“Come—you shall see,” replied the young marquis, seizing Jean by the arm and dragging him up the staircase. The expression of Martial’s features had so changed during his brief absence that the wedding guests looked at him with astonishment when he re-entered the grand saloon holding an open letter in one hand, and leading with the other a young peasant whom no one recognised. “Where is my father?” he asked, in a husky voice; “where is the Marquis de Courtornieu?”
The duke and the marquis were with Blanche in a little drawing-room leading out of the main hall. Martial hastened there, followed by a crowd of wondering guests, who, foreseeing a stormy scene, were determined to witness it. He walked straight towards M. de Courtornieu, who was standing by the fire-place, and handing him the letter: “Read!” said he, in a threatening voice.
M. de Courtornieu mechanically obeyed the injunction; but suddenly he turned livid; the paper trembled in his hands: he averted his glance, and was obliged to lean against the mantelpiece for support. “I don’t understand,” he stammered: “no, I don’t understand.”
The duke and Blanche had both sprung forward. “What is the matter?” they both asked in one breath; “what has happened?”
Martial’s reply was to tear the letter from the Marquis de Courtornieu’s hands, and to turn to his father with these words: “Listen to this note I have just received.”
Three hundred people were assembled in the room, or clustering round the doorway, but the silence was so perfect that Martial’s voice reached the farthest extremity of the grand hall as he read: “Monsieur le Marquis—Upon the honour of your name, and in exchange for a dozen lines that threatened you with ruin, you promised us the Baron d’Escorval’s life. You did, indeed, bring the ropes by which he was to make his escape, but they had been previously cut, and my father was precipitated on to the rocks below. You have forfeited your honour, sir. You have soiled your name with opprobrium, and while a drop of blood remains in my veins, I will leave no means untried to punish you for your cowardice and treason. By killing me you would, it is true, escape the chastisement I am reserving for you. I challenge you to fight with me. Shall I wait for you to-morrow on La Reche? At what hour? With what weapons? If you are the vilest of men, you can appoint a meeting, and then send your gendarmes to arrest me. That would be an act worthy of you.
“Maurice d’Escorval.”
On hearing these words the Duke de Sairmeuse was seized with despair. He saw the secret of the baron’s flight made public, and his own political prospects ruined. “Hush!” he hurriedly exclaimed in a low voice; “hush, wretched fellow, you will ruin us!”
But Martial did not even seem to hear him. He finished his perusal, and then looking the Marquis de Courtornieu full in the face: “Now, what do you think?” he asked.
“I am still unable to comprehend,” replied the old nobleman, coldly.