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!”