"Ah! madame, can it be true?" cried Létorière, with an expression of the most lively gratitude. "Ah! the Scripture is right in saying: _The virtuous woman is the joy of her husband; she makes him pass all the years of his life in peace._ . . . Yes, madame, for I will bless your husband, and he will be proud of having--thanks to you--made the just cause to triumph." "Always Scripture! he might truly be called a little clergyman," said Martha, with enthusiasm. "But," continued she, "don't indulge in foolish hopes, nor despair utterly; the baron and the doctor may yet revise their resolutions." . . . And Martha added to herself: "How much it costs me to deceive him so! He has very little chance, but I have not the heart to undeceive him." "Ah, madame!" cried Létorière, throwing himself on his knees, "I feel it,--you will be my good angel. . . . To you I shall owe all the happiness of my future life. . . . Heavens! madame, how good and generous you are! Oh, let me here, at your feet, thank you again and again!" The lady, very much moved and softened, turned her head, and said gently to the Marquis, giving him her hand to kiss . . . "Come, come, my child, get up; don't stay there!" . . . The Marquis, still on his knees, resolutely took the hand which she offered to him, carried it bravely to his lips, shutting his eyes, and saying, in a grateful and passionate voice: "Oh, madame, how can I ever be grateful enough for all your kindness!" . . . "Well, well, little simpleton," said Martha, softly disengaging her hand, and giving Létorière a slight tap with the other, "are you going to make me repent of my kindness?" . . . After the Marquis had thrown himself at Martha's feet, the jolly face of the councillor, still armed with his blunderbuss, had cautiously appeared at an oval window over the door of the closet in which he was shut up. Seeing his wife so little disposed to use her poniard to repulse this Holofernes, this Tarquin, this Nebuchadnezzar, the councillor, wishing playfully to revenge himself for his incarceration, fired his blunderbuss in the air, exclaiming, "Martha, did you not cry, 'To me, Flachsinfingen!'" Then resting his elbows on the window, he began to laugh boisterously. His wife, provoked by this new outburst of factiousness, fell in feigned convulsions. Létorière escaped, calling for help, and left Martha in the hands of her women and her husband, who, seeing the unhappy issue of his pleasantry, hastily came out to seek pardon for his impertinence. [Footnote 18: Ecclesiasticus, XXI. 20.] CHAPTER XVI THE JUDGMENT On the day of judgment on Létorière's lawsuit, the three councillor's met at the palace. Their ballot was to be secret, the votes being deposited in an urn.