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.
CHAPTER XI
During the decisive moments of life, when one’s entire future depends upon a word, or a gesture, twenty contradictory inspirations can traverse the mind in the time occupied by a flash of lightning.
On the sudden apparition of the young Marquis de Sairmeuse, Maurice d’Escorval’s first thought was this:
“How long has he been there? Has he been playing the spy? Has he been listening to us? What did he hear?”
His first impulse was to spring upon his enemy, to strike him in the face, and compel him to engage in a hand-to-hand struggle.
The thought of Anne-Marie checked him.
He reflected upon the possible, even probable results of a quarrel born of such circumstances. The combat which would ensue would cost this pure young girl her reputation. Martial would talk of it; and country people are pitiless. He saw this girl, whom he looked so devotedly upon, become the talk of the neighborhood; saw the finger of scorn pointed at her, and possessed sufficient self-control to master his anger. All these reflections had occupied only half a second.
Then, politely touching his hat, and stepping toward Martial:
“You are a stranger, Monsieur,” said he, in a voice which was frightfully altered, “and you have doubtless lost your way?” His words were ill-chosen, and defeated his prudent intentions. A curt “Mind your own business” would have been less wounding. He forgot that this word “stranger” was the most deadly insult that one could cast in the face of the former emigres, who had returned with the allied armies.
Still the young marquis did not change his insolently nonchalant attitude.
He touched the visor of his hunting cap with his finger, and replied:
“It is true—I have lost my way.”
Agitated as Marie-Anne was, she could not fail to understand that her presence was all that restrained the hatred of these two young men. Their attitude, the glance with which they measured each other, did not leave the shadow of a doubt on that score. If one was ready to spring upon the other, the other was on the alert, ready to defend himself.
The silence of nearly a moment which followed was as threatening as the profound calm which precedes the storm.
Martial was the first to break it.
“A peasant’s directions are not generally remarkable for their clearness,” he said, lightly; “and for more than an hour I have been seeking the house to which Monsieur Lacheneur has retired.”
“Ah!”
“I am sent to him by the Duc de Sairmeuse, my father.”
Knowing what he did, Maurice supposed that these strangely rapacious individuals had some new demand to make.
“I thought,” said he, “that all relations between Monsieur Lacheneur and Monsieur de Sairmeuse were broken off last evening at the house of the abbe.”
This was said in the most provoking manner, and yet Martial never so much as frowned. He had sworn that he would remain calm, and he had strength enough to keep his word.
“If these relations—as God forbid—have been broken off,” he replied, “believe me, Monsieur d’Escorval, it is no fault of ours.”
“Then it is not as people say?”
“What people? Who?”
“The people here in the neighborhood.”
“Ah! And what do these people say?”
“The truth. That you have been guilty of an offence which a man of honor could never forgive nor forget.”
The young marquis shook his head gravely.
“You are quick to condemn, sir,” he said, coldly. “Permit me to hope that Monsieur Lacheneur will be less severe than yourself; and that his resentment—just, I confess, will vanish before”—he hesitated—“before a truthful explanation.”
Such an expression from the lips of this haughty young aristocrat! Was it possible?
Martial profited by the effect he had produced to advance toward Marie-Anne, and, addressing himself exclusively to her, seemed after that to ignore the presence of Maurice completely.
“For there has been a mistake—a misunderstanding, Mademoiselle,” he continued. “Do not doubt it. The Sairmeuse
