Their manner toward each other was perfect. The duke was kind even to weakness; Martial full of deference. But their relations were not those of father and son. One was in constant fear of displeasing the other; the other was a little too sure of his power. They lived on a footing of perfect equality, like two companions of the same age. From this trying situation, Lacheneur had rescued the duke. The owner of Sairmeuse, an estate worth more than a million, the duke was free from his son’s tyranny; he had recovered his liberty. What brilliant projects flitted through his brain that night! He beheld himself the richest landowner in that locality; he was the chosen friend of the King; had he not a right to aspire to anything? Such a prospect enchanted him. He felt twenty years younger--the twenty years that had been passed in exile. So, rising before nine o’clock, he went to awaken Martial. On returning from dining with the Marquis de Courtornieu, the evening before, the duke had gone through the chateau; but this hasty examination by candle-light had not satisfied his curiosity. He wished to see it in detail by daylight. Followed by his son, he explored one after another of the rooms of the princely abode; and, with every step, the recollections of his infancy crowded upon him. Lacheneur had respected everything. The duke found articles as old as himself, religiously preserved, occupying the old familiar places from which they had never been removed. When his inspection was concluded: “Decidedly, Marquis,” he exclaimed, “this Lacheneur was not such a rascal as I supposed. I am disposed to forgive him a great deal, on account of the care which he has taken of our house in our absence.” Martial seemed engrossed in thought. “I think, Monsieur,” he said, at last, “that we should testify our gratitude to this man by paying him a large indemnity.” This word excited the duke’s anger. “An indemnity!” he exclaimed. “Are you mad, Marquis? Think of the income that he has received from my estate. Have you forgotten the calculation made for us last evening by the Chevalier de la Livandiere?” “The chevalier is a fool!” declared Martial promptly. “He forgot that Lacheneur has trebled the value of Sairmeuse. I think that our family honor requires us to bestow upon this man an indemnity of at least one hundred thousand francs. This would, moreover, be a good stroke of policy in the present state of public sentiment, and His Majesty would, I am sure, be much pleased.” “Stroke of policy”--“public sentiment”--“His Majesty.” One might have obtained almost anything from M. de Sairmeuse by these arguments. “Heavenly powers!” he exclaimed; “a hundred thousand francs! how you talk! It is all very well for you, with your fortune! Still, if you really think so----”