And the proud duchess was always punctual at the rendezvous. There was constantly some new invention, as if he found an intense delight in proving his power and in abusing it. He had met, Heaven knows where! a certain Aspasie Clapard, to whom he took a violent fancy, and although she was much older than himself, he wished to marry her. Mme. Blanche paid for the wedding-feast. Again he announced his desire of establishing himself in business, having resolved, he said, to live by his own exertions. He purchased the stock of a wine merchant, which the duchess paid for, and which he drank in no time. His wife gave birth to a child, and Mme. de Sairmeuse must pay for the baptism as she had paid for the wedding, only too happy that Chupin did not require her to stand as godmother to little Polyte. He had entertained this idea at first. On two occasions Mme. Blanche accompanied her husband to Vienna and to London, whither he went charged with important diplomatic missions. She remained three years in foreign lands. Each week during all that time she received one letter, at least, from Chupin. Ah! many a time she envied the lot of her victim! What was Marie-Anne’s death compared with the life she led? Her sufferings were measured by years, Marie-Anne’s by minutes; and she said to herself, again and again, that the torture of poison could not be as intolerable as her agony. CHAPTER LIII How was it that Martial had failed to discover or to suspect this state of affairs? A moment’s reflection will explain this fact which is so extraordinary in appearance, so natural in reality. The head of a family, whether he dwells in an attic or in a palace, is always the last to know what is going on in his home. What everybody else knows he does not even suspect. The master often sleeps while his house is on fire. Some terrible catastrophe--an explosion--is necessary to arouse him from his fancied security. The life that Martial led was likely to prevent him from arriving at the truth. He was a stranger to his wife. His manner toward her was perfect, full of deference and chivalrous courtesy; but they had nothing in common except a name and certain interests. Each lived their own life. They met only at dinner, or at the entertainments which they gave and which were considered the most brilliant in Paris society. The duchess had her own apartments, her servants, her carriages, her horses, her own table. At twenty-five, Martial, the last descendant of the great house of Sairmeuse--a man upon whom destiny had apparently lavished every blessing--the possessor of youth, unbounded wealth, and a brilliant intellect, succumbed beneath the burden of an incurable despondency and _ennui_.