"She is there," he thought, "in her virgin chamber. She is kneeling to
say her prayers. She murmurs my name after that of her father, imploring
God's blessing upon us both."

But this evening he was not waiting for a light to gleam through the
panes of that dear window.

Marie-Anne was no longer at Sairmeuse--she had been driven away.

Where was she now? She, accustomed to all the luxury that wealth could
procure, no longer had any home except a poor thatch-covered hovel,
whose walls were not even whitewashed, whose only floor was the earth
itself, dusty as the public highway in summer, frozen or muddy in
winter.

She was reduced to the necessity of occupying herself the humble abode
she, in her charitable heart, had intended as an asylum for one of her
pensioners.

What was she doing now? Doubtless she was weeping.

At this thought poor Maurice was heartbroken.

What was his surprise, a little after midnight, to see the chateau
brilliantly illuminated.

The duke and his son had repaired to the chateau after the banquet given
by the Marquis de Courtornieu was over; and, before going to bed, they
made a tour of inspection through this magnificent abode in which
their ancestors had lived. They, therefore, might be said to have