With this thought in his mind Maurice sank into an arm-chair close at hand, intending to watch for his father’s return; by doing so, he might know his fate a few moments sooner. Three long hours elapsed before the baron returned, and by his dejected manner Maurice plainly saw that all hope was lost. Of this, he was sure, as sure as the criminal who reads the fatal verdict in the judge’s solemn face. He required all his energy to regain his couch, and for a moment he felt that he should die. Soon, however, he grew ashamed of this weakness, which he judged unworthy of him, and prompted by a desire to know exactly what had happened he rang the bell, and told the servant who answered his summons that he wished to speak with his father. M. d’Escorval promptly made his appearance.
“Well!” exclaimed Maurice, as his father crossed the threshold of the room.
The baron felt that all denial would be useless. “Lacheneur is deaf to my remonstrances and entreaties,” he replied, sadly. “There is no hope, my poor boy; you must submit. I will not tell you that time will assuage the sorrow that now seems insupportable—for you wouldn’t believe me if I did. But I do say to you be a man, and prove your courage. I will say even more: fight against all thought of Marie-Anne, as a traveller on the brink of a precipice fights against the thought of vertigo.”
“Have you seen Marie-Anne, father? Have you spoken to her?”
“I found her even more inflexible than Lacheneur.”
“They reject me, and yet no doubt they receive Chanlouineau.”
“Chanlouineau is living there.”
“Good heavens! And Martial de Sairmeuse?”
“He is their familiar guest. I saw him there.”
Evidently enough each of these replies fell upon Maurice like a thunderbolt. But M. d’Escorval had armed him self with the imperturbable courage of a surgeon, who only grasps his instrument more firmly when the patient groans and writhes beneath his touch. He felt that it was necessary to extinguish the last ray of hope in his son’s heart.