“And then you, yourself, will realize the horror of the disgrace. It will cost you the deadly anguish of a separation from him whom your heart has chosen.”
He had spoken truly, for Marie-Anne’s beautiful eyes filled with tears.
“If what you say proves true, father,” she murmured, in an altered voice, “I may, perhaps, die of sorrow; but I cannot fail to realize that my confidence and my love has been misplaced.”
“And you still insist upon my returning Sairmeuse to its former owner?”
“Honor speaks, my father.”
M. Lacheneur made the arm-chair in which he was seated tremble by a violent blow of his fist.
“And if I am just as obstinate,” he exclaimed—“if I keep the property—what will you do?”
“I shall say to myself, father, that honest poverty is better than stolen wealth. I shall leave this chateau, which belongs to the Duc de Sairmeuse, and I shall seek a situation as a servant in the neighborhood.”
M. Lacheneur sank back in his arm-chair sobbing. He knew his daughter’s nature well enough to be assured that what she said, that she would do.
But he was conquered; his daughter had won the battle. He had decided to make the heroic sacrifice.