But he did not seem to hear her, and it was in the same tone that he continued; “These Lacheneurs were happy and honoured before our arrival at Sairmeuse. Their conduct was above all praise; their probity amounted to heroism. We might have made them our faithful and devoted friends. It was our duty, as well as in our interests, to have done so. But we did not understand it; we humiliated, ruined, exasperated them. It was a fault for which we must atone. Who knows but what in Jean Lacheneur’s place I should have done exactly what he has done?” He was again silent for a moment; then, with one of those sudden inspirations that sometimes enable one almost to read the future, he resumed: “I know Jean Lacheneur. I can fathom his hatred, and I know that he lives only in the hope of vengeance. It is true that we are very high and he is very low, but that matters little. We have everything to fear. Our millions form a rampart around us, but he will know how to open a breach. And no precautions will save us. At the very moment when we feel ourselves secure, he will be ready to strike. What he will attempt, I don’t know; but his will be a terrible revenge. Remember my words, Blanche, if ruin ever overtakes our house, it will be Jean Lacheneur’s work.” Aunt Medea and her niece were too horror-stricken to articulate a word, and for five minutes no sound broke the stillness save Martial’s monotonous tread, as he paced up and down the room. At last he paused before his wife. “I have just ordered post-horses,” he said. “You will excuse me for leaving you here alone. I must go to Sairmeuse at once, but I shall not be absent more than a week.”