nd the Marquis de Courtornieu were past middle
age; their lives had been marked by many storms and vicissitudes; they
were the possessors of millions, and the owners of the most sumptuous
residences in the province. Under these circumstances one might
have supposed that they would desire to end their days in peace and
quietness.

It would have been easy for them to create a life of happiness by doing
good to those around them, and by preparing for their last hours a
chorus of benedictions and of regrets.

But no. They longed to have a hand in managing the ship of state; they
were not content to be simply passengers.

And the duke, appointed to the command of the military forces, and the
marquis, made presiding judge of the court at Montaignac, were both
obliged to leave their beautiful homes and take up their abode in rather
dingy quarters in town.

They did not murmur at the change; their vanity was satisfied.

Louis XVIII. was on the throne; their prejudices were triumphant; they
were happy.

It is true that dissatisfaction was rife on every side, but had they not
hundreds and thousands of allies at hand to suppress it?

And when wise and thoughtful persons spoke of "discontent," the duke and
his associates regarded them as visionaries.

On the 4th of March, 1816, the duke was just sitting down to dinner when
a loud noise was heard in the vestibule.

He rose--but at that very instant the door was flung open and a man
entered, panting and breathless.

This man was Chupin, the former poacher, whom M. de Sairmeuse had
elevated to the position of head gamekeeper.

It was evident that something extraordinary had happened.

"What is it?" inquired the duke.

"They are coming!" cried Chupin; "they are already on the way!"

"Who? who?"

By way of response, Chupin handed the duke a copy of the letter written
by Martial under Chanlouineau's dictation.

M. de Sairmeuse read:

"My dear friend--We are at last agreed, and the marriage is decided. We
are now busy in preparing for the wedding, which will take place on the
4th of March."

The date was no longer blank; but still the duke did not comprehend.

"Well, what of it?" he demanded.

Chupin tore his hair.

"They are on the way," he repeated. "I speak of the peasants--they
intend to take possession of Montaignac, dethrone Louis XVIII.,
bring back the Emperor, or at least the son of the Emperor--miserable
wretches! they have deceived me. I suspected