On the other hand, what could have become of Martial? The servant who had been sent to warn him—had he met him? Was the marquis returning? And by which road? Could it be possible that he had fallen into the hands of the peasants?
The duke’s relief was intense when, on returning home, after a conference with M. de Courtornieu, he learned that Martial had arrived about a quarter of an hour before.
“The marquis went at once to his own room on dismounting from his horse,” added the servant.
“Very well,” replied the duke. “I will seek him there.”
Before the servants he said, “Very well;” but secretly, he exclaimed: “Abominable impertinence! What! I am on horseback at the head of my troops, my life imperilled, and my son goes quietly to bed without even assuring himself of my safety!”
He reached his son’s room, but found the door closed and locked on the inside. He rapped.
“Who is there?” demanded Martial.
“It is I; open the door.”
Martial drew the bolt; M. de Sairmeuse entered, but the sight that met his gaze made him tremble.
Upon the table was a basin of blood, and Martial, with chest bared, was bathing a large wound in his right breast.