Three hundred people were assembled in the room, or clustering round the doorway, but the silence was so perfect that Martial’s voice reached the farthest extremity of the grand hall as he read: “Monsieur le Marquis--Upon the honour of your name, and in exchange for a dozen lines that threatened you with ruin, you promised us the Baron d’Escorval’s life. You did, indeed, bring the ropes by which he was to make his escape, but they had been previously cut, and my father was precipitated on to the rocks below. You have forfeited your honour, sir. You have soiled your name with opprobrium, and while a drop of blood remains in my veins, I will leave no means untried to punish you for your cowardice and treason. By killing me you would, it is true, escape the chastisement I am reserving for you. I challenge you to fight with me. Shall I wait for you to-morrow on La Reche? At what hour? With what weapons? If you are the vilest of men, you can appoint a meeting, and then send your gendarmes to arrest me. That would be an act worthy of you. “MAURICE D’ESCORVAL.” * * * * * On hearing these words the Duke de Sairmeuse was seized with despair. He saw the secret of the baron’s flight made public, and his own political prospects ruined. “Hush!” he hurriedly exclaimed in a low voice; “hush, wretched fellow, you will ruin us!” But Martial did not even seem to hear him. He finished his perusal, and then looking the Marquis de Courtornieu full in the face: “_Now_, what do you think?” he asked. “I am still unable to comprehend,” replied the old nobleman, coldly. Martial raised his hand; and every one present believed that he was about to strike his father-in-law. “You don’t comprehend,” he exclaimed sarcastically. “Ah, well, if _you_ don’t, _I_ do. I know who that officer was who entered the room where I deposited the ropes--and I know what took him there.” He paused, crumpled the letter between his hands, and threw it in M. de Courtornieu’s face, with these last words: “Here, take your reward, you cowardly traitor!” Overwhelmed by this denouement the marquis sank back into an arm-chair, and Martial, still holding Jean Lacheneur by the arm, was on the point of leaving the room, when his young wife, wild with despair, tried to detain him. “You shall not go!” she exclaimed, “you cannot! Where are you going? That young fellow with you is Jean Lacheneur. I recognize him. You want to join his sister--your mistress!” Martial indignantly pushed his wife aside. “How dare you insult the noblest and purest of women,” he exclaimed. “Ah, well--yes--I am going to find Marie-Anne. Farewell!” And with these words he left the chateau. XXIV.