“Wretch!” repeated Jean and Corporal Bavois, “traitor! coward!” And then they fled, leaving Martial literally thunderstruck.
He struggled hard to regain his composure. The soldiers were swiftly approaching; he ran to meet them, and addressing the officer in command, imperiously enquired, “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” replied the brigadier, respectfully, “you are the Duke de Sairmeuse’s son.”
“Very well! I forbid you to follow those men.”
The brigadier hesitated at first; then, in a decided tone he replied: “I can’t obey you, sir. I have my orders.” And turning to his men, he added, “Forward!”
He was about to set the example, when Martial seized him by the arm: “At least you will not refuse to tell me who sent you here?”
“Who sent us? The colonel, of course, in obedience to orders from the grand provost, M. d’Courtornieu. He sent the order last night. We have been hidden near here ever since daybreak. But thunder! let go your hold, I must be off.”
He galloped away, and Martial, staggering like a drunken man, descended the slope, and remounted his horse. But instead of repairing to the Chateau of Sairmeuse, he returned to Montaignac, and passed the remainder of the afternoon in the solitude of his own room. That evening he sent two letters to Sairmeuse—one to his father, and the other to his wife.
XXVII.
MARTIAL certainly imagined that he had created a terrible scandal on the evening of his marriage; but he had no conception of the reality. Had a thunderbolt burst in these gilded halls, the guests at Sairmeuse could not have been more amazed and horrified than they were by the scene presented to their view. The whole assembly shuddered when Martial, in his wrath, flung the crumpled letter full in the Marquis de Courtornieu’s face. And when the latter sank back into an arm-chair, several young ladies of extreme sensibility actually fainted away. The young marquis had departed, taking Jean Lacheneur with him, and yet the guests stood as motionless as statues, pale, mute, and stupefied. It was Blanche who broke the spell. While the Marquis de Courtornieu was panting for breath—while the Duke de Sairmeuse stood trembling and speechless with suppressed anger—the young marchioness made an heroic attempt to save the situation. With her hand still aching from Martial’s brutal clasp, her heart swelling with rage and hatred, and her face whiter than her bridal veil, she yet had sufficient strength to restrain her tears and force her lips to smile. “Really this is placing too much importance on a trifling misunderstanding which will be explained to-morrow,” she said, almost gaily, to those nearest her. And stepping into the middle of the hall she made a sign to the musicians to play a country-dance.