So great was his anxiety that he lent a helping hand in harnessing the horses he had ordered, and when the carriage was ready, he announced his determination to drive himself.
As he urged the horses furiously on he tried to reflect, but the most contradictory ideas seethed in his brain, and he lost all power to consider the situation calmly.
He burst into Martial’s room like a tornado. “I think you must certainly have gone mad, Marquis,” he exclaimed. “That is the only valid excuse you can offer.”
But Martial, who had been expecting this visit, had prepared himself for it.
“Never, on the contrary, have I felt more calm and composed in mind,” he replied. “Allow me to ask you one question. Was it you who sent the soldiers to the rendezvous which Maurice d’Escorval had appointed?”
“Marquis!”
“Very well! Then it was another act of infamy on the part of the Marquis de Courtornieu.”
The duke made no reply. In spite of his faults and his vices, this haughty man possessed the characteristic of the old French nobility—fidelity to his word and undoubted valor.
He thought it perfectly natural, even necessary, that Martial should fight with Maurice; and he thought it a contemptible act to send armed soldiers to seize an honest and confiding opponent.
“This is the second time,” pursued Martial, “that this scoundrel has attempted to bring dishonor upon our name; and if I desire to convince people of the truth of this assertion, I must break off all connection with him and his daughter. I have done this. I do not regret it, since I married her only out of deference to your wishes, and because it seemed necessary for me to marry, and because all women, save one who can never be mine, are alike to me.”