Martial certainly imagined that he had created a terrible scandal on the
evening of his marriage; but he had no conception of the reality. Had a
thunderbolt burst in these gilded halls, the guests at Sairmeuse could
not have been more amazed and horrified than they were by the scene
presented to their view. The whole assembly shuddered when Martial, in
his wrath, flung the crumpled letter full in the Marquis de
Courtornieu’s face. And when the latter sank back into an arm-chair,
several young ladies of extreme sensibility actually fainted away. The
young marquis had departed, taking Jean Lacheneur with him, and yet the
guests stood as motionless as statues, pale, mute, and stupefied. It was
Blanche who broke the spell. While the Marquis de Courtornieu was
panting for breath--while the Duke de Sairmeuse stood trembling and
speechless with suppressed anger--the young marchioness made an heroic
attempt to save the situation. With her hand still aching from Martial’s
brutal clasp, her heart swelling with rage and hatred, and her face
whiter than her bridal veil, she yet had sufficient strength to
restrain her tears and force her lips to smile. “Really this is placing
too much importance on a trifling misunderstanding which will be
explained to-morrow,” she said, almost gaily, to those nearest her. And
stepping into the middle of the hall she made a sign to the musicians to
play a country-dance.
But scarcely had the first note sounded, than, as if by unanimous
consent, the whole company hastened towards the door. It might have been
supposed that the chateau was on fire, for the guests did not withdraw,
they actually fled. An hour previously, the Marquis de Courtornieu and
the Duke de Sairmeuse had been overwhelmed with the most obsequious
homage and adulation. But now there was not one in all the assembly
daring enough to take them openly by the hand. Just when they both
believed themselves all-powerful they were rudely precipitated from
their lordly eminence. Indeed disgrace, and perhaps punishment, were to
be their portion. Heroic to the last, however, the abandoned bride
endeavoured to stay the tide of retreating guests. Standing near the
door, and with her most bewitching smile upon her lips, Blanche spared
neither flattering words nor entreaties in her efforts to retain the
deserters. The attempt was vain; and, in point of fact, many were not
sorry of this opportunity to repay the young Marchioness de Sairmeuse
for all her past disdain and criticism. Soon, of all the guests, there
only remained one old gentleman who, on account of his gout, had deemed
it prudent not to mingle with the crowd. He bowed as he passed before
Blanche, and could not even restrain a blush, for he rightly considered
that this swift flight was a cruel insult for the abandoned bride.
Still, what could he do alone? Under the circumstances, his presence
would prove irksome, and so he departed like the others.
Blanche was now alone, and there was no longer any necessity for
constraint. There were no more curious witnesses to enjoy her sufferings
and comment upon them. With a furious gesture she tore her bridal veil
and wreath of orange flowers from her head, and trampled them under
foot. “Extinguish the lights everywhere!” she cried to a servant passing
by, stamping her foot angrily, and speaking as imperiously as if she had
been in her father’s house, and not at Sairmeuse. The lacquey obeyed
her, and then, with flashing eyes and dishevelled hair, she hastened to
the little drawing-room at the end of the hall. Several servants stood
round the marquis, who was lying back in his chair with a swollen,
purple face, as if he had been stricken with apoplexy.
“All the blood in his body has flown to his head,” remarked the duke,
with a shrug of his shoulders. His grace was furious. He scarcely knew
whom he was most angry with--with Martial or the Marquis de Courtornieu.
The former, by his public confession, had certainly imperilled, if not
ruined, their political future. But, on the other hand, the Marquis de
Courtornieu had cast on the Sairmeuses the odium of an act of treason
revolting to any honourable heart. The duke was watching the clustering
servants with a contracted brow when his daughter-in-law entered the
room. She paused before him, and angrily exclaimed: “Why did you remain
here while I was left alone to endure such humiliation. Ah! if I had
been a man! All our guests have fled, monsieur--all of them!”
M. de Sairmeuse sprang up. “Ah, well! what if they have. Let them go to
the devil!” Among all the invited ones who had just left his house,
there was not one whom his grace really regretted--not one whom he
regarded as an equal. In giving a marriage feast for his son, he had
invited all the petty nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood. They had
come--very well! They had fled--_bon voyage_! If the duke cared at all
for their desertion, it was only because it presaged with terrible
eloquence the disgrace that was to come. Still he tried to deceive
himself. “They will come back again, madame,” said he; “you will see
them return, humble and repentant! But where can Martial be?”
Blanche’s eyes flashed, but she made no reply.
“Did he go away with the son of that rascal, Lacheneur?”
“I believe so.”
“It won’t be long before he returns----”
“Who can say?”
M. de Sairmeuse struck the mantlepiece with his clenched fist. “My God!”
he exclaimed, “this is an overwhelming misfortune.” The young wife
believed that he was anxious and angry on her account. But she was
mistaken: for his grace was only thinking of his disappointed ambition.
