ocked the door:

"Let us speak of Martial," she began.

At the sound of this name, the marquis bounded from his chair with
clinched fists.

"Ah, the wretch!" he exclaimed.

"Martial is my husband, father."

"And you!--after what he has done--you dare to defend him?"

"I do not defend him; but I do not wish him to be murdered."

At that moment the news of Martial's death would have given the Marquis
de Courtornieu infinite satisfaction.

"You heard, father," continued Blanche, "the rendezvous appointed
to-morrow, at mid-day, on the Reche. I know Martial; he has been
insulted, and he will go there. Will he encounter a loyal adversary? No.
He will find a crowd of assassins. You alone can prevent him from being
assassinated."

"I! and how?"

"By sending some soldiers to the Reche, with orders to conceal
themselves in the grove--with orders to arrest these murderers at the
proper moment."

The marquis gravely shook his head.

"If I do that," said he, "Martial is quite capable--"

"Of anything! yes, I know it. But what does it matter to you, since I am
willing to assume the responsibility?"

M. de Courtornieu vainly tried to penetrate the bride's real motive.

"The order to Montaignac must be sent at once," she insisted.

Had she been less excited she would have discerned the gleam of malice
in her father's eye. He was thinking that this would afford him an ample
revenge, since he could bring dishonor upon Martial, who had shown so
little regard for the honor of others.

"Very well; since you will have it so," he said, with feigned
reluctance.

His daughter made haste to bring him ink and pens, and with trembling
hands he prepared a series of minute instructions for the commander at
Montaignac.

Blanche herself gave the letter to a servant, with directions to depart
at once; and it was not until she had seen him set off on a gallop that
she went to her own apartments--the apartments in which Martial had
gathered together all that was most beautiful and luxurious.

But this splendor only aggravated the misery of the deserted wife, for
that she was deserted she did not doubt for a moment. She was sure that
her husband would not return; she did not expect him.

The Duc de Sairmeuse was searching the neighborhood with a party of
servants, but she knew that it was labor lost; that they would not
encounter Martial.

Where could he be? Near Marie-Anne most assuredly--and at the thought a
wild desire to