their heads.  I use them only because they are absolutely indispensable to me.  They will aid me without injuring themselves.”

Lacheneur, this time, spoke the truth.  His hearer felt it; still he pretended to doubt.  He thought by retaining his own self-possession, and exciting the anger of this unfortunate man still more, he might, perhaps, discover his real intentions.  So it was with an air of suspicion that he said: 

“How can one believe this assurance after the avowal you have just made?”

Lacheneur saw the snare; he regained his self-possession as if by magic.

“So be it, Monsieur, refuse to believe me.  But you will wring from me only one more word on this subject.  I have said too much already.  I know that you are guided solely by friendship for me; my gratitude is great, but I cannot reply to your question.  The events of the past few days have dug a deep abyss between you and me.  Do not endeavor to pass it.  Why should we ever meet again?  I must say to you, what I said only yesterday to Abbe Midon.  If you are my friend, you will never come here again—­never—­by night or by day, or under any pretext whatever.  Even if they tell you that I am dying, do not come.  This house is fatal.  And if you meet me, turn away; shun me as you would a pestilence whose touch is deadly!”