The duke was therefore obliged to resign himself to the prospect of another night of suspense, which was almost intolerable to a character like his.

“To-morrow, after breakfast, I will find some pretext to escape, without telling them I am going to see Martial,” he thought.

He was spared this trouble.  The next morning, at about nine o’clock, while he was dressing, a servant came to inform him that M. de Courtornieu and his daughter were awaiting him in the drawing-room.

Much surprised, he hastened down.

When he entered the room, the marquis, who was seated in an arm-chair, rose, leaning heavily upon the shoulder of Aunt Medea.

Mme. Blanche came rapidly forward to meet the duke, as pale as if every drop of blood had been drawn from her veins.

“We are going, Monsieur le Duc,” she said, coldly, “and we wish to make our adieux.”

“What! you are going?  Will you not——­”

The young bride interrupted him by a sad gesture, and drawing Martial’s letter from her bosom, she handed it to M. de Sairmeuse, saying.

“Will you do me the favor to peruse this, Monsieur?”

The duke glanced over the short epistle, and his astonishment was so intense that he could not even find an oath.

“Incomprehensible!” he faltered; “incomprehensible!”

“Incomprehensible, indeed,” repeated the young wife, sadly, but without bitterness.  “I was married yesterday; to-day I am deserted.  It would have been generous to have reflected the evening before and not the next day.  Tell Martial, however, that I forgive him for having destroyed my life, for having made me the most miserable of creatures.  I also forgive him for the supreme insult of speaking to me of his fortune.  I trust he may be happy.  Adieu, Monsieur le Duc, we shall never meet again.  Adieu!”

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 crushing blow in store for us.”