“Of anything! yes, I know it. But what does it matter to you, since I am willing to assume the responsibility?”
M. de Courtornieu vainly tried to penetrate the bride’s real motive.
“The order to Montaignac must be sent at once,” she insisted.
Had she been less excited she would have discerned the gleam of malice in her father’s eye. He was thinking that this would afford him an ample revenge, since he could bring dishonor upon Martial, who had shown so little regard for the honor of others.
“Very well; since you will have it so,” he said, with feigned reluctance.
His daughter made haste to bring him ink and pens, and 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 depart at once; and it was not until she had seen him set off on a gallop that she went to her own apartments—the apartments in which Martial had gathered together all that was most beautiful and luxurious.
But this splendor only aggravated the misery of the deserted wife, for that she was deserted she did not doubt for a moment. She was sure that her husband would not return; she did not expect him.
The Duc de Sairmeuse was searching the neighborhood with a party of servants, but she knew that it was labor lost; that they would not encounter Martial.
Where could he be? Near Marie-Anne most assuredly—and at the thought a wild desire to wreak her vengeance on her rival took possession of her heart.