Followed by his son, he explored one after another of the rooms of the princely abode; and, with every step, the recollections of his infancy crowded upon him.

Lacheneur had respected everything.  The duke found articles as old as himself, religiously preserved, occupying the old familiar places from which they had never been removed.

When his inspection was concluded: 

“Decidedly, Marquis,” he exclaimed, “this Lacheneur was not such a rascal as I supposed.  I am disposed to forgive him a great deal, on account of the care which he has taken of our house in our absence.”

Martial seemed engrossed in thought.

“I think, Monsieur,” he said, at last, “that we should testify our gratitude to this man by paying him a large indemnity.”

This word excited the duke’s anger.

“An indemnity!” he exclaimed.  “Are you mad, Marquis?  Think of the income that he has received from my estate.  Have you forgotten the calculation made for us last evening by the Chevalier de la Livandiere?”

“The chevalier is a fool!” declared Martial promptly.  “He forgot that Lacheneur has trebled the value of Sairmeuse.  I think that our family honor requires us to bestow upon this man an indemnity of at least one hundred thousand francs.  This would, moreover, be a good stroke of policy in the present state of public sentiment, and His Majesty would, I am sure, be much pleased.”

“Stroke of policy”—­“public sentiment”—­“His Majesty.”  One might have obtained almost anything from M. de Sairmeuse by these arguments.

“Heavenly powers!” he exclaimed; “a hundred thousand francs! how you talk!  It is all very well for you, with your fortune!  Still, if you really think so——­”

“Ah! my dear sir, is not my fortune yours?  Yes, such is really my opinion.  So much so, indeed, that if you will allow me to do so, I will see Lacheneur myself, and arrange the matter in such a way that his pride will not be wounded.  His is a devotion which it would be well to retain.”

The duke opened his eyes to their widest extent.

“Lacheneur’s pride!” he murmured.  “Devotion which it would be well to retain!  Why do you sing in this strain?  Whence comes this extraordinary interest?”

He paused, enlightened by a sudden recollection.

“I understand!” he exclaimed; “I understand.  He has a pretty daughter.”

Martial smiled without replying.

“Yes, pretty as a rose,” continued the duke; “but one hundred thousand francs!  Zounds!  That is a round sum to pay for such a whim.  But, if you insist upon it——­”

Armed with this authorization, Martial, two hours later, started on his mission.

The first peasant he met told him the way to the cottage which M. Lacheneur now occupied.

“Follow the river,” said the man, “and when you see a pine-grove upon your left, cross it.”

Martial was crossing it, when he heard the sound of voices.  He approached, recognized Marie-Anne and Maurice d’Escorval, and obeying an angry impulse, he paused.