She seized his arm and shook it roughly, saying, in the most peremptory tone:

"Father! father!"

This voice, which had so often made the Marquis de Courtornieu tremble, was far more efficacious than eau de cologne. He opened one eye the least bit in the world, then quickly closed it; but not so quickly that his daughter failed to discover it.

"I wish to speak with you," she said; "get up."

He dared not disobey, and slowly and with difficulty, he raised himself.

"Ah! how I suffer!" he groaned; "how I suffer!"

His daughter glanced at him scornfully; then, in a tone of bitter irony, she remarked:

"Do you think I am in Paradise?"

"Speak," sighed the marquis. "What do you wish to say?"

The bride turned haughtily to the servants.

"Leave the room!" she said, imperiously.

They obeyed, and, after she had locked the door:

"Let us speak of Martial," she began.

At the sound of this name, the marquis bounded from his chair with clinched fists.

"Ah, the wretch!" he exclaimed.

"Martial is my husband, father."

"And you!--after what he has done--you dare to defend him?"

"I do not defend him; but I do not wish him to be murdered."

At that moment the news of Martial's death would have given the Marquis de Courtornieu infinite satisfaction.

"You heard, father," continued Blanche, "the rendezvous appointed to-morrow, at mid-day, on the Reche. I know Martial; he has been insulted, and he will go there. Will he encounter a loyal adversary? No.

He will find a crowd of a.s.sa.s.sins. You alone can prevent him from being a.s.sa.s.sinated."

"I! and how?"

"By sending some soldiers to the Reche, with orders to conceal themselves in the grove--with orders to arrest these murderers at the proper moment."

The marquis gravely shook his head.

"If I do that," said he, "Martial is quite capable--"

"Of anything! yes, I know it. But what does it matter to you, since I am willing to a.s.sume the responsibility?"

M. de Courtornieu vainly tried to penetrate the bride's real motive.

"The order to Montaignac must be sent at once," she insisted.

Had she been less excited she would have discerned the gleam of malice in her father's eye. He was thinking that this would afford him an ample revenge, since he could bring dishonor upon Martial, who had shown so little regard for the honor of others.

"Very well; since you will have it so," he said, with feigned reluctance.

His daughter made haste to bring him ink and pens, and with trembling hands he prepared a series of minute instructions for the commander at Montaignac.

Blanche herself gave the letter to a servant, with directions to depart at once; and it was not until she had seen him set off on a gallop that she went to her own apartments--the apartments in which Martial had gathered together all that was most beautiful and luxurious.

But this splendor only aggravated the misery of the deserted wife, for that she was deserted she did not doubt for a moment. She was sure that her husband would not return; she did not expect him.

The Duc de Sairmeuse was searching the neighborhood with a party of servants, but she knew that it was labor lost; that they would not encounter Martial.

Where could he be? Near Marie-Anne most a.s.suredly--and at the thought a wild desire to wreak her vengeance on her rival took possession of her heart.

Martial, at Montaignac, had ended by going to sleep.

Blanche, when daylight came, exchanged the snowy bridal robes for a black dress, and wandered about the garden like a restless spirit.

She spent most of the day shut up in her room, refusing to allow the duke, or even her father, to enter.

In the evening, about eight o'clock, they received tidings from Martial.

A servant brought two letters; one, sent by Martial to his father, the other, to his wife.

For a moment or more Blanche hesitated to open the one intended for her.

It would determine her destiny; she was afraid; she broke the seal and read:

"Madame la marquise--Between you and me all is ended; reconciliation is impossible.

"From this moment you are free. I esteem you enough to hope that you will respect the name of Sairmeuse, from which I cannot relieve you.

"You will agree with me, I am sure, in thinking a quiet separation preferable to the scandal of a divorce suit.

"My lawyer will pay you an allowance befitting the wife of a man whose income amounts to three hundred thousand francs.

"Martial de Sairmeuse."

Blanche staggered beneath this terrible blow. She was indeed deserted, and deserted, as she supposed, for another.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "that creature! that creature! I will kill her!"