She had been accused of having three lovers—Chanlouineau, Martial, and Maurice. The calumny had not moved her. What tortured her was what these people did not know—the truth.
Nor was this all. The sublime instinct of maternity had been awakened within her. When she saw the physician depart, bearing her child, she felt as if soul and body were being rent asunder. When could she hope to see again this little son who was doubly dear to her by reason of the very sorrow and anguish he had cost her? The tears gushed to her eyes when she thought that his first smile would not be for her.
Ah! had it not been for her promise to Maurice, she would unhesitatingly have braved public opinion, and kept her precious child.
Her brave and honest nature could have endured any humiliation far better than the continual lie she was forced to live.
But she had promised; Maurice was her husband, and reason told her that for his sake she must preserve not her honor, alas! but the semblance of honor.
And when she thought of her brother, her blood froze in her veins.
Having learned that Jean was roving about the country, she sent for him; but it was not without much persuasion that he consented to come to the Borderie.
It was easy to explain Chupin’s terror when one saw Jean Lacheneur. His clothing was literally in tatters, his face wore an expression of ferocious despair, and a fierce unextinguishable hatred burned in his eyes.
When he entered the cottage, Marie-Anne recoiled in horror. She did not recognize him until he spoke.
“It is I, sister,” he said, gloomily.