“Monsieur le Duc,” continued Lacheneur, “I am an old servant of your house——”
“Ah! indeed!”
“Mademoiselle Armande, your aunt, accorded my poor mother the honor of acting as my godmother——”
“Ah, yes,” interrupted the duke. “I remember you now. Our family has shown great goodness to you and yours. And it was to prove your gratitude, probably, that you made haste to purchase our estate!”
The former ploughboy was of humble origin, but his heart and his character had developed with his fortunes; he understood his own worth.
Much as he was disliked, and even detested, by his neighbors, everyone respected him.
And here was a man who treated him with undisguised scorn. Why? By what right?
Indignant at the outrage, he made a movement as if to retire.
No one, save his daughter, knew the truth; he had only to keep silence and Sairmeuse remained his.
Yes, he had still the power to keep Sairmeuse, and he knew it, for he did not share the fears of the ignorant rustics. He was too well informed not to be able to distinguish between the hopes of the emigres and the possible. He knew that an abyss separated the dream from the reality.