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<h2> CHAPTER IX </h2>
<p>The Reche, literally translated the "Waste," where Marie-Anne had promised
to meet Maurice, owed its name to the rebellious and sterile character of
the soil.</p>
<p>Nature seemed to have laid her curse upon it. Nothing would grow there.
The ground was covered with stones, and the sandy soil defied all attempts
to enrich it.</p>
<p>A few stunted oaks rose here and there above the thorns and broom-plant.</p>
<p>But on the lowlands of the Reche is a flourishing grove. The firs are
straight and strong, for the floods of winter have deposited in some of
the clefts of the rock sufficient soil to sustain them and the wild
clematis and honeysuckle that cling to their branches.</p>
<p>On reaching this grove, Maurice consulted his watch. It marked the hour of
mid-day. He had supposed that he was late, but he was more than an hour in
advance of the appointed time.</p>
<p>He seated himself upon a high rock, from which he could survey the entire
Reche, and waited.</p>
<p>The day was magnificent; the air intensely hot. The rays of the August sun
fell with scorching violence upon the sandy soil, and withered the few
plants which had sprung up since the last rain.</p>
<p>The stillness was profound, almost terrible. Not a sound broke the
silence, not even the buzzing of an insect, nor a whisper of breeze in the
trees. All nature seemed sleeping. And on no side was there anything to
remind one of life, motion, or mankind.</p>
<p>This repose of nature, which contrasted so vividly with the tumult raging
in his own heart, exerted a beneficial effect upon Maurice. These few
moments of solitude afforded him an opportunity to regain his composure,
to collect his thoughts scattered by the storm of passion which had swept
over his soul, as leaves are scattered by the fierce November gale.</p>
<p>With sorrow comes experience, and that cruel knowledge of life which
teaches one to guard one's self against one's hopes.</p>
<p>It was not until he heard the conversation of these peasants that Maurice
fully realized the horror of Lacheneur's position. Suddenly precipitated
from the social eminence which he had attained, he found, in the valley of
humiliations into which he was cast, only hatred, distrust, and scorn.
Both factions despised and denied him. Traitor, cried one; thief, cried
the other. He no longer held any social status. He was the fallen man, the
man who <i>had</i> been, and who was no more.</p>
<p>Was not the excessive misery of such a position a sufficient explanation
of the strangest and wildest resolutions?</p>
<p>This thought made Maurice tremble. Connecting the stories of the peasants
with the words addressed to Chanlouineau at Escorval by M. Lacheneur on
the preceding evening, he arrived at the conclusion that this report of
Marie-Anne's approaching marriage to the young fanner was not so
improbable as he had at first supposed.</p>
<p>But why should M. Lacheneur give his daughter to an uncultured peasant?
From mercenary motives? Certainly not, since he had just refused an
alliance of which he had been proud in his days of prosperity. Could it be
in order to satisfy his wounded pride, then? Perhaps he did not wish it to
be said that he owed anything to a son-in-law.</p>
<p>Maurice was exhausting all his ingenuity and penetration in endeavoring to
solve this mystery, when at last, on a foot-path which crosses the waste,
a woman appeared—Marie-Anne.</p>
<p>He rose, but fearing observation, did not venture to leave the shelter of
the grove.</p>
<p>Marie-Anne must have felt a similar fear, for she hurried on, casting
anxious glances on every side as she ran. Maurice remarked, not without
surprise, that she was bare-headed, and that she had neither shawl nor
scarf about her shoulders.</p>
<p>As she reached the edge of the wood, he sprang toward her, and catching
her hand raised it to his lips.</p>
<p>But this hand, which she had so often yielded to him, was now gently
withdrawn, with so sad a gesture that he could not help feeling there was
no hope.</p>
<p>"I came, Maurice," she began, "because I could not endure the thought of
your anxiety. By doing so I have betrayed my father's confidence—he
was obliged to leave home. I hastened here. And yet I promised him, only
two hours ago, that I would never see you again. You hear me—never!"</p>
<p>She spoke hurriedly, but Maurice was appalled by the firmness of her
accent.</p>
<p>Had he been less agitated, he would have seen what a terrible effort this
semblance of calmness cost the young girl. He would have understood it
from her pallor, from the contraction of her lips, from the redness of the
eyelids which she had vainly bathed with fresh water, and which betrayed
the tears that had fallen during the night.</p>
<p>"If I have come," she continued, "it is only to tell you that, for your
own sake, as well as for mine, there must not remain in the secret
recesses of your heart even the slightest shadow of a hope. All is over;
we are separated forever! Only weak natures revolt against a destiny which
they cannot alter. Let us accept our fate uncomplainingly. I wished to see
you once more, and to say this: Have courage, Maurice. Go away—leave
Escorval—forget me!"</p>
<p>"Forget you, Marie-Anne!" exclaimed the wretched young man, "forget you!"</p>
<p>His eyes met hers, and in a husky voice he added:</p>
<p>"Will you then forget me?"</p>
<p>"I am a woman, Maurice—"</p>
<p>But he interrupted her:</p>
<p>"Ah! I did not expect this," he said, despondently. "Poor fool that I was!
