wreak her vengeance on her rival took possession of her
heart.

Martial, at Montaignac, had ended by going to sleep.

Blanche, when daylight came, exchanged the snowy bridal robes for a
black dress, and wandered about the garden like a restless spirit.

She spent most of the day shut up in her room, refusing to allow the
duke, or even her father, to enter.

In the evening, about eight o'clock, they received tidings from Martial.

A servant brought two letters; one, sent by Martial to his father, the
other, to his wife.

For a moment or more Blanche hesitated to open the one intended for her.
It would determine her destiny; she was afraid; she broke the seal and
read:

"Madame la marquise--Between you and me all is ended; reconciliation is
impossible.

"From this moment you are free. I esteem you enough to hope that you
will respect the name of Sairmeuse, from which I cannot relieve you.

"You will agree with me, I am sure, in thinking a quiet separation
preferable to the scandal of a divorce suit.

"My lawyer will pay you an allowance befitting the wife of a man whose
income amounts to three hundred thousand francs.

"Martial de Sairmeuse."

Blanche staggered beneath this terrible blow. She was indeed deserted,
and deserted, as she supposed, for another.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "that creature! that creature! I will kill her!"

CHAPTER XL

The twenty-four hours which Blanche had spent in measuring the extent of
her terrible misfortune, the duke had spent in raving and swearing.

He had not even thought of going to bed.

After his fruitless search for his son he returned to the chateau, and
began a continuous tramp to and fro in the great hall.

He was almost sinking from weariness when his son's letter was handed
him.

It was very brief.

Martial did not vouchsafe any explanation; he did not even mention the
rupture between his wife and himself.

"I cannot return to Sairmeuse," he wrote, "and yet it is of the utmost
importance that I should see you.

"You will, I trust, approve my determinations when I explain the reasons
that have guided me in making them.

"Come to Montaignac, then, the sooner the better. I am waiting for you."

Had he listened to the prompting of his impatience, the duke would
have started at once. But how could he thus abandon the Marquis de
Courtornieu, who had accepted his hospitality, and especially Blanche,
his son's wife?

He must, at least, see them, s