He woke up again at nine o’clock, gave the necessary instructions for breakfast, and was eating with a good appetite, when suddenly he remembered his rendezvous with Maurice. He ordered a horse and set out at once, reaching La Reche at half-past eleven o’clock. The others had not yet arrived; so he fastened his horse by the bridle to a tree near by, and leisurely climbed to the summit of the hill. It was here that Lacheneur’s cottage had formerly stood, and the four walls still remained standing, blackened by fire. Martial was gazing at the ruins, not without a feeling of emotion, when he heard the branches crackle in the adjacent cover. He turned, and perceived that Maurice, Jean, and Corporal Bavois were approaching. The old soldier carried under his arm, in a piece of green serge, a couple of swords which Jean Lacheneur had borrowed from a retired officer at Montaignac during the night. “We are sorry to have kept you waiting,” began Maurice, “but you will observe that it is not yet noon. Since we scarcely expected to see you——”
“I was too anxious to justify myself not to be here early,” interrupted Martial.
Maurice shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “This is not a question of self-justification, but one of fighting,” he abruptly replied.
Insulting as were the words and the gesture that accompanied them, Martial never so much as winced. “Grief has made you unjust,” said he, gently, “or M. Lacheneur has not told you everything.”
“Yes, Jean has told me everything.”
“Well, then?”
Martial’s coolness drove Maurice frantic. “Well,” he replied, with extreme violence, “my hatred is unabated even if my scorn is diminished. I have waited for this occasion ever since the day we met on the square at Sairmeuse in Mademoiselle Lacheneur’s presence. You said to me then, ‘We shall meet again.’ And now here we stand face to face. What insults must I heap upon you to decide you to fight?”
With a threatening gesture Martial seized one of the swords which Bavois offered him, and assumed an attitude of defence. “You will have it so,” said he in a husky voice. “The thought of Marie-Anne can no longer save you.”
But the blades had scarcely crossed before a cry from Jean arrested the combat. “The soldiers!” he exclaimed; “we are betrayed.” A dozen gendarmes were indeed approaching at full speed.
“Ah! I spoke the truth!” exclaimed Maurice. “The coward came, but the guards accompanied him.” He bounded back, and breaking his sword over his knee, hurled the fragments in Martial’s face. “Here, miserable wretch!” he cried.