“My friends, this is my son Etienne, my first-born son, my heir presumptive, the Duc de Nivron, to whom the king will no doubt grant the honors of his deceased brother.  I present him to you that you may acknowledge him and obey him as myself.  I warn you that if you, or any one in this province, over which I am governor, does aught to displease the young duke, or thwart him in any way whatsoever, it would be better, should it come to my knowledge, that that man had never been born.  You hear me.  Return now to your duties, and God guide you.  The obsequies of my son Maximilien will take place here when his body arrives.  The household will go into mourning eight days hence.  Later, we shall celebrate the accession of my son Etienne here present.”

“Vive monseigneur!  Long live the race of Herouville!” cried the people in a roar that shook the castle.

The valets brought in torches to illuminate the hall.  That hurrah, the sudden lights, the sensations caused by his father’s speech, joined to those he was already feeling, overcame the young man, who fainted completely and fell into a chair, leaving his slender womanly hand in the broad palm of his father.  As the duke, who had signed to the lieutenant of his company to come nearer, saying to him, “I am fortunate, Baron d’Artagnon, in being able to repair my loss; behold my son!” he felt an icy hand in his.  Turning round, he looked at the new Duc de Nivron, and, thinking him dead, he uttered a cry of horror which appalled the assemblage.

Beauvouloir rushed to the platform, took the young man in his arms, and carried him away, saying to his master, “You have killed him by not preparing him for this ceremony.”

“He can never have a child if he is like that!” cried the duke, following Beauvouloir into the seignorial chamber, where the doctor laid the young heir upon the bed.

“Well, what think you?” asked the duke presently.

“It is not serious,” replied the old physician, showing Etienne, who was now revived by a cordial, a few drops of which he had given him on a bit of sugar, a new and precious substance which the apothecaries were selling for its weight in gold.

“Take this, old rascal!” said the duke, offering his purse to Beauvouloir, “and treat him like the son of a king!  If he dies by your fault, I’ll burn you myself on a gridiron.”

“If you continue to be so violent, the Duc de Nivron will die by your own act,” said the doctor, roughly.  “Leave him now; he will go to sleep.”

“Good-night, my love,” said the old man, kissing his son upon the forehead.

“Good-night, father,” replied the youth, whose voice made the father —­thus named by Etienne for the first time—­quiver.

The duke took Beauvouloir by the arm and led him to the next room, where, having pushed him into the recess of a window, he said:—­

“Ah ca! old rascal, now we will understand each other.”