The duke made no reply. In spite of all his faults and vices, this haughty nobleman retained those characteristics of the old French aristocracy--fidelity to his word and undoubted valour. He thought it perfectly natural, even necessary, that Martial should fight with Maurice; and he considered it a contemptible proceeding to send armed soldiers to seize an honest and confiding opponent. “This is the second time,” resumed Martial, “that this scoundrel has tried to dishonour our name; and if I am to convince people of the truth of this assertion, I must break off all connection with him and his daughter. I have done so, and I don’t regret it, for I only married her out of deference to your wishes, and because it seemed necessary for me to marry, and because all women, excepting one, who can never be mine, are alike to me.” Such utterances were scarcely calculated to re-assure the duke. “This sentiment is very noble, no doubt,” said he; “but it has none the less ruined the political prospects of our house.” An almost imperceptible smile curved Martial’s lips. “I believe, on the contrary, I have saved them,” replied he. “It is useless for us to attempt to deceive ourselves; this affair of the insurrection has been abominable, and you ought to bless the opportunity this quarrel gives you to free yourself from all responsibility in it. You must go to Paris at once, and see the Duke de Richelieu--nay, the king himself, and with a little address, you can throw all the odium on the Marquis de Courtornieu, and retain for yourself only the prestige of the valuable services you have rendered.” The duke’s face brightened. “Zounds, marquis!” he exclaimed; “that is a good idea! In the future I shall be infinitely less afraid of Courtornieu.” Martial remained thoughtful. “It is not the Marquis de Courtornieu that I fear,” he murmured, “but his daughter--my wife.” XXVIII.