The twenty-four hours which Blanche had spent in measuring the extent of
her terrible misfortune, the duke had spent in raving and swearing.
He had not even thought of going to bed.
After his fruitless search for his son he returned to the chateau, and
began a continuous tramp to and fro in the great hall.
He was almost sinking from weariness when his son’s letter was handed
him.
It was very brief.
Martial did not vouchsafe any explanation; he did not even mention the
rupture between his wife and himself.
“I cannot return to Sairmeuse,” he wrote, “and yet it is of the utmost
importance that I should see you.
“You will, I trust, approve my determinations when I explain the reasons
that have guided me in making them.
“Come to Montaignac, then, the sooner the better. I am waiting for you.”
Had he listened to the prompting of his impatience, the duke would
have started at once. But how could he thus abandon the Marquis de
Courtornieu, who had accepted his hospitality, and especially Blanche,
his son’s wife?
He must, at least, see them, speak to them, and warn them of his
intended departure.
He attempted this in vain. Mme. Blanche had shut herself up in her own
apartments, and remained deaf to all entreaties for admittance. Her
father had been put to bed, and the physician who had been summoned to
attend him, declared the marquis to be at death’s door.
The duke was therefore obliged to resign himself to the prospect of
another night of suspense, which was almost intolerable to a character
like his.
“To-morrow, after breakfast, I will find some pretext to escape, without
telling them I am going to see Martial,” he thought.
He was spared this trouble. The next morning, at about nine o’clock,
while he was dressing, a servant came to inform him that M. de
Courtornieu and his daughter were awaiting him in the drawing-room.
Much surprised, he hastened down.
When he entered the room, the marquis, who was seated in an arm-chair,
rose, leaning heavily upon the shoulder of Aunt Medea.
Mme. Blanche came rapidly forward to meet the duke, as pale as if every
drop of blood had been drawn from her veins.
“We are going, Monsieur le Duc,” she said, coldly, “and we wish to make
our adieux.”
“What! you are going? Will you not----”
The young bride interrupted him by a sad gesture, and drawing Martial’s
letter from her bosom, she handed it to M. de Sairmeuse, saying.
“Will you do me the favor to peruse this, Monsieur?”
The duke glanced over the short epistle, and his astonishment was so
intense that he could not even find an oath.
“Incomprehensible!” he faltered; “incomprehensible!”
“Incomprehensible, indeed,” repeated the young wife, sadly, but without
bitterness. “I was married yesterday; to-day I am deserted. It would
have been generous to have reflected the evening before and not the next
day. Tell Martial, however, that I forgive him for having destroyed my
life, for having made me the most miserable of creatures. I also forgive
him for the supreme insult of speaking to me of his fortune. I trust he
may be happy. Adieu, Monsieur le Duc, we shall never meet again. Adieu!”
She took her father’s arm, and they were about to retire, when M. de
Sairmeuse hastily threw himself between them and the door.
“You shall not depart thus!” he exclaimed. “I will not suffer it. Wait,
at least, until I have seen Martial. Perhaps he is not as culpable as
you suppose--”
“Enough!” interrupted the marquis; “enough! This is one of those
outrages which can never be repaired. May your conscience forgive you,
as I, myself, forgive you. Farewell!”
This was said so perfectly, with such entire harmony of intonation and
gesture, that M. de Sairmeuse was bewildered.
With an absolutely wonderstruck air he watched the marquis and his
daughter depart, and they had been gone some moments before he recovered
himself sufficiently to exclaim:
“Old hypocrite! does he believe me his dupe?”
His dupe! M. de Sairmeuse was so far from being his dupe, that his next
thought was:
“What is to follow this farce? He says that he pardons us--that means
that he has some crushing blow in store for us.”
This conviction filled him with disquietude. He really felt unable to
cope successfully with the perfidious marquis.
“But Martial is a match for him!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I must see Martial
at once.”
So great was his anxiety that he lent a helping hand in harnessing the
horses he had ordered, and when the carriage was ready, he announced his
determination to drive himself.
As he urged the horses furiously on he tried to reflect, but the most
contradictory ideas seethed in his brain, and he lost all power to
consider the situation calmly.
He burst into Martial’s room like a tornado. “I think you must certainly
have gone mad, Marquis,” he exclaimed. “That is the only valid excuse
you can offer.”
But Martial, who had been expecting this visit, had prepared himself for
it.
“Never, on the contrary, have I felt more calm and composed in mind,”
he replied. “Allow me to ask you one question. Was it you who sent the
soldiers to the rendezvous which Maurice d’Escorval had appointed?”
“Marquis!”
“Very well! Then it was another act of infamy on the part of the Marquis
de Courtornieu.”
The duke made no reply. In spite of his faults and his vices,
this haughty man possessed the characteristic of the old French
nobility--fidelity to his word and undoubted valor.
He thought it perfectly natural, even necessary, that Martial should
fight with Maurice; and he thought it a contemptible act to send armed
soldiers to seize an honest and confiding opponent.
“This is the second time,” pursued Martial, “that this scoundrel has
attempted to bring dishonor upon our name; and if I desire to convince
people of the truth of this assertion, I must break off all connection
with him and his daughter. I have done this. I do not regret it, since I
married her only out of deference to your wishes, and because it seemed
necessary for me to marry, and because all women, save one who can never
be mine, are alike to me.”
Such utterances were not at all calculated to reassure the duke.
“This sentiment is very noble, no doubt,” said he; “but it has none the
less ruined the political prospects of our house.”
An almost imperceptible smile curved Martial’s lips.
“I believe, on the contrary, that I have saved them,” he replied.
“It is useless for us to attempt to deceive ourselves; this whole affair
of the insurrection has been abominable, and you have good reason to
bless the opportunity of freeing yourself from the responsibility of it
which this quarrel gives you. With a little address, you can throw all
the odium upon the Marquis de Courtornieu, and keep for yourself only
the prestige of valuable service rendered.”
The duke’s face brightened.
“Zounds, Marquis!” he exclaimed; “that is a good idea! In the future I
shall be infinitely less afraid of Courtornieu.”
Martial remained thoughtful.
“It is not the Marquis de Courtornieu whom I fear,” he murmured, “but
his daughter--my wife.”