completely under his control by the wealth he had promised them if they served them faithfully. If Martial decided to follow his wife into the Poivriere the first time he watched her, Jean had, moreover, so arranged matters that the duke would at first suppose that Blanche had been led there by charity. “But he will not go in,” thought the seeming vagrant, as, holding Martial’s horse some little distance off, he looked in the direction of the hovel. “Monsieur le Duc is too cunning for that.” And Martial did not go in. Though he was horrified when he saw his wife enter so vile a den, as if she were at home there, he said to himself that he should learn nothing by following her. He, therefore, contented himself by making a thorough examination of the hovel from outside, and then remounting his horse and throwing Lacheneur a silver coin he started back home at a gallop. He was completely mystified: he did not know what to think, what to imagine, what to believe. But, at the same time, he was fully resolved to fathom the mystery; and as soon as he returned home he sent Otto out in search of information. He could confide everything to this devoted servant from whom he had no secrets. At four o’clock in the afternoon, the faithful valet de chambre returned with an expression of consternation on his face. “What is it?” asked Martial, divining some great misfortune. “Ah, sir, the mistress of that wretched den is the widow of Chupin’s son--” Martial’s face turned ghastly pale. He knew life well enough to understand that since the duchess had been compelled to submit to these peoples’ power, they must be masters of some secret which she was anxious at any price to keep unrevealed. But what secret could it be? The years which had furrowed Martial’s brow, had not cooled the ardour of his blood. He was, as he had always been, a man of impulse, and so, without pausing he rushed to his wife’s apartments. “Madame has just gone downstairs to receive the Countess de Mussidan and the Marchioness d’Arlange,” said the maid whom he met on the landing. “Very well; I will wait for her here. You may retire.” So saying, Martial entered Blanche’s dressing-room. It was in disorder for, after returning from the Poivriere, the duchess was still engaged at her toilette when visitors were announced. The wardrobe-doors stood open, two or three chairs were encumbered with wearing apparel, and Blanche’s watch, her purse, and several bunches of keys were lying on the dressing-table and the mantel-piece. Martial did not sit down. His self-possession was returning. “I will commit no act of folly,” he thought, “if I question her, I shall learn nothing. I must be silent and watchful.”