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 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.