“I am to give you this on behalf of Maurice d’Escorval.”
With an eager hand, Martial broke the seal. He glanced over the letter, turned as pale as death, staggered and said only one word.
“Infamous!”
“What must I say to Maurice?” insisted Jean. “What do you intend to do?”
With a terrible effort Martial had conquered his weakness. He seemed to deliberate for ten seconds, then seizing Jean’s arm, he dragged him up the staircase, saying:
“Come—you shall see.”
Martial’s countenance had changed so much during the three minutes he had been absent that there was an exclamation of terror when he reappeared, holding an open letter in one hand and leading with the other a young peasant whom no one recognized.
“Where is my father?” he demanded, in a husky voice; “where is the Marquis de Courtornieu?”
The duke and the marquis were with Mme. Blanche in the little salon at the end of the main hall.
Martial hastened there, followed by a crowd of wondering guests, who, foreseeing a stormy scene, were determined not to lose a syllable.