“Ah, the wretch!” he exclaimed.
“Martial is my husband, father.”
“And you!—after what he has done—you dare to defend him?”
“I do not defend him; but I do not 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, “the rendezvous appointed to-morrow, at mid-day, on the Reche. I know Martial; he has been insulted, and he will go there. Will he encounter a loyal adversary? No. He will find a crowd of assassins. You alone can prevent him from being assassinated.”
“I! and how?”
“By sending some soldiers to the 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—”