But Martial’s kindly greeting had disconcerted him a little. But he was reassured when he saw the terrible effect produced upon the marquis by the insulting letter. “We have cut him to the quick,” he thought. When Martial seized him by the arm and led him upstairs, he made no resistance. While they traversed the brightly lighted drawing-rooms and passed through the crowd of astonished guests, Jean thought neither of his heavy shoes nor of his peasant dress. Breathless with anxiety, he wondered what was to come. He soon knew. Leaning against the gilded door-post, he witnessed the terrible scene in the little salon. He saw Martial de Sairmeuse, frantic with passion, cast into the face of his father-in-law Maurice d’Escorval’s letter. One might have supposed that all this did not affect him in the least, he stood so cold and unmoved, with compressed lips and downcast eyes; but appearances were deceitful. His heart throbbed with wild exultation; and if he cast down his eyes, it was only to conceal the joy that sparkled there. He had not hoped for so prompt and so terrible a revenge. Nor was this all. After brutally repulsing Blanche, his newly wedded wife, who attempted to detain him, Martial again seized Jean Lacheneur’s arm. “Now,” said he, “follow me!” Jean followed him still without a word. They again crossed the grand hall, but instead of going to the vestibule Martial took a candle that was burning upon a side table, and opened a little door leading to the private staircase. “Where are you taking me?” inquired Jean Lacheneur. Martial, who had already ascended two or three steps, turned. “Are you afraid?” he asked. The other shrugged his shoulders, and coldly replied: “If you put it in that way, let us go on.” They entered the room which Martial had occupied since taking possession of the chateau. It was the same room that had once belonged to Jean Lacheneur; and nothing had been changed. He recognized the brightly flowered curtains, the figures on the carpet, and even an old arm-chair where he had read many a novel in secret. Martial hastened to a small writing-desk, and took from it a paper which he slipped into his pocket. “Now,” said he, “let us go. We must avoid another scene. My father and--my wife will be seeking me. I will explain when we are outside.” They hastily descended the staircase, passed through the gardens, and soon reached the long avenue. Then Jean Lacheneur suddenly paused. “To come so far for a simple yes or no is, I think, unnecessary,” said he. “Have you decided? What answer am I to give Maurice d’Escorval?” “Nothing! You will take me to him. I must see him and speak with him in order to justify myself. Let us proceed!” But Jean Lacheneur did not move. “What you ask is impossible!” he replied. “Why?” “Because Maurice is pursued. If he is captured, he will be tried and undoubtedly condemned to death. He is now in a safe retreat, and I have no right to disclose it.”