On the other hand, what could have become of Martial?  The servant who had been sent to warn him—­had he met him?  Was the marquis returning?  And by which road?  Could it be possible that he had fallen into the hands of the peasants?

The duke’s relief was intense when, on returning home, after a conference with M. de Courtornieu, he learned that Martial had arrived about a quarter of an hour before.

“The marquis went at once to his own room on dismounting from his horse,” added the servant.

“Very well,” replied the duke.  “I will seek him there.”

Before the servants he said, “Very well;” but secretly, he exclaimed:  “Abominable impertinence!  What!  I am on horseback at the head of my troops, my life imperilled, and my son goes quietly to bed without even assuring himself of my safety!”

He reached his son’s room, but found the door closed and locked on the inside.  He rapped.

“Who is there?” demanded Martial.

“It is I; open the door.”

Martial drew the bolt; M. de Sairmeuse entered, but the sight that met his gaze made him tremble.

Upon the table was a basin of blood, and Martial, with chest bared, was bathing a large wound in his right breast.

“You have been fighting!” exclaimed the duke, in a husky voice.

“Yes.”

“Ah! then you were, indeed——­”

“I was where? what?”

“At the convocation of these miserable peasants who, in their parricidal folly, have dared to dream of the overthrow of the best of princes!”

Martial’s face betrayed successively profound surprise, and a more violent desire to laugh.

“I think you must be jesting, Monsieur,” he replied.

The young man’s words and manner reassured the duke a little, without entirely dissipating his suspicions.

“Then, these vile rascals attacked you?” he exclaimed.

“Not at all.  I have been simply obliged to fight a duel.”

“With whom?  Name the scoundrel who has dared to insult you!”

A faint flush tinged Martial’s cheek; but it was in his usual careless tone that he replied: 

“Upon my word, no; I shall not give his name.  You would trouble him, perhaps; and I really owe the fellow a debt of gratitude.  It happened upon the highway; he might have assassinated me without ceremony, but he offered me open combat.  Besides, he was wounded far more severely than I.”

All M. de Sairmeuse’s doubts had returned.

“And why, instead of summoning a physician, are you attempting to dress this wound yourself?”

“Because it is a mere trifle, and because I wish to keep it a secret.”

The duke shook his head.

“All this is scarcely plausible,” he remarked, “especially after the assurance of your complicity, which I have received.”

“Ah!” said he; “and from whom?  From your spy-in-chief, no doubt—­that rascal Chupin.  It surprises me to see that you can hesitate for a moment between the word of your son and the stories of such a wretch.”