and she saw a tear in his
eye.

"What has happened?" she faltered.

Martial did not remark her emotion.

"My father is dead, Blanche," he replied.

"The Duc de Sairmeuse! My God! how did it happen?"

"He was thrown from his horse, in the forest, near the Sanguille rocks."

"Ah! it was there where my poor father was nearly murdered."

"Yes, it is the very place."

There was a moment's silence.

Martial's affection for his father had not been very deep, and he
was well aware that his father had but little love for him. He was
astonished at the bitter grief he felt on hearing of his death.

"From this letter which was forwarded by a messenger from Sairmeuse," he
continued, "I judge that everybody believes it to have been an accident;
but I--I----"

"Well?"

"I believe he was murdered."

An exclamation of horror escaped Aunt Medea, and Blanche turned pale.

"Murdered!" she whispered.

"Yes, Blanche; and I could name the murderer. Oh! I am not deceived. The
murderer of my father is the same man who attempted to assassinate the
Marquis de Courtornieu----"

"Jean Lacheneur!"

Martial gravely bowed his head. It was his only reply.

"And you will not denounce him? You will not demand justice?"

Martial's face grew more and more gloomy.

"What good would it do?" he replied. "I have no material proofs to give,
and justice demands incontestable evidence."

Then, as if communing with his own thoughts, rather than addressing his
wife, he said, despondently:

"The Duc de Sairmeuse and the Marquis de Courtornieu have reaped
what they have sown. The blood of murdered innocence always calls for
vengeance. Sooner or later, the guilty must expiate their crimes."

Blanche shuddered. Each word found an echo in her own soul. Had
he intended his words for her, he would not have expressed himself
differently.

"Martial," said she, trying to arouse him from his gloomy revery,
"Martial."

He did not seem to hear her, and, in the same tone, he continued:

"These Lacheneurs were happy and honored before our arrival at
Sairmeuse. Their conduct was above all praise; their probity amounted
to heroism. We might have made them our faithful and devoted friends. It
was our duty, as well as in our interests, to have done so. We did not
understand this; we humiliated, ruined, exasperated them. It was a fault
for which we must atone. Who knows but, in Jean Lacheneur's place, I
should have done what he has done?"

He was s