he cure who had taken the place of poor Abbe Midon.

At the close of the address to the newly wedded pair, the priest uttered
these words, which he believed prophetic:

"You will be, you _must_ be happy!"

Who would not have believed as he did? Where could two young people
be found more richly dowered with all the attributes likely to produce
happiness, i.e., youth, rank, health, and riches.

But though an intense joy sparkled in the eyes of the new Marquise
de Sairmeuse, there were those among the guests who observed the
bridegroom's preoccupation. One might have supposed that he was making
an effort to drive away some gloomy thought.

At the moment when his young wife hung upon his arm, proud and radiant,
a vision of Marie-Anne rose before him, more life-like, more potent than
ever.

What had become of her that she had not been seen at the time of her
father's execution? Courageous as he knew her to be, if she had made no
attempt to see her father, it must have been because she was ignorant of
his approaching doom.

"Ah! if she had but loved him," Martial thought, "what happiness would
have been his. But, now he was bound for life to a woman whom he did not
love."

At dinner, however, he succeeded in shaking off the sadness that
oppressed him, and when the guests rose to repair to the drawing-rooms,
he had almost forgotten his dark forebodings. He was rising in his turn,
when a servant approached him with a mysterious air.

"Someone desires to see the marquis," whispered the valet.

"Who?"

"A young peasant who will not give his name."

"On one's wedding-day, one must grant an audience to everybody," said
Martial.

And gay and smiling he descended the staircase.

In the vestibule, lined with rare and fragrant plants, stood a young
man. He was very pale, and his eyes glittered with feverish brilliancy.

On recognizing him Martial could not restrain an exclamation of
surprise.

"Jean Lacheneur!" he exclaimed; "imprudent man!"

The young man stepped forward.

"You believed that you were rid of me," he said, bitterly. "Instead, I
return from afar. You can have your people arrest me if you choose."

Martial's face crimsoned at the insult; but he retained his composure.

"What do you desire?" he asked, coldly.

Jean drew from his pocket a folded letter.

"I am to give you this on behalf of Maurice d'Escorval."

With an eager hand, Martial broke the seal. He glanced over the letter,
turned as pa