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Updated: June 20, 2025
The rowers in Marie-Anne's York boat burst into a wild and exultant snatch of song and made their oars fairly crack. There came a solitary yell from Andre, the Broken Man, who was close to the head of the raft now.
And Blanche, in terror, asked herself what would be her fate if her husband ever discovered that she was the culprit and he might discover it. She now began to regret that she had not kept the promise she had made to her victim; and she resolved to commence the search for Marie-Anne's child.
It read as follows: "The bearer of this letter is Marie-Anne's son, Maurice your son. I have given him all the proofs necessary to establish his identity. It was to his education that I consecrated the heritage of my poor Marie-Anne. "Those to whose care I confided him have made a noble man of him. If I restore him to you, it is only because the life I lead is not a fitting life for him.
Unlike Jean, he was determined to guard religiously the honor of the dead; and he had made his friends promise that Marie-Anne's name should not be mentioned in prosecuting the search. "We shall succeed all the same," said the abbe, kindly; "with time and patience any mystery can be solved."
Abbe Midon and Maurice had already leaped to the ground and were lifting out an apparently lifeless body. Even Marie-Anne's great energy had not been able to resist so many successive shocks; the last trial had overwhelmed her. Once in the carriage, all immediate danger having disappeared, the excitement which had sustained her fled.
I say it is enough to get down into the soul of a man, unless he is already half dead! That voice " He caught Marie-Anne's eyes. Her cheeks were flaming. Her look, for an instant, flashed lightning as she halted him. "Ma foi, I speak it from the heart," he persisted, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Am I not right, M'sieu Carrigan? Did you ever hear a sweeter voice?"
Then he confided to his father all that had taken place in the grove on the Reche. The slightest detail of the scene had engraved itself indelibly upon his memory. When the recital was ended: "Are you quite sure," asked his father, "that you correctly understood Marie-Anne's reply? Did she tell you that if her father gave his consent to your marriage, she would refuse hers?"
She was waving her handkerchief, and the poise of her slim body told him that in her eagerness she would have darted from the bow of the boat had she possessed wings. Again he looked at St. Pierre. And this was the man who was no match for Concombre Bateese! It was inconceivable. Yet he heard Marie-Anne's voice repeating those very words in his ear. But she had surely been joking with him.
Loving and chaste wives and mothers are always most indulgent to those who have been led astray by the voice of passion. Such noble women can, with impunity, despise and brave the prejudices of hypocrites. These reflections made Maurice feel more tranquil in regard to Marie-Anne's future, and he now thought only of his father.
M. d'Escorval was abashed for a moment; but recovering himself, he took Marie-Anne's hand, and pressing it affectionately, he said: "So Maurice loves you; you love him; you suffer; he has nearly died, and still you reject him!" "It must be so, Monsieur." "You say this, my dear child you say this, and you undoubtedly believe it.
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