Whatever he might pretend, the duke secretly admitted his son’s
intellectual superiority and genius for intrigue, and he was now
extremely anxious to consult him. “He has wrought this evil,” he
murmured: “it is for him to repair it! And he is capable of doing so if
he chooses.” Then, aloud, he resumed: “Martial must be found--he must be
found----”
With an angry gesture Blanche interrupted him. “You must look for
Marie-Anne Lacheneur if you wish to find my husband,” said she.
The duke was of the same opinion, but he dared not admit it. “Anger
leads you astray, marchioness,” said he.
“I know what I say,” was the curt response.
“No, believe me, Martial will soon make his appearance. If he went away,
he will soon return. The servants shall go for him at once, or I will go
for him myself----”
The duke left the room with a muttered oath, and Blanche approached her
father, who still seemed to be unconscious. She seized his arm and shook
it roughly, peremptorily exclaiming, “Father, father!” This voice, which
had so often made the Marquis de Courtornieu tremble, proved more
efficacious than eau de Cologne. “I wish to speak with you,” added
Blanche: “do you hear me?”
The marquis dared not disobey; he slowly opened his eyes and raised
himself from his recumbent position. “Ah! how I suffer!” he groaned,
“how I suffer!”
His daughter glanced at him scornfully, and then in a tone of bitter
irony remarked: “Do you think that I’m in paradise?”
“Speak,” sighed the marquis. “What do you wish to say?”
The bride turned haughtily to the servants and imperiously ordered them
to leave the room. When they had done so and she had locked the door:
“Let us speak of Martial,” she began.
At the sound of his son-in-law’s name the marquis bounded from his chair
with clenched fists. “Ah, the wretch!” he exclaimed.
“Martial is my husband, father.”
“And you! after what he has done--you dare to defend him?”
“I don’t defend him; but I don’t wish him to be murdered.” At that
moment the news of Martial’s death would have given the Marquis de
Courtornieu infinite satisfaction. “You heard, father,” continued
Blanche, “that young D’Escorval appointed a meeting for to-morrow, at
mid-day, at La Reche. I know Martial; he has been insulted, and will go
there. Will he encounter a loyal adversary? No. He will find a band of
assassins. You alone can prevent him from being murdered.”
“I--and how?”
“By sending some soldiers to La Reche, with orders to conceal themselves
in the grove--with orders to arrest these murderers at the proper
moment.”
The marquis gravely shook his head. “If I do that,” said he, “Martial is
quite capable----”
“Of anything!--yes, I know it. But what does it matter to you, since I
am willing to assume the responsibility?”
M. de Courtornieu looked at his daughter inquisitively, and if she had
been less excited as she insisted on the necessity of sending
instructions to Montaignac at once, she would have discerned a gleam of
malice in his eye. The marquis was thinking that this would afford him
an ample revenge, since he could easily bring dishonour on Martial, who
had shown so little regard for the honour of others. “Very well; then,
since you will have it so, it shall be done,” he said, with feigned
reluctance.
His daughter hastily procured ink and pens, and then with trembling
hands he prepared a series of minute instructions for the commander at
Montaignac. Blanche herself gave the letter to a servant, with
directions to start at once; and it was not until she had seen him set
off at a gallop that she went to her own apartment, that luxurious
bridal chamber which Martial had so sumptuously adorned. But now its
splendour only aggravated the misery of the deserted wife, for that she
was deserted she did not for a moment doubt. She felt sure that her
husband would not return, and had no faith whatever in the promises of
the Duke de Sairmeuse, who at that moment was searching through the
neighbourhood with a party of servants. Where could the truant be? With
Marie-Anne most assuredly--and at the thought a wild desire to wreak
vengeance on her rival took possession of Blanche’s heart. She did not
sleep that night, she did not even undress, but when morning came she
exchanged her snowy bridal robe for a black dress, and wandered through
the grounds like a restless spirit. Most of the day, however, she spent
shut up in her room, refusing to allow either the duke or her father to
enter.
At about eight o’clock in the evening tidings came from Martial. A
servant brought two letters; one sent by the young marquis to his
father, and the other to his wife. For a moment Blanche hesitated to
open the one addressed to her. It would determine her destiny, and she
felt afraid. At last, however, she broke the seal and read:
“Madame--Between you and me all is ended; reconciliation is impossible.
From this moment you are free. I esteem you enough to hope that you will
respect the name of Sairmeuse, from which I cannot relieve you. You will
agree with me, I am sure, in thinking a quiet separation preferable to
the scandal of legal proceedings. My lawyer will pay you an allowance
befitting the wife of a man whose income amounts to five hundred
thousand francs. MARTIAL DE SAIRMEUSE.”
Blanche staggered beneath the terrible blow. She was indeed
deserted--and deserted, as she supposed, for another. “Ah!” she
exclaimed, “that creature! that creature! I will kill her!”
