She departed, leaving Marie-Anne petrified with surprise, sorrow, and indignation.

Although less experienced than Mlle. Blanche, she comprehended that this strange visit concealed some mystery—­but what?

For more than a minute she stood motionless, gazing after her departing guests; then she started suddenly as a hand was laid gently upon her shoulder.

She trembled, and, turning quickly, found herself face to face with her father.

Lacheneur’s face was whiter than his linen, and a sinister light glittered in his eye.

“I was there,” said he, pointing to the door, “and—­I heard all.”

“Father!”

“What! would you try to defend her after she came here to crush you with her insolent good fortune—­after she overwhelmed you with her ironical pity and with her scorn?  I tell you they are all like this—­these girls, whose heads have been turned by flattery, and who believe that in their veins flows a different blood from ours.  But patience!  The day of reckoning is near at hand!”

Those whom he threatened would have shuddered had they seen him at that moment, so terrible was the rage revealed by his accent, so formidable did he appear.

“And you, my beloved daughter, my poor Marie-Anne, you did not understand the insults she heaped upon you.  You are wondering why she should have treated you with such disdain.  Ah, well!  I will tell you:  she imagines that the Marquis de Sairmeuse is your lover.”

Marie-Anne tottered beneath the terrible blow, and a nervous spasm shook her from head to foot.

“Can this be possible?” she exclaimed.  “Great God! what shame! what humiliation!”

“And why should this astonish you?” said Lacheneur, coldly.  “Have you not expected this ever since the day when you, my devoted daughter, consented, for the sake of my plans, to submit to the attentions of this marquis, whom you loathe as much as I despise?”

“But Maurice!  Maurice will despise me!  I can bear anything, yes, everything but that.”

M. Lacheneur made no reply.  Marie-Anne’s despair was heart-breaking; he felt that he could not bear to witness it, that it would shake his resolution, and he re-entered the house.

But his penetration was not at fault.  While waiting to find a revenge which would be worthy of her, Mlle. Blanche armed herself with a weapon of which jealousy and hatred so often avail themselves—­calumny.

Two or three abominable stories which she concocted, and which she forced Aunt Medea to circulate everywhere, did not produce the desired effect.

Marie-Anne’s reputation was, of course, ruined by them; but Martial’s visits, instead of ceasing, became longer and more frequent.  Dissatisfied with his progress, and fearful that he was being duped, he even watched the house.

So it happened that, one evening, when he was quite sure that Lacheneur, his son, and Chanlouineau were absent, Martial saw a man leave the house and hasten across the fields.