taken possession of the mansion whose threshold M. de Sairmeuse had not
crossed for twenty-two years, and which Martial had never seen.

Maurice saw the lights leap from story to story, from casement to
casement, until at last even the windows of Marie-Anne's room were
illuminated.

At this sight the unhappy youth could not restrain a cry of rage.

These men, these strangers, dared enter this virgin bower, which he,
even in thought, scarcely dared to penetrate.

They trampled carelessly over the delicate carpet with their heavy
boots. Maurice trembled in thinking of the liberties which they, in
their insolent familiarity, might venture upon. He fancied he could see
them examining and handling the thousand petty trifles with which young
girls love to surround themselves; they opened the presses, perhaps they
were reading an unfinished letter lying upon her writing-desk.

Never until this evening had Martial supposed he could hate another as
he hated these men.

At last, in despair, he threw himself upon his bed, and passed the
remainder of the night in thinking over what he should say to Marie-Anne
on the morrow, and in seeking some issue from this inextricable
labyrinth.

He rose before daybreak, and wandered about the park like a soul in
distress, fearing, yet longing, for the hour that would decide his fate.
Mme. d'Escorval was obliged to exert all her authority to make him take