"Who is dead? For Heaven's sake speak!" moaned Madeleine.
"Your son, the Vicomte de Talizac, fell in a duel," said Gaston, earnestly.
Madeleine uttered a loud cry and sank unconscious to the floor. While Baptiste and the marquise's maid hurried to her assistance, Fougereuse gazed vacantly before him, and then raising his head, he passionately exclaimed:
"You lie—my son had no duel!"
"Would to God you were right, marquis," replied Gaston, sorrowfully; "unfortunately it is the truth. The vicomte and Arthur de Montferrand fought a duel, and the sword of the latter ran through Talizac's heart!"
The marquis still remained unconvinced, and carefully gliding toward the bier, he shoved the cloth aside with a trembling hand.
Yes, it was his son who lay on the bier. The pale face was stiff and cold. The eyes were glassy and on the breast was a deep red wound.
The marquis uttered a hoarse cry and his hand nervously grasped the cloth. His eyes shone feverishly and he stammered forth disconnected sentences.
Gaston de Ferrette consoled the unhappy father, but his words made no impression, and as Madeleine had in the meantime been brought back to consciousness by her maid, Gaston thought it best to go away for the present.
He softly strode to the door, but had hardly reached it when the marquis sprang up, and, laying his hand heavily on the young man's shoulder, said: