“Fool that I am!” he resumed. “Who could have told you what had happened? You remember that when we were travelling over the Sairmeuse road on our way to the Croix d’Arcy, and after your father had left us to ride on in advance, Maurice placed himself at the head of one division, and you walked beside him, while your brother Jean and myself stayed behind to urge on the laggards. We were performing our duty conscientiously when suddenly we heard the gallop of a horse behind us. ‘We must know who is coming,’ Jean said to me.
“We paused. The horse soon reached us; we caught the bridle and held him. Can you guess who the rider was? Martial de Sairmeuse.
“To describe your brother’s fury on recognizing the marquis would be impossible.
“‘At last I find you, wretched noble!’ he exclaimed, ‘and now we will settle our account! After reducing my father, who has just given you a fortune, to despair and penury, you have tried to degrade my sister. I will have my revenge! Down, we must fight!’”
Marie-Anne could scarcely tell whether she was awake or dreaming.
“My brother,” she murmured, “has challenged the marquis! Is it possible?”
“Brave as Monsieur Martial is,” pursued Chanlouineau, “he did not seem inclined to accept the invitation. He stammered out something like this: ‘You are mad—you are jesting—have we not always been friends? What does this mean?’
“Jean ground his teeth in rage. ‘This means that we have endured your insulting familiarity long enough,’ he replied, ‘and if you do not dismount and meet me in open combat, I will blow your brains out!’
“Your brother, as he spoke, manipulated his pistol in so threatening a manner that the marquis dismounted, and addressing me:
“‘You see, Chanlouineau,’ he said, ‘I must fight a duel or submit to assassination. If Jean kills me there is no more to be said—but if I kill him, what is to be done?’