“Ah! my dear sir, is not my fortune yours? Yes, such is really my opinion. So much so, indeed, that if you will allow me to do so, I will see Lacheneur myself, and arrange the matter in such a way that his pride will not be wounded. His is a devotion which it would be well to retain.” The duke opened his eyes to their widest extent. “Lacheneur’s pride!” he murmured. “Devotion which it would be well to retain! Why do you sing in this strain? Whence comes this extraordinary interest?” He paused, enlightened by a sudden recollection. “I understand!” he exclaimed; “I understand. He has a pretty daughter.” Martial smiled without replying. “Yes, pretty as a rose,” continued the duke; “but one hundred thousand francs! Zounds! That is a round sum to pay for such a whim. But, if you insist upon it----” Armed with this authorization, Martial, two hours later, started on his mission. The first peasant he met told him the way to the cottage which M. Lacheneur now occupied. “Follow the river,” said the man, “and when you see a pine-grove upon your left, cross it.” Martial was crossing it, when he heard the sound of voices. He approached, recognized Marie-Anne and Maurice d’Escorval, and obeying an angry impulse, he paused. CHAPTER XI During the decisive moments of life, when one’s entire future depends upon a word, or a gesture, twenty contradictory inspirations can traverse the mind in the time occupied by a flash of lightning. On the sudden apparition of the young Marquis de Sairmeuse, Maurice d’Escorval’s first thought was this: “How long has he been there? Has he been playing the spy? Has he been listening to us? What did he hear?” His first impulse was to spring upon his enemy, to strike him in the face, and compel him to engage in a hand-to-hand struggle. The thought of Anne-Marie checked him. He reflected upon the possible, even probable results of a quarrel born of such circumstances. The combat which would ensue would cost this pure young girl her reputation. Martial would talk of it; and country people are pitiless. He saw this girl, whom he looked so devotedly upon, become the talk of the neighborhood; saw the finger of scorn pointed at her, and possessed sufficient self-control to master his anger. All these reflections had occupied only half a second. Then, politely touching his hat, and stepping toward Martial: “You are a stranger, Monsieur,” said he, in a voice which was frightfully altered, “and you have doubtless lost your way?” His words were ill-chosen, and defeated his prudent intentions. A curt “Mind your own business” would have been less wounding. He forgot that this word “stranger” was the most deadly insult that one could cast in the face of the former _emigres_, who had returned with the allied armies. Still the young marquis did not change his insolently nonchalant attitude. He touched the visor of his hunting cap with his finger, and replied: “It is true--I have lost my way.”