The priest’s intentions were excellent, no doubt, but in point of fact he was too hasty. At the very moment when Maurice stood sorely in need of wise and temperate counsel he was handed over to Jean Lacheneur’s pernicious influence. Scarcely were they outside the house, than the latter remarked: “We have to thank the Sairmeuses and the Marquis de Courtornieu for all this. I don’t even know where they have thrown my father’s corpse. I, his son, was even debarred from embracing him before he was traitorously murdered.” He spoke in a harsh, bitter voice, laughing the while in a strange discordant fashion. “And yet,” he continued, “if we climbed that hill we should be able to see the Chateau de Sairmeuse brightly illuminated. They are celebrating the marriage of Martial de Sairmeuse and Blanche de Courtornieu. We are friendless outcasts, succourless and shelterless, but they are feasting and making merry.”
Less than this would have sufficed to rekindle Maurice’s wrath. Yes, these Sairmeuses and these Courtornieus had killed the elder Lacheneur, and they had betrayed the Baron d’Escorval, and delivered him up—a mangled corpse—to his suffering relatives. It would be a rightful vengeance to disturb their merrymaking now, and in the midst of hundreds of assembled guests denounce their cruelty and perfidy. “I will start at once,” exclaimed Maurice, “I will challenge Martial in the presence of the revellers.”
But Jean interrupted him. “No, don’t do that! The cowards would arrest you. Write to the young marquis, and I will take your letter.”
Corporal Bavois, who heard the conversation, did not make the slightest attempt to oppose this foolish enterprise. Indeed, he thought the undertaking quite natural, under the circumstances, and esteemed his young friends all the more for their rashness. They all three entered the first wine shop they came across, and Maurice wrote the challenge which was confided to Jean Lacheneur.
The only object which Jean had in view was to disturb the bridal ball at the Chateau de Sairmeuse. He merely hoped to provoke a scandal which would disgrace Martial and his relatives in the eyes of all their friends; for he did not for one moment imagine that the young marquis would accept Maurice’s challenge. While waiting for Martial in the hall of the chateau, he sought to compose a fitting attitude, striving to steel himself against the sneering scorn with which he expected the young nobleman would receive him. Martial’s kindly greeting was so unlooked for that Jean was at first quite disconcerted, and he did not recover his assurance until he perceived how cruelly Maurice’s insulting letter made the marquis suffer. When the latter seized him by the arm and led him upstairs, he offered no resistance; and as they crossed the brightly-lighted drawing-rooms and passed through the throng of astonished guests, his surprise was so intense that he forgot both his heavy shoes and peasant’s blouse. Breathless with anxiety, he wondered what was coming. Then standing on the threshold of the little saloon leading out of the grand hall he heard Martial read Maurice d’Escorval’s letter aloud, and finally saw him frantic with passion, throw the missive in his father-in-law’s face. It might have been supposed that these incidents did not in the least affect Jean Lacheneur, who stood by cold and unmoved, with compressed lips and downcast eyes. However, appearances were deceitful, for in reality his heart throbbed with exultation; and if he lowered his eyes, it was only to conceal the joy that sparkled in them. He had not hoped for so prompt and so terrible a revenge.
Nor was this all. After brutally pushing Blanche, his newly-wedded wife, aside when she attempted to detain him, Martial again seized Jean Lacheneur’s arm. “Now,” said he, “follow me!”
Jean still obeyed him without uttering a word. They again crossed the grand hall, and on passing out into an ante-room, Martial took a candle burning on a side table, and opened a little door leading to a private staircase. “Where are you taking me?” inquired Jean.
Martial, in his haste, was already a third of the way up the flight. “Are you afraid?” he asked, turning round.
The other shrugged his shoulders. “If you put it in that way, let us go on,” he coldly replied.
They entered the room which Martial had occupied since taking possession of the chateau. It was the same room that had once belonged to Jean Lacheneur; and nothing in it had been changed. The whilom steward’s son recognized the brightly-flowered curtains, the figures on the carpet, and even an old arm-chair ensconced wherein he had read many a novel in secret. Martial hastened to a small writing-desk, and drew therefrom a folded paper which he slipped into his pocket. “Now,” said he, “let us be off. We must avoid another scene. My father and my wife will be looking for me. I will explain everything when we are outside.”