Sometimes they were alone.

Lacheneur, Chanlouineau, and Jean were tramping about the country with their merchandise.  Business was prospering so well that M. Lacheneur had purchased a horse in order to extend his journeys.

But Martial’s conversation was generally interrupted by visitors.  It was really surprising to see how many peasants came to the house to speak to M. Lacheneur.  There was an interminable procession of them.  And to each of these peasants Marie-Anne had something to say in private.  Then she offered each man refreshments—­the house seemed almost like a common drinking-saloon.

But what can daunt the courage of a lover?  Martial endured all this without a murmur.  He laughed and jested with the comers and goers; he shook hands with them; sometimes he even drank with them.

He gave many other proofs of moral courage.  He offered to assist M. Lacheneur in making up his accounts; and once—­it happened about the middle of February—­seeing Chanlouineau worrying over the composition of a letter, he actually offered to act as his amanuensis.

“The d——­d letter is not for me, but for an uncle of mine who is about to marry off his daughter,” said Chanlouineau.

Martial took a seat at the table, and, at Chanlouineau’s dictation, but not without many erasures, indited the following epistle: 

“My dear friend—­We are at last agreed, and the marriage has been decided upon.  We are now busy with preparations for the wedding, which will take place on ——.  We invite you to give us the pleasure of your company.  We count upon you, and be assured that the more friends you bring with you the better we shall be pleased.”

Had Martial seen the smile upon Chanlouineau’s lips when he requested him to leave the date for the wedding a blank, he would certainly have suspected that he had been caught in a snare.  But he was in love.

“Ah!  Marquis,” remarked his father one day, “Chupin tells me you are always at Lacheneur’s.  When will you recover from your penchant for that little girl?”

Martial did not reply.  He felt that he was at that “little girl’s” mercy.  Each glance of hers made his heart throb wildly.  By her side he was a willing captive.  If she had asked him to make her his wife he would not have said no.

But Marie-Anne had not this ambition.  All her thoughts, all her wishes were for her father’s success.

Maurice and Marie-Anne had become M. Lacheneur’s most intrepid auxiliaries.  They were looking forward to such a magnificent reward.

Such feverish activity as Maurice displayed!  All day long he hurried from hamlet to hamlet, and in the evening, as soon as dinner was over, he made his escape from the drawing-room, sprang into his boat, and hastened to the Reche.

M. d’Escorval could not fail to remark the long and frequent absences of his son.  He watched him, and soon became absolutely certain that Lacheneur had, to use the baron’s own expression, seduced him.