“He was thrown from his horse, in the forest, near the Sanguille rocks.”

“Ah! it was there where my poor father was nearly murdered.”

“Yes, it is the very place.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Martial’s affection for his father had not been very deep, and he was well aware that his father had but little love for him.  He was astonished at the bitter grief he felt on hearing of his death.

“From this letter which was forwarded by a messenger from Sairmeuse,” he continued, “I judge that everybody believes it to have been an accident; but I—­I——­”

“Well?”

“I believe he was murdered.”

An exclamation of horror escaped Aunt Medea, and Blanche turned pale.

“Murdered!” she whispered.

“Yes, Blanche; and I could name the murderer.  Oh!  I am not deceived.  The murderer of my father is the same man who attempted to assassinate the Marquis de Courtornieu——­”

“Jean Lacheneur!”

Martial gravely bowed his head.  It was his only reply.

“And you will not denounce him?  You will not demand justice?”

Martial’s face grew more and more gloomy.

“What good would it do?” he replied.  “I have no material proofs to give, and justice demands incontestable evidence.”

Then, as if communing with his own thoughts, rather than addressing his wife, he said, despondently: 

“The Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu have reaped what they have sown.  The blood of murdered innocence always calls for vengeance.  Sooner or later, the guilty must expiate their crimes.”

Blanche shuddered.  Each word found an echo in her own soul.  Had he intended his words for her, he would not have expressed himself differently.

“Martial,” said she, trying to arouse him from his gloomy revery, “Martial.”

He did not seem to hear her, and, in the same tone, he continued: 

“These Lacheneurs were happy and honored before our arrival at Sairmeuse.  Their conduct was above all praise; their probity amounted to heroism.  We might have made them our faithful and devoted friends.  It was our duty, as well as in our interests, to have done so.  We did not understand this; we humiliated, ruined, exasperated them.  It was a fault for which we must atone.  Who knows but, in Jean Lacheneur’s place, I should have done what he has done?”

He was silent for a moment; then, with one of those sudden inspirations that sometimes enable one almost to read the future, he resumed: 

“I know Jean Lacheneur.  I alone can fathom his hatred, and I know that he lives only in the hope of vengeance.  It is true that we are very high and he is very low, but that matters little.  We have everything to fear.  Our millions form a rampart around us, but he will know how to open a breach.  And no precautions will save us.  At the very moment when we feel ourselves secure, he will be ready to strike.  What he will attempt, I know not; but his will be a terrible revenge.  Remember my words, Blanche, if ruin ever threatens our house, it will be Jean Lacheneur’s work.”