“Martial is my husband, father.”
“And you! after what he has done—you dare to defend him?”
“I don’t defend him; but I don’t wish him to be murdered.” At that moment the news of Martial’s death would have given the Marquis de Courtornieu infinite satisfaction. “You heard, father,” continued Blanche, “that young D’Escorval appointed a meeting for to-morrow, at mid-day, at La Reche. I know Martial; he has been insulted, and will go there. Will he encounter a loyal adversary? No. He will find a band of assassins. You alone can prevent him from being murdered.”
“I—and how?”
“By sending some soldiers to La Reche, with orders to conceal themselves in the grove—with orders to arrest these murderers at the proper moment.”
The marquis gravely shook his head. “If I do that,” said he, “Martial is quite capable——”
“Of anything!—yes, I know it. But what does it matter to you, since I am willing to assume the responsibility?”
M. de Courtornieu looked at his daughter inquisitively, and if she had been less excited as she insisted on the necessity of sending instructions to Montaignac at once, she would have discerned a gleam of malice in his eye. The marquis was thinking that this would afford him an ample revenge, since he could easily bring dishonour on Martial, who had shown so little regard for the honour of others. “Very well; then, since you will have it so, it shall be done,” he said, with feigned reluctance.
His daughter hastily procured ink and pens, and then with trembling hands he prepared a series of minute instructions for the commander at Montaignac. Blanche herself gave the letter to a servant, with directions to start at once; and it was not until she had seen him set off at a gallop that she went to her own apartment, that luxurious bridal chamber which Martial had so sumptuously adorned. But now its splendour only aggravated the misery of the deserted wife, for that she was deserted she did not for a moment doubt. She felt sure that her husband would not return, and had no faith whatever in the promises of the Duke de Sairmeuse, who at that moment was searching through the neighbourhood with a party of servants. Where could the truant be? With Marie-Anne most assuredly—and at the thought a wild desire to wreak vengeance on her rival took possession of Blanche’s heart. She did not sleep that night, she did not even undress, but when morning came she exchanged her snowy bridal robe for a black dress, and wandered through the grounds like a restless spirit. Most of the day, however, she spent shut up in her room, refusing to allow either the duke or her father to enter.
At about eight o’clock in the evening tidings came from Martial. A servant brought two letters; one sent by the young marquis to his father, and the other to his wife. For a moment Blanche hesitated to open the one addressed to her. It would determine her destiny, and she felt afraid. At last, however, she broke the seal and read: “Madame—Between you and me all is ended; reconciliation is impossible. From this moment you are free. I esteem you enough to hope that you will respect the name of Sairmeuse, from which I cannot relieve you. You will agree with me, I am sure, in thinking a quiet separation preferable to the scandal of legal proceedings. My lawyer will pay you an allowance befitting the wife of a man whose income amounts to five hundred thousand francs. Martial de Sairmeuse.”