Lorraine's father! And he had laid hands on him and had flung him senseless at the feet of the Man of December! He could scarcely button his collar, his fingers trembled so. Perhaps he had killed the Marquis de Nesville. Sick at heart, he finished dressing, buttoned his coat, flung a cap on his head, and stole out into the darkness.
On the terrace below he saw a groom carrying a lantern, and he went out hastily.
"Saddle Faust at once," he said. "Have the troops all gone?"
"All, monsieur; the last of the cavalry passed three hours ago; the Emperor drove away half an hour later with Lulu—"
"Eh?"
"The prince—pardon, monsieur—they call him Lulu in Paris."
"Hurry," said Jack; "I want that horse at once."
Ten minutes later he was galloping furiously down the forest road towards the Château de Nesville. The darkness was impenetrable, so he let the horse find his own path, and gave himself up to a profound dejection that at times amounted to blind fear. Before his eyes he saw the pallid face of the Marquis de Nesville, he saw the man stretched on the floor, horribly still; that was the worst, the stillness of the body.
The sky was gray through the trees when he turned into the park and skirted the wall to the wicket. The wicket was locked. He rang repeatedly, he shook the grille and pounded on the iron escutcheon with the butt of his riding-crop; and at length a yawning servant appeared from the gate-lodge and sleepily dragged open the wicket.
"The marquis was ill, have you heard anything?" asked Jack.