He watched and studied his son as a jealous woman studies and watches the lover she mistrusts.  He thought he read in his eyes many thoughts which were not there; and according as he saw him, gay or sad, careless or preoccupied, he was reassured or still more alarmed.

Sometimes he imagined the worst.  “If I should quarrel with Martial,” he thought, “he would take possession of his entire fortune, and I should be left without bread.”

These torturing apprehensions were, to a man who judged the sentiments of others by his own, a terrible chastisement.

Ah! no one would have wished his existence at the price he paid for it—­not even the poor wretches who envied his lot and his apparent happiness, as they saw him roll by in his magnificent carriage.

There were days when he almost went mad.

“What am I?” he exclaimed, foaming with rage.  “A mere plaything in the hands of a child.  My son owns me.  If I displease him, he casts me aside.  Yes, he can dismiss me as he would a lackey.  If I enjoy his fortune, it is only because he is willing that I should do so.  I owe my very existence, as well as my luxuries, to his charity.  But a moment of anger, even a caprice, may deprive me of everything.”

With such ideas in his brain, the duke could not love his son.

He hated him.

He passionately envied him all the advantages he possessed—­his youth, his millions, his physical beauty, and his talents, which were really of a superior order.

We meet every day mothers who are jealous of their daughters, and some fathers!

This was one of those cases.

The duke, however, showed no sign of mental disquietude; and if Martial had possessed less penetration, he would have believed that his father adored him.  But if he had detected the duke’s secret, he did not allow him to discover it, nor did he abuse his power.

Their manner toward each other was perfect.  The duke was kind even to weakness; Martial full of deference.  But their relations were not those of father and son.  One was in constant fear of displeasing the other; the other was a little too sure of his power.  They lived on a footing of perfect equality, like two companions of the same age.

From this trying situation, Lacheneur had rescued the duke.

The owner of Sairmeuse, an estate worth more than a million, the duke was free from his son’s tyranny; he had recovered his liberty.

What brilliant projects flitted through his brain that night!

He beheld himself the richest landowner in that locality; he was the chosen friend of the King; had he not a right to aspire to anything?

Such a prospect enchanted him.  He felt twenty years younger—­the twenty years that had been passed in exile.

So, rising before nine o’clock, he went to awaken Martial.

On returning from dining with the Marquis de Courtornieu, the evening before, the duke had gone through the chateau; but this hasty examination by candle-light had not satisfied his curiosity.  He wished to see it in detail by daylight.