weaker at each successive step he took in the direction of the chateau. The guests must have already left, and Martial concluded that he would probably find himself alone with his young wife, his father and the Marquis de Courtornieu, whose reproaches, tears, and threats he would be obliged to encounter. “No,” muttered he. “After all, let them have a night to calm themselves. I will not appear until to-morrow.” But where should he sleep? He was in evening dress and bare-headed, and the night was chilly. On reflection he recollected his father’s house at Montaignac. “I shall find a bed there,” he thought, “servants, a fire, and a change of clothing--and to-morrow, a horse to come back again.” The walk was a long one, no doubt; however, in his present mood, this circumstance did not displease him. The servant who came to open the door when he knocked, was at first speechless with astonishment. “You, Monsieur le Marquis!” he exclaimed at last. “Yes, it’s I. Light a good fire in the drawing-room, and bring me a change of clothes.” The valet obeyed, and soon Martial found himself alone, stretched on a sofa in front of the blazing logs. “It would be a good thing to sleep and forget my troubles,” he thought; and accordingly he tried to do so, but it was almost dawn when at last he fell into a feverish slumber. He woke up again at nine o’clock, gave the necessary instructions for breakfast, and was eating with a good appetite, when suddenly he remembered his rendezvous with Maurice. He ordered a horse and set out at once, reaching La Reche at half-past eleven o’clock. The others had not yet arrived; so he fastened his horse by the bridle to a tree near by, and leisurely climbed to the summit of the hill. It was here that Lacheneur’s cottage had formerly stood, and the four walls still remained standing, blackened by fire. Martial was gazing at the ruins, not without a feeling of emotion, when he heard the branches crackle in the adjacent cover. He turned, and perceived that Maurice, Jean, and Corporal Bavois were approaching. The old soldier carried under his arm, in a piece of green serge, a couple of swords which Jean Lacheneur had borrowed from a retired officer at Montaignac during the night. “We are sorry to have kept you waiting,” began Maurice, “but you will observe that it is not yet noon. Since we scarcely expected to see you----” “I was too anxious to justify myself not to be here early,” interrupted Martial. Maurice shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “This is not a question of self-justification, but one of fighting,” he abruptly replied. Insulting as were the words and the gesture that accompanied them, Martial never so much as winced. “Grief has made you unjust,” said he, gently, “or M. Lacheneur has not told you everything.” “Yes, Jean has told me everything.” “Well, then?”