“Wouldn’t give his name?” ejaculated Martial. “Ah, well, on one’s wedding-day one must grant an audience to everybody.” And with a smile he descended the staircase. Beside the fragrant flowering plants with which the vestibule was lined, he found a young a man with a pale face, whose eyes glittered with feverish brilliancy. On recognising him Martial could not restrain an exclamation of surprise. “Jean Lacheneur!” he exclaimed; “you imprudent fellow!” Young Lacheneur stepped forward. “You thought you were rid of me,” he said, bitterly. “But you see you were mistaken. However, you can order your people to arrest me if you choose.” Martial’s brow lowered on hearing these insulting words. “What do you want?” he asked coldly. “I am to give you this on behalf of Maurice d’Escorval,” replied Jean, drawing a letter from his pocket. With an eager hand, Martial broke the seal; but scarcely had he glanced at the contents than he turned as pale as death and staggered back, exclaiming, “Infamous!” “What am I to say to Maurice,” insisted Jean. “What do you intend to do?” “Come--you shall see,” replied the young marquis, seizing Jean by the arm and dragging him up the staircase. The expression of Martial’s features had so changed during his brief absence that the wedding guests looked at him with astonishment when he re-entered the grand saloon holding an open letter in one hand, and leading with the other a young peasant whom no one recognised. “Where is my father?” he asked, in a husky voice; “where is the Marquis de Courtornieu?” The duke and the marquis were with Blanche in a little drawing-room leading out of the main hall. Martial hastened there, followed by a crowd of wondering guests, who, foreseeing a stormy scene, were determined to witness it. He walked straight towards M. de Courtornieu, who was standing by the fire-place, and handing him the letter: “Read!” said he, in a threatening voice. M. de Courtornieu mechanically obeyed the injunction; but suddenly he turned livid; the paper trembled in his hands: he averted his glance, and was obliged to lean against the mantelpiece for support. “I don’t understand,” he stammered: “no, I don’t understand.” The duke and Blanche had both sprung forward. “What is the matter?” they both asked in one breath; “what has happened?” Martial’s reply was to tear the letter from the Marquis de Courtornieu’s hands, and to turn to his father with these words: “Listen to this note I have just received.”