While Blanche was measuring the extent of her misfortune his grace the
Duke de Sairmeuse raved and swore. After a fruitless search for his son
he returned to the chateau, and began a continuous tramp to and fro in
the great hall. On the morrow he scarcely ate, and was well nigh 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
conjugal separation he had determined on, but merely wrote: “I cannot
return to Sairmeuse, and yet it is of the utmost importance that I
should see you. You will, I trust, approve the resolution I have taken
when I explain the reasons that have guided me in adopting it. Come to
Montaignac, then, the sooner the better. I am waiting for you.”
Had he listened to the prompting of his own impatience, his grace would
have started at once. But he could not abandon the Marquis de
Courtornieu and his son’s wife in this abrupt fashion. He must at least
see them, speak to them, and warn them of his intended departure. He
attempted to do this in vain. 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 that the marquis was well nigh 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 such a nature as his.
“However,” thought he, “to-morrow, after breakfast, I will find some
pretext to escape, without telling them I am going to see Martial.”
He was spared this trouble, for on the following morning at about nine
o’clock, while he was dressing, a servant came to inform him that M. de
Courtornieu and his daughter were waiting to speak with him in the
drawing-room. Much surprised, he hastened downstairs. As he entered the
room, the marquis, who was seated in an arm-chair, rose to his feet
leaning for support on Aunt Medea’s shoulder; while Blanche, who was as
pale as if every drop of blood had been drawn from her veins--stepped
swiftly forward: “We are going, Monsieur le Duc,” she said, coldly, “and
we wish to bid you farewell.”
“What! you are going? Will you not----”
The young bride interrupted him with a mournful gesture, and drew
Martial’s letter from her bosom. “Will you do me the favour to peruse
this?” she said, handing the missive to his grace.
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 more 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 unhappy of women. I also forgive
him for the supreme insult of speaking to me of his fortune. I trust he
may be happy. Farewell, Monsieur le Duc, we shall never meet again.
Farewell!”
With these words 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 go away like this!” he exclaimed. “I will not
suffer it. Wait at least until I have seen Martial. Perhaps he is not so
guilty 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 with such a conventional air of benevolence, and with such
entire harmony of intonation and gesture that M. de Sairmeuse was
perfectly bewildered. With a dazed air he watched the marquis and his
daughter depart, and they had been gone some moments before he recovered
himself sufficiently to exclaim: “The old hypocrite! does he believe me
to be his dupe?” His dupe! M. de Sairmeuse was so far from being his
dupe, that his next thought was: “What’s going to follow this farce? If
he says he forgives us, that means that he has some crushing blow in
store for us.” This idea soon ripening into conviction made his grace
feel apprehensive, for he did not quite see how he would cope
successfully with the perfidious marquis. “But Martial is a match for
him!” he at last 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 vehicle was ready, he announced his
determination to drive himself. As he urged the horses furiously onward,
he tried to reflect, but the most contradictory ideas were seething in
his brain and he lost all power of looking at the situation calmly. He
burst into Martial’s room like a bombshell. “I certainly think you must
have gone mad, marquis,” he exclaimed. “That is the only valid excuse
you can offer.”
But Martial, who had been expecting the visit, had fully prepared
himself for some such remark. “Never, on the contrary, have I felt more
calm and composed in mind,” he replied, “than I am now. Allow me to ask
you one question. Was it you who sent the gendarmes to the meeting which
Maurice d’Escorval appointed?”
“Marquis!”
“Very well! Then it was another act of infamy to be scored against the
Marquis de Courtornieu.”
The duke made no reply. In spite of all his faults and vices, this
haughty nobleman retained those characteristics of the old French
aristocracy--fidelity to his word and undoubted valour. He thought it
perfectly natural, even necessary, that Martial should fight with
Maurice; and he considered it a contemptible proceeding to send armed
soldiers to seize an honest and confiding opponent.
“This is the second time,” resumed Martial, “that this scoundrel has
tried to dishonour our name; and if I am to convince people of the truth
of this assertion, I must break off all connection with him and his
daughter. I have done so, and I don’t regret it, for I only married her
out of deference to your wishes, and because it seemed necessary for me
to marry, and because all women, excepting one, who can never be mine,
are alike to me.”
Such utterances were scarcely calculated to re-assure 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, I have saved them,” replied he. “It is useless for us to
attempt to deceive ourselves; this affair of the insurrection has been
abominable, and you ought to bless the opportunity this quarrel gives
you to free yourself from all responsibility in it. You must go to Paris
at once, and see the Duke de Richelieu--nay, the king himself, and with
a little address, you can throw all the odium on the Marquis de
Courtornieu, and retain for yourself only the prestige of the valuable
services you have 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 that
I fear,” he murmured, “but his daughter--my wife.”