I believed that you would find a way to touch your father's heart."</p>
<p>She blushed slightly, hesitated, and said:</p>
<p>"I have thrown myself at my father's feet; he repulsed me."</p>
<p>Maurice was thunderstruck, but recovering himself:</p>
<p>"It was because you did not know how to speak to him!" he exclaimed in a
passion of fury; "but I shall know—I will present such arguments
that he will be forced to yield. What right has he to ruin my happiness
with his caprices? I love you—-by right of this love, you are mine—mine
rather than his! I will make him understand this, you shall see. Where is
he? Where can I find him?"</p>
<p>Already he was starting to go, he knew not where. Marie-Anne caught him by
the arm.</p>
<p>"Remain," she commanded, "remain! So you have failed to understand me,
Maurice. Ah, well! you must know the truth. I am acquainted now with the
reasons of my father's refusal; and though his decision should cost me my
life, I approve it. Do not go to find my father. If, moved by your
prayers, he gave his consent, I should have the courage to refuse mine!"</p>
<p>Maurice was so beside himself that this reply did not enlighten him.
Crazed with anger and despair, and with no remorse for the insult he
addressed to this woman whom he loved so deeply, he exclaimed:</p>
<p>"Is it for Chanlouineau, then, that you are reserving your consent? He
believes so since he goes about everywhere saying that you will soon be
his wife."</p>
<p>Marie-Anne shuddered as if a knife had entered her very heart; and yet
there was more sorrow than anger in the glance she cast upon Maurice.</p>
<p>"Must I stoop so low as to defend myself from such an imputation?" she
asked, sadly. "Must I declare that if even I suspect such an arrangement
between Chanlouineau and my father, I have not been consulted? Must I tell
you that there are some sacrifices which are beyond the strength of poor
human nature? Understand this: I have found strength to renounce the man I
love—I shall never be able to accept another in his place!"</p>
<p>Maurice hung his head, abashed by her earnest words, dazzled by the
sublime expression of her face.</p>
<p>Reason returned; he realized the enormity of his suspicions, and was
horrified with himself for having dared to give utterance to them.</p>
<p>"Oh! pardon!" he faltered, "pardon!"</p>
<p>What did the mysterious causes of all these events which had so rapidly
succeeded each other, or M. Lacheneur's secrets, or Marie-Anne's
reticence, matter to him now?</p>
<p>He was seeking some chance of salvation; he believed that he had found it.</p>
<p>"We must fly!" he exclaimed: "fly at once without pausing to look back.
Before night we shall have passed the frontier."</p>
<p>He sprang toward her with outstretched arms, as if to seize her and bear
her away; but she checked him by a single look.</p>
<p>"Fly!" said she, reproachfully; "fly! and is it you, Maurice, who counsel
me thus? What! while misfortune is crushing my poor father to the earth,
shall I add despair and shame to his sorrows? His friends have deserted
him; shall I, his daughter, also abandon him? Ah! if I did that, I should
be the vilest, the most cowardly of creatures! If my father, yesterday,
when I believed him the owner of Sairmeuse, had demanded the sacrifice to
which I consented last evening, I might, perhaps, have resolved upon the
extreme measure you have counselled. In broad daylight I might have left
Sairmeuse on the arm of my lover. It is not the world that I fear! But if
one might consent to fly from the chateau of a rich and happy father, one
<i>cannot</i> consent to desert the poor abode of a despairing and
penniless parent. Leave me, Maurice, where honor holds me. It will not be
difficult for me, who am the daughter of generations of peasants, to
become a peasant. Go! I cannot endure more! Go! and remember that one
cannot be utterly wretched if one's conscience is clean, and one's duty
fulfilled!"</p>
<p>Maurice was about to reply, when a crackling of dry branches made him turn
his head.</p>
<p>Scarcely ten paces off, Martial de Sairmeuse was standing motionless,
leaning upon his gun.</p>
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