Much surprised, he hastened down.
When he entered the room, the marquis, who was seated in an arm-chair, rose, leaning heavily upon the shoulder of Aunt Medea.
Mme. Blanche came rapidly forward to meet the duke, as pale as if every drop of blood had been drawn from her veins.
“We are going, Monsieur le Duc,” she said, coldly, “and we wish to make our adieux.”
“What! you are going? Will you not——”
The young bride interrupted him by a sad gesture, and drawing Martial’s letter from her bosom, she handed it to M. de Sairmeuse, saying.
“Will you do me the favor to peruse this, Monsieur?”
The duke glanced over the short epistle, and his astonishment was so intense that he could not even find an oath.
“Incomprehensible!” he faltered; “incomprehensible!”
“Incomprehensible, indeed,” repeated the young wife, sadly, but without bitterness. “I was married yesterday; to-day I am deserted. It would have been generous to have reflected the evening before and not the next day. Tell Martial, however, that I forgive him for having destroyed my life, for having made me the most miserable of creatures. I also forgive him for the supreme insult of speaking to me of his fortune. I trust he may be happy. Adieu, Monsieur le Duc, we shall never meet again. Adieu!”