He surveyed himself from head to foot, and with a sneering laugh retorted, “Well, really, I shouldn’t like to meet myself at dusk in the forest.”
Marie-Anne fancied she could detect a threat behind this ironical remark, and her apprehensions were painful in the extreme. “What a life you must be leading, my poor brother!” she said after a brief pause. “Why didn’t you come here sooner? Now, I have you here, I shall not let you go. You will not desert me. I need protection and love so much. You will remain with me?”
“That’s impossible, Marie-Anne.”
“And why?”
Jean averted his glance; his face coloured, and it was with evident hesitation that he replied—”Because I’ve a right to dispose of my own life, but not of yours. We can’t be anything to each other any longer. I deny you to-day, so that you may be able to deny me to-morrow. Yes, although you are now the only person on earth I love. I must and do renounce you. Your worst enemies haven’t slandered you more foully than I have done, for before numerous witnesses I have openly declared that I would never set my foot inside a house given you by Chanlouineau.”
“What, you said that—you, Jean—you, my brother?”
“Yes, I said it, and with a purpose; for it must be supposed that there is a deadly feud between us, so that neither you nor Maurice d’Escorval may be accused of complicity in any deed of mine.”
Marie-Anne gazed at her brother wonderingly. “He is mad!” she murmured, and then with a burst of energy, she added, “What do you mean to do? Tell me; I must know.”
“Nothing! leave me to myself.”
“Jean!”