For some time Christian walked rapidly among the paths and trees in the park.  Bathing his burning brow in the cool night air, he sought to calm the secret agitation and the boiling blood that were raging within him, in the midst of which his reason struggled and fought like a ship about to be wrecked.  He used all his strength to recover his self-possession, so as to be able to master the perils and troubles which surrounded him with a calm if not indifferent eye; in one word, to regain that control over himself that he had lost several times during the supper.  His efforts were not in vain.  He contemplated his situation without weakness, exaggeration, or anger, as if it concerned another.  Two facts rose foremost before him, one accomplished, the other uncertain.  On one side, murder, on the other, adultery.  No human power could remedy the first or prevent its consequences; he accepted it, then, but turn his mind away from it he must, in the presence of this greater disaster.  So far, only presumptions existed against Clemence—­grave ones, to be sure, if one added Lambernier’s revelations to Marillac’s strangely indiscreet remarks.  It was his first duty to himself, as well as to her, to know the whole truth; if innocent, he would beg her forgiveness; if guilty, he had a chastisement to inflict.

“It is an abyss,” thought he, “and I may find as much blood as mud at the bottom of it.  No matter, I will descend to its very depths.”

When he returned to the chateau, his face had resumed its usual calm expression.  The most observing person would hardly have noticed any change in his looks.  The dining-room had been abandoned at last.  The victorious and the vanquished had retired to their rooms.  First of all, he went up to the artist’s apartment, so that no singularity in his conduct should attract attention, for, as master of the house, a visit to one of his guests who had fallen dead, or nearly so, at his own table was a positive duty.  The attentions lavished upon Marillac by his friend had removed the danger which might have resulted from his imprudent excesses in drinking, and the sort of poisoning with which he had crowned the whole.  He lay upon his bed in the same position in which he had first been placed, and was sleeping that heavy, painful sleep which serves as an expiation for bacchic excesses.  Gerfaut was seated a few steps from him, at a table, writing; he seemed prepared to sit up all night, and to fulfill, with the devotion of a friend, the duties of a nurse.

Octave arose at sight of the Baron, his face having resumed its habitual reserved expression.  The two men greeted each other with equal composure.

“Is he sleeping?” asked Christian.

“But a few minutes only,” replied the latter; “he is all right now, and I hope,” Octave added, smilingly, “that this will serve as a lesson to you, and that hereafter you will put some limits to your princely hospitality.  Your table is a regular ambush.”