“That is to say, for twenty years, Monsieur Lacheneur has played the part of lord of the manor. A delightful comedy. You are rich now, I suppose.”
“I possess nothing. But I hope you will allow me to take ten thousand francs, which your aunt gave to me.”
“Ah! she gave you ten thousand francs? And when?”
“On the same evening that she gave me the eighty thousand francs intended for the purchase of the estate.”
“Perfect! What proof can you furnish that she gave you this sum?”
Lacheneur stood motionless and speechless. He tried to reply, but he could not. If he opened his lips it would only be to pour forth a torrent of menaces, insults, and invectives.
Marie-Anne stepped quickly forward.
“The proof, Monsieur,” said she, in a clear, ringing voice, “is the word of this man, who, of his own free will, comes to return to you—to give you a fortune.”
As she sprang forward her beautiful dark hair escaped from its confinement, the rich blood crimsoned her cheeks, her dark eyes flashed brilliantly, and sorrow, anger, horror at the humiliation, imparted a sublime expression to her face.
She was so beautiful that Martial regarded her with wonder.