“It is evident that M. Lacheneur has lost his reason!” exclaimed Maurice.
The baron shook his head despondently. “I thought so myself at first,” he murmured.
“But what does he say in justification of his conduct? He must say something.”
“Nothing: he refuses any explanation.”
“And you, father, with all your knowledge of human nature, with all your wide experience, have not been able to fathom his intentions?”
“I have my suspicions,” M. d’Escorval replied; “but only suspicions. It is possible that Lacheneur, listening to the voice of hatred, is dreaming of some terrible revenge. He may, perhaps, think of organizing some conspiracy against the emigres. Such a supposition would explain everything. Chanlouineau would be his aider and abettor; and he pretends to be reconciled to the Marquis de Sairmeuse in order to obtain information through him—”
The blood had returned to Maurice’s pale cheeks. “Such a conspiracy,” said he, “would not explain M. Lacheneur’s obstinate rejection of my suit.”
“Alas! yes, it would, my poor boy. It is through Marie-Anne that Lacheneur exerts such great influence over Chanlouineau and the marquis. If she became your wife to-day, they would desert him to-morrow. Then, too, it is precisely because he has such sincere regard for us, that he is determined to keep us out of a hazardous, even perilous enterprise. However, of course, this is merely a conjecture.”
“Still, I see that it is necessary to submit,” faltered Maurice. “I must resign myself; forget, I cannot.”
He said this because he wished to reassure his father; though, in reality, he thought exactly the reverse. “If Lacheneur is organizing a conspiracy,” he murmured to himself, “he must need assistance. Why should I not offer mine? If I aid him in his preparations, if I share his hopes and dangers, he cannot refuse me his daughter’s hand. Whatever he may wish to undertake, I can surely be of greater assistance to him than Chanlouineau.”