Martial’s affection for his father had not been very deep, and he was well aware that his father had but little love for him. He was astonished at the bitter grief he felt on hearing of his death.
“From this letter which was forwarded by a messenger from Sairmeuse,” he continued, “I judge that everybody believes it to have been an accident; but I—I——”
“Well?”
“I believe he was murdered.”
An exclamation of horror escaped Aunt Medea, and Blanche turned pale.
“Murdered!” she whispered.
“Yes, Blanche; and I could name the murderer. Oh! I am not deceived. The murderer of my father is the same man who attempted to assassinate the Marquis de Courtornieu——”
“Jean Lacheneur!”
Martial gravely bowed his head. It was his only reply.
“And you will not denounce him? You will not demand justice?”