M. d’Escorval thought it his duty to interfere.
“Take care, my dear friend, that your grief does not overthrow your reason,” said he. “Reflect! What will become of you—your daughter and yourself?”
The wretched man smiled sadly.
“Oh,” he replied, “we are not as destitute as I said. I exaggerated our misfortune. We are still landed proprietors. Last year an old cousin, whom I could never induce to come and live at Sairmeuse, died, bequeathing all her property to Marie-Anne. This property consisted of a poor little cottage near the Reche, with a little garden and a few acres of sterile land. In compliance with my daughter’s entreaties, I repaired the cottage, and sent there a few articles of furniture—a table, some chairs, and a couple of beds. My daughter designed it as a home for old Father Guvat and his wife. And I, surrounded by wealth and luxury, said to myself: ‘How comfortable those two old people will be there. They will live as snug as a bug in a rug!’ Well, what I thought so comfortable for others, will be good enough for me. I will raise vegetables, and Marie-Anne shall sell them.”
Was he speaking seriously?
Maurice must have supposed so, for he sprang forward.
“This shall not be, Monsieur Lacheneur!” he exclaimed.
“Oh——”
“No, this shall not be, for I love Marie-Anne, and I ask you to give her to me for my wife.”