But he was fully resolved to fathom this mystery and as soon as he returned home he sent Otto out in search of information. He could confide everything to this devoted servant; he had no secrets from him.
About four o’clock his faithful valet de chambre returned, an expression of profound consternation visible upon his countenance.
“What is it?” asked Martial, divining some great misfortune.
“Ah, sir, the mistress of that wretched den is the widow of Chupin’s son——”
Martial’s face became as white as his linen.
He knew life too well not to understand that since the duchess had been compelled to submit to the power of these people, they must be masters of some secret which she was willing to make any sacrifice to preserve. But what secret?
The years which had silvered Martial’s hair, had not cooled the ardor of his blood. He was, as he had always been, a man of impulses.
He rushed to his wife’s apartments.
“Madame has just gone down to receive the Countess de Mussidan and the Marquise d’Arlange,” said the maid.
“Very well; I will wait for her here. Retire.”