peak to them, and warn them of his
intended departure.

He attempted this in vain. Mme. Blanche had shut herself up in her own
apartments, and remained deaf to all entreaties for admittance. Her
father had been put to bed, and the physician who had been summoned to
attend him, declared the marquis to be at death's door.

The duke was therefore obliged to resign himself to the prospect of
another night of suspense, which was almost intolerable to a character
like his.

"To-morrow, after breakfast, I will find some pretext to escape, without
telling them I am going to see Martial," he thought.

He was spared this trouble. The next morning, at about nine o'clock,
while he was dressing, a servant came to inform him that M. de
Courtornieu and his daughter were awaiting him in the drawing-room.

Much surprised, he hastened down.

When he entered the room, the marquis, who was seated in an arm-chair,
rose, leaning heavily upon the shoulder of Aunt Medea.

Mme. Blanche came rapidly forward to meet the duke, as pale as if every
drop of blood had been drawn from her veins.

"We are going, Monsieur le Duc," she said, coldly, "and we wish to make
our adieux."

"What! you are going? Will you not----"

The young bride interrupted him by a sad gesture, and drawing Martial's
letter from her bosom, she handed it to M. de Sairmeuse, saying.

"Will you do me the favor to peruse this, Monsieur?"

The duke glanced over the short epistle, and his astonishment was so
intense that he could not even find an oath.

"Incomprehensible!" he faltered; "incomprehensible!"

"Incomprehensible, indeed," repeated the young wife, sadly, but without
bitterness. "I was married yesterday; to-day I am deserted. It would
have been generous to have reflected the evening before and not the next
day. Tell Martial, however, that I forgive him for having destroyed my
life, for having made me the most miserable of creatures. I also forgive
him for the supreme insult of speaking to me of his fortune. I trust he
may be happy. Adieu, Monsieur le Duc, we shall never meet again. Adieu!"

She took her father's arm, and they were about to retire, when M. de
Sairmeuse hastily threw himself between them and the door.

"You shall not depart thus!" he exclaimed. "I will not suffer it. Wait,
at least, until I have seen Martial. Perhaps he is not as culpable as
you suppose--"

"Enough!" interrupted the marquis; "enough! This is one of those
outrages which ca