The years which had silvered Martial’s hair, had not cooled the ardor of his blood.  He was, as he had always been, a man of impulses.

He rushed to his wife’s apartments.

“Madame has just gone down to receive the Countess de Mussidan and the Marquise d’Arlange,” said the maid.

“Very well; I will wait for her here.  Retire.”

And Martial entered the chamber of Mme. Blanche.

The room was in disorder, for the duchess, after returning from the Poivriere, was still engaged in her toilet when the visitors were announced.

The wardrobe-doors were open, the chairs were encumbered with wearing apparel, the articles which Mme. Blanche used daily—­her watch, her purse, and several bunches of keys—­were lying upon the dressing-table and mantel.

Martial did not sit down.  His self-possession was returning.

“No folly,” he thought, “if I question her, I shall learn nothing.  I must be silent and watchful.”

He was about to retire, when, on glancing about the room, his eyes fell upon a large casket, inlaid with silver, which had belonged to his wife ever since she was a young girl, and which accompanied her everywhere.

“That, doubtless, holds the solution of the mystery,” he said to himself.

It was one of those moments when a man obeys the dictates of passion without pausing to reflect.  He saw the keys upon the mantel; he seized them, and endeavored to find one that would fit the lock of the casket.  The fourth key opened it.  It was full of papers.

With feverish haste, Martial examined the contents.  He had thrown aside several unimportant letters, when he came to a bill that read as follows: 

“Search for the child of Madame de Sairmeuse.  Expenses for the third quarter of the year 18—.”

Martial’s brain reeled.

A child!  His wife had a child!

He read on:  “For services of two agents at Sairmeuse, ——.  For expenses attending my own journey, ——.  Divers gratuities, ——.  Etc., etc.”  The total amounted to six thousand francs.  The bill was signed “Chelteux.”

With a sort of cold rage, Martial continued his examination of the contents of the casket, and found a note written in a miserable hand, that said:  “Two thousand francs this evening, or I will tell the duke the history of the affair at the Borderie.”  Then several more bills from Chelteux; then a letter from Aunt Medea in which she spoke of prison and of remorse.  And finally, at the bottom of the casket, he found the marriage-certificate of Marie-Anne Lacheneur and Maurice d’Escorval, drawn up by the Cure of Vigano and signed by the old physician and Corporal Bavois.

The truth was as clear as daylight.

Stunned, frozen with horror, Martial scarcely had strength to return the letters to the casket and restore it to its place.

Then he tottered back to his own room, clinging to the walls for support.