Part 92 (2/2)
She took her father's arm, and they were about to retire, when M. de Sairmeuse hastily threw himself between them and the door.
”You shall not depart thus!” he exclaimed. ”I will not suffer it. Wait, at least, until I have seen Martial. Perhaps he is not as culpable as you suppose--”
”Enough!” interrupted the marquis; ”enough! This is one of those outrages which can never be repaired. May your conscience forgive you, as I, myself, forgive you. Farewell!”
This was said so perfectly, with such entire harmony of intonation and gesture, that M. de Sairmeuse was bewildered.
With an absolutely wonderstruck air he watched the marquis and his daughter depart, and they had been gone some moments before he recovered himself sufficiently to exclaim:
”Old hypocrite! does he believe me his dupe?”
His dupe! M. de Sairmeuse was so far from being his dupe, that his next thought was:
”What is to follow this farce? He says that he pardons us--that means that he has some crus.h.i.+ng blow in store for us.”
This conviction filled him with disquietude. He really felt unable to cope successfully with the perfidious marquis.
”But Martial is a match for him!” he exclaimed. ”Yes, I must see Martial at once.”
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 n.o.bility--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 a.s.sertion, 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.”
Such utterances were not at all calculated to rea.s.sure the duke.
”This sentiment is very n.o.ble, no doubt,” said he; ”but it has none the less ruined the political prospects of our house.”
An almost imperceptible smile curved Martial's lips.
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