“I am not ill, Monsieur.”
“Why do you not confide in me? Am I not your friend? What do you fear?”
She shook her head sadly and replied:
“I have nothing to confide.”
She said this, and yet she was dying of sorrow and anguish.
Faithful to the promise she had made Maurice, she had said nothing of her condition, or of the marriage solemnized in the little church at Vigano. And she saw with inexpressible terror, the approach of the moment when she could no longer keep her secret. Her agony was frightful; but what could she do!
Fly? but where should she go? And by going, would she not lose all chance of hearing from Maurice, which was the only hope that sustained her in this trying hour?
She had almost determined on flight when circumstances—providentially, it seemed to her—came to her aid.
Money was needed at the farm. The guests were unable to obtain any without betraying their whereabouts, and Father Poignot’s little store was almost exhausted.
Abbe Midon was wondering what they were to do, when Marie-Anne told him of the will which Chanlouineau had made in her favor, and of the money concealed beneath the hearth-stone in the best chamber.