“The history of his fortune,” he continued, “is the history of his marriages—­I say marriages, because he has married a number of times, and always advantageously.  Yes, in a period of fifteen years he has had the misfortune of losing three wives, each richer than the other.  His daughter is the child of his third and last wife, a Cisse Blossac—­she died in 1809.  He comforted himself after each bereavement by purchasing a quantity of lands or bonds.  So that now he is as rich as you are, Marquis, and his influence is powerful and widespread.  I forgot one detail, however, he believes, they tell me, in the growing power of the clergy, and has become very devout.”

He checked himself; the carriage had stopped before the entrance of the Chateau de Courtornieu, and the marquis came forward to receive his guests in person.  A nattering distinction, which he seldom lavished upon his visitors.  The marquis was long rather than tall, and very solemn in deportment.  The head that surmounted his angular form was remarkably small, a characteristic of his race, and covered with thin, glossy black hair, and lighted by cold, round black eyes.

The pride that becomes a gentleman, and the humility that befits a Christian, were continually at war with each other in his countenance.

He pressed the hands of M. de Sairmeuse and Martial, overwhelming them with compliments uttered in a thin, rather nasal voice, which, issuing from his immense body, was as astonishing as the sound of a flute issuing from the pipes of an orphicleide would be.

“At last you have come,” he said; “we were waiting for you before beginning our deliberations upon a very grave, and also very delicate matter.  We are thinking of addressing a petition to His Majesty.  The nobility, who have suffered so much during the Revolution, have a right to expect ample compensation.  Our neighbors, to the number of sixteen, are now assembled in my cabinet, transformed for the time into a council chamber.”

Martial shuddered at the thought of all the ridiculous and tiresome conversation he would probably be obliged to hear; and his father’s recommendation occurred to him.

“Shall we not have the honor of paying our respects to Mademoiselle de Courtornieu?”

“My daughter must be in the drawing-room with our cousin,” replied the marquis, in an indifferent tone; “at least, if she is not in the garden.”

This might be construed into, “Go and look for her if you choose.”  At least Martial understood it in that way; and when they entered the hall, he allowed his father and the marquis to go upstairs without him.

A servant opened the door of the drawing-room for him—­but it was empty.

“Very well,” said he; “I know my way to the garden.”

But he explored it in vain; no one was to be found.

He decided to return to the house and march bravely into the presence of the dreaded enemy.  He had turned to retrace his steps when, through the foliage of a bower of jasmine, he thought he could distinguish a white dress.