With an angry gesture Blanche interrupted him. “You must look for Marie-Anne Lacheneur if you wish to find my husband,” said she.
The duke was of the same opinion, but he dared not admit it. “Anger leads you astray, marchioness,” said he.
“I know what I say,” was the curt response.
“No, believe me, Martial will soon make his appearance. If he went away, he will soon return. The servants shall go for him at once, or I will go for him myself——”
The duke left the room with a muttered oath, and Blanche approached her father, who still seemed to be unconscious. She seized his arm and shook it roughly, peremptorily exclaiming, “Father, father!” This voice, which had so often made the Marquis de Courtornieu tremble, proved more efficacious than eau de Cologne. “I wish to speak with you,” added Blanche: “do you hear me?”
The marquis dared not disobey; he slowly opened his eyes and raised himself from his recumbent position. “Ah! how I suffer!” he groaned, “how I suffer!”
His daughter glanced at him scornfully, and then in a tone of bitter irony remarked: “Do you think that I’m in paradise?”
“Speak,” sighed the marquis. “What do you wish to say?”
The bride turned haughtily to the servants and imperiously ordered them to leave the room. When they had done so and she had locked the door: “Let us speak of Martial,” she began.
At the sound of his son-in-law’s name the marquis bounded from his chair with clenched fists. “Ah, the wretch!” he exclaimed.