Much surprised, he hastened down. When he entered the room, the marquis, who was seated in an arm-chair, rose, leaning heavily upon the shoulder of Aunt Medea. Mme. Blanche came rapidly forward to meet the duke, as pale as if every drop of blood had been drawn from her veins. “We are going, Monsieur le Duc,” she said, coldly, “and we wish to make our adieux.” “What! you are going? Will you not----” The young bride interrupted him by a sad gesture, and drawing Martial’s letter from her bosom, she handed it to M. de Sairmeuse, saying. “Will you do me the favor to peruse this, Monsieur?” The duke glanced over the short epistle, and his astonishment was so intense that he could not even find an oath. “Incomprehensible!” he faltered; “incomprehensible!” “Incomprehensible, indeed,” repeated the young wife, sadly, but without bitterness. “I was married yesterday; to-day I am deserted. It would have been generous to have reflected the evening before and not the next day. Tell Martial, however, that I forgive him for having destroyed my life, for having made me the most miserable of creatures. I also forgive him for the supreme insult of speaking to me of his fortune. I trust he may be happy. Adieu, Monsieur le Duc, we shall never meet again. Adieu!” She took her father’s arm, and they were about to retire, when M. de Sairmeuse hastily threw himself between them and the door. “You shall not depart thus!” he exclaimed. “I will not suffer it. Wait, at least, until I have seen Martial. Perhaps he is not as culpable as you suppose--” “Enough!” interrupted the marquis; “enough! This is one of those outrages which can never be repaired. May your conscience forgive you, as I, myself, forgive you. Farewell!” This was said so perfectly, with such entire harmony of intonation and gesture, that M. de Sairmeuse was bewildered. With an absolutely wonderstruck air he watched the marquis and his daughter depart, and they had been gone some moments before he recovered himself sufficiently to exclaim: “Old hypocrite! does he believe me his dupe?” His dupe! M. de Sairmeuse was so far from being his dupe, that his next thought was: “What is to follow this farce? He says that he pardons us--that means that he has some crushing blow in store for us.” This conviction filled him with disquietude. He really felt unable to cope successfully with the perfidious marquis. “But Martial is a match for him!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I must see Martial at once.” So great was his anxiety that he lent a helping hand in harnessing the horses he had ordered, and when the carriage was ready, he announced his determination to drive himself. As he urged the horses furiously on he tried to reflect, but the most contradictory ideas seethed in his brain, and he lost all power to consider the situation calmly. He burst into Martial’s room like a tornado. “I think you must certainly have gone mad, Marquis,” he exclaimed. “That is the only valid excuse you can offer.”