Maurice’s safe retreat was, in fact, only a neighboring wood, where in company with the corporal, he was awaiting Jean’s return. But Jean could not resist the temptation to make this response, which was far more insulting than if he had simply said: “We fear informers!” Strange as it may appear to one who knew Martial’s proud and violent nature, he did not resent the insult. “So you distrust me!” he said, sadly. Jean Lacheneur was silent--another insult. “But,” insisted Martial, “after what you have just seen and heard you can no longer suspect me of having cut the ropes which I carried to the baron.” “No! I am convinced that you are innocent of that atrocious act.” “You saw how I punished the man who dared to compromise the honor of the name of Sairmeuse. And this man is the father of the young girl whom I wedded to-day.” “I have seen all this; but I must still reply: ‘Impossible.’” Jean was amazed at the patience, we should rather say, the humble resignation displayed by Martial de Sairmeuse. Instead of rebelling against this manifest injustice, Martial drew from his pocket the paper which he had just taken from his desk, and handing it to Jean: “Those who have brought upon me the shame of having my word doubted shall be punished for it,” he said grimly. “You do not believe in my sincerity, Jean. Here is a proof, which I expect you to give to Maurice, and which cannot fail to convince even you.” “What is this proof?” “The letter written by my hand, in exchange for which my father assisted in the baron’s escape. An inexplicable presentiment prevented me from burning this compromising letter. To-day, I rejoice that such was the case. Take it, and use it as you will.” Anyone save Jean Lacheneur would have been touched by the generosity of soul. But Jean was implacable. His was a nature which nothing can disarm, which nothing can mollify; hatred in his heart was a passion which, instead of growing weaker with time, increased and became more terrible. He would have sacrificed anything at that moment for the ineffable joy of seeing this proud and detested marquis at his feet. “Very well, I will give it to Maurice,” he responded, coldly. “It should be a bond of alliance, it seems to me,” said Martial, gently. Jean Lacheneur made a gesture terrible in its irony and menace. “A bond of alliance!” he exclaimed. “You are too fast, Monsieur le Marquis! Have you forgotten all the blood that flows between us? You did not cut the ropes; but who condemned the innocent Baron d’Escorval to death? Was it not the Duc de Sairmeuse? An alliance! You have forgotten that you and yours sent my father to the scaffold! How have you rewarded the man whose heroic honesty gave you back a fortune? By murdering him, and by ruining the reputation of his daughter.” “I offered my name and my fortune to your sister.”