Like his friend, M. de Courtornieu, he would have blessed these honest, artless conspirators, had not a growing fear impaired his satisfaction. Was his son, the Marquis de Sairmeuse, really implicated in this conspiracy or not? The duke could scarcely believe in Martial’s connivance, and yet the recollection of Chupin’s assertions troubled him. On the other hand, what could have become of Martial? Had he been met by the servant sent to warn him? Was he returning? And, in that case, by which road? Had he fallen into the hands of the peasants? So many questions which could not with certainty be answered. His grace’s relief was intense when, on reaching his residence in Montaignac, after a conference with M. de Courtornieu, he learnt that Martial had returned home about a quarter of an hour before. The servant who brought him this news added that the marquis had gone to his own room directly he dismounted from his horse. “All right,” replied the duke. “I will go to him there.” At the same time, however, despite his outward placidity of manner, he was secretly murmuring, “What abominable impertinence! What! I am on horseback at the head of my troops, my life imperilled, and my son goes quietly to bed without even assuring himself of my safety!” He reached Martial’s room, and finding the door closed and locked on the inside, rapped angrily against the panel. “Who is there?” inquired the young marquis. “It is I,” replied the duke; “open the door.” Martial at once complied, and M. de Sairmeuse entered; but the sight that met his gaze made him tremble. On the table stood a basin full of blood, and Martial, with bare chest, was bathing a large wound near the right nipple. “You have been fighting!” exclaimed the duke, in an agitated voice. “Yes.” “Ah!--then you were, indeed--” “I was where?--what?” “Why, at the rendezvous of those miserable peasants who, in their folly, dared to dream of overthrowing the best of princes!” “I think you must be jesting, sir,” replied Martial, in a tone of deep surprise, which somewhat reassured his father, though it failed to dissipate his suspicions entirely. “Then these vile rascals attacked you?” inquired M. de Sairmeuse. “Not at all. I have been simply obliged to fight a duel.” “With whom? Name the scoundrel who has dared to insult you?” A faint flush tinged Martial’s cheek; but it was with his usual careless manner that he replied: “Upon my word, no; I shall not give his name. You would trouble him, perhaps; and I really owe the fellow a debt of gratitude. It happened upon the highway; he might have murdered me without ceremony had he only chosen, but he offered me open combat. Besides, he was wounded far more severely than I.” All M. de Sairmeuse’s doubts had now returned. “And why, instead of summoning a physician, are you attempting to dress this wound yourself?” “Because it is a mere trifle, and because I wish to keep it a secret.”