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----”