He was silent, awaiting the verdict.

“I approve your course, my son,” said M. d’Escorval, deeply affected; “you have conducted yourself like an honorable man.  Certainly you are very young to become the head of a family; but, as you say, circumstances demand it.”

He turned to M. Lacheneur, and added: 

“My dear friend, I, in my son’s behalf, ask the hand of your daughter in marriage.”

Maurice had not expected so little opposition.

In his delight he was almost tempted to bless the hateful Duc de
Sairmeuse, to whom he would owe his approaching happiness.

He sprang toward his father, and seizing his hands, he raised them to his lips, faltering: 

“Thanks! you are so good!  I love you!  Oh, how happy I am!”

Alas! the poor boy was in too much haste to rejoice.

A gleam of pride flashed in M. Lacheneur’s eyes; but his face soon resumed its gloomy expression.

“Believe me, Monsieur le Baron, I am deeply touched by your grandeur of soul—­yes, deeply touched.  You wish to make me forget my humiliation; but, for this very reason, I should be the most contemptible of men if I did not refuse the great honor you desire to confer upon my daughter.”

“What!” exclaimed the baron, in utter astonishment; “you refuse?”

“I am compelled to do so.”

Thunderstruck at first, Maurice afterward renewed the attack with an energy which no one had ever suspected in his character before.

“Do you, then, wish to ruin my life, Monsieur?” he exclaimed; “to ruin our life; for if I love Marie-Anne, she also loves me.”

It was easy to see that he spoke the truth.  The unhappy girl, crimson with happy blushes the moment before, had suddenly become whiter than marble, as she looked imploringly at her father.

“It cannot be,” repeated M. Lacheneur; “and the day will come when you will bless the decision I make known at this moment.”

Alarmed by her son’s evident agony, Mme. d’Escorval interposed: 

“You must have reasons for this refusal.”

“None that I can disclose, Madame.  But never while I live shall my daughter be your son’s wife!”

“Ah! it will kill my child!” exclaimed the baroness.

M. Lacheneur shook his head.

“Monsieur Maurice,” said he, “is young; he will console himself—­he will forget.”

“Never!” interrupted the unhappy lover—­“never!”

“And your daughter?” inquired the baroness.

Ah! this was the weak spot in his armor; the instinct of a mother was not mistaken.  M. Lacheneur hesitated a moment; but he finally conquered the weakness that had threatened to master him.

“Marie-Anne,” he replied, slowly, “knows her duty too well not to obey when I command.  When I tell her the motive that governs my conduct, she will become resigned; and if she suffers, she will know how to conceal her sufferings.”