“I have seen all this; but I must still reply:  ‘Impossible.’”

Jean was amazed at the patience, we should rather say, the humble resignation displayed by Martial de Sairmeuse.

Instead of rebelling against this manifest injustice, Martial drew from his pocket the paper which he had just taken from his desk, and handing it to Jean: 

“Those who have brought upon me the shame of having my word doubted shall be punished for it,” he said grimly.  “You do not believe in my sincerity, Jean.  Here is a proof, which I expect you to give to Maurice, and which cannot fail to convince even you.”

“What is this proof?”

“The letter written by my hand, in exchange for which my father assisted in the baron’s escape.  An inexplicable presentiment prevented me from burning this compromising letter.  To-day, I rejoice that such was the case.  Take it, and use it as you will.”

Anyone save Jean Lacheneur would have been touched by the generosity of soul.  But Jean was implacable.  His was a nature which nothing can disarm, which nothing can mollify; hatred in his heart was a passion which, instead of growing weaker with time, increased and became more terrible.

He would have sacrificed anything at that moment for the ineffable joy of seeing this proud and detested marquis at his feet.

“Very well, I will give it to Maurice,” he responded, coldly.

“It should be a bond of alliance, it seems to me,” said Martial, gently.

Jean Lacheneur made a gesture terrible in its irony and menace.

“A bond of alliance!” he exclaimed.  “You are too fast, Monsieur le Marquis!  Have you forgotten all the blood that flows between us?  You did not cut the ropes; but who condemned the innocent Baron d’Escorval to death?  Was it not the Duc de Sairmeuse?  An alliance!  You have forgotten that you and yours sent my father to the scaffold!  How have you rewarded the man whose heroic honesty gave you back a fortune?  By murdering him, and by ruining the reputation of his daughter.”

“I offered my name and my fortune to your sister.”

“I would have killed her with my own hand had she accepted your offer.  Let this prove to you that I do not forget.  If any great disgrace ever tarnishes the proud name of Sairmeuse, think of Jean Lacheneur.  My hand will be in it.”

He was so frantic with passion that he forgot his usual caution.  By a violent effort he recovered his self-possession, and in calmer tones he added: 

“And if you are so desirous of seeing Maurice, be at the Reche to-morrow at mid-day.  He will be there.”

Having said this, he turned abruptly aside, sprang over the fence skirting the avenue, and disappeared in the darkness.

“Jean,” cried Martial, in almost supplicating tones; “Jean, come back—­listen to me!”

No response.

A sort of bewilderment had seized the young marquis, and he stood motionless and dazed in the middle of the road.