But Martial, who had been expecting this visit, had prepared himself for it. “Never, on the contrary, have I felt more calm and composed in mind,” he replied. “Allow me to ask you one question. Was it you who sent the soldiers to the rendezvous which Maurice d’Escorval had appointed?” “Marquis!” “Very well! Then it was another act of infamy on the part of the Marquis de Courtornieu.” The duke made no reply. In spite of his faults and his vices, this haughty man possessed the characteristic of the old French nobility--fidelity to his word and undoubted valor. He thought it perfectly natural, even necessary, that Martial should fight with Maurice; and he thought it a contemptible act to send armed soldiers to seize an honest and confiding opponent. “This is the second time,” pursued Martial, “that this scoundrel has attempted to bring dishonor upon our name; and if I desire to convince people of the truth of this assertion, I must break off all connection with him and his daughter. I have done this. I do not regret it, since I married her only out of deference to your wishes, and because it seemed necessary for me to marry, and because all women, save one who can never be mine, are alike to me.” Such utterances were not at all calculated to reassure the duke. “This sentiment is very noble, no doubt,” said he; “but it has none the less ruined the political prospects of our house.” An almost imperceptible smile curved Martial’s lips. “I believe, on the contrary, that I have saved them,” he replied. “It is useless for us to attempt to deceive ourselves; this whole affair of the insurrection has been abominable, and you have good reason to bless the opportunity of freeing yourself from the responsibility of it which this quarrel gives you. With a little address, you can throw all the odium upon the Marquis de Courtornieu, and keep for yourself only the prestige of valuable service rendered.” The duke’s face brightened. “Zounds, Marquis!” he exclaimed; “that is a good idea! In the future I shall be infinitely less afraid of Courtornieu.” Martial remained thoughtful. “It is not the Marquis de Courtornieu whom I fear,” he murmured, “but his daughter--my wife.” CHAPTER XLI One must have lived in the country to know with what inconceivable rapidity news flies from mouth to mouth. Strange as it may seem, the news of the scene at the chateau reached Father Poignot’s farm-house that same evening. It had not been three hours since Maurice, Jean Lacheneur and Bavois left the house, promising to re-cross the frontier that same night. Abbe Midon had decided to say nothing to M. d’Escorval of his son’s return, and to conceal Marie-Anne’s presence in the house. The baron’s condition was so critical that the merest trifle might turn the scale.