ad no suspicion of his real intentions. As for
the Widow Chupin and her son, if they suspected some infamous plot, the
name of the duchess was all they really knew in regard to it. Moreover,
Jean held Polyte and his mother completely under his control by the
wealth which he had promised them if they served him docilely.

And if Martial followed his wife into the Poivriere, Jean had so
arranged matters that the duke would at first suppose that she had been
led there by charity.

"But he will not go in," thought Lacheneur, whose heart throbbed wildly
with sinister joy as he held Martial's horse. "Monsieur le Duc is too
fine for that."

And Martial did not go in. Though he was horrified when he saw his wife
enter that vile den, as if she were at home there, he said to himself
that he should learn nothing by following her.

He, therefore, contented himself by making a thorough examination of
the outside of the house; then, remounting his horse, he departed on a
gallop. He was completely mystified; he did not know what to think, what
to imagine, what to believe.

But he was fully resolved to fathom this mystery and as soon as he
returned home he sent Otto out in search of information. He could
confide everything to this devoted servant; he had no secrets from him.

About four o'clock his faithful _valet de chambre_ returned, an
expression of profound consternation visible upon his countenance.

"What is it?" asked Martial, divining some great misfortune.

"Ah, sir, the mistress of that wretched den is the widow of Chupin's
son----"

Martial's face became as white as his linen.

He knew life too well not to understand that since the duchess had been
compelled to submit to the power of these people, they must be masters
of some secret which she was willing to make any sacrifice to preserve.
But what secret?

The years which had silvered Martial's hair, had not cooled the ardor of
his blood. He was, as he had always been, a man of impulses.

He rushed to his wife's apartments.

"Madame has just gone down to receive the Countess de Mussidan and the
Marquise d'Arlange," said the maid.

"Very well; I will wait for her here. Retire."

And Martial entered the chamber of Mme. Blanche.

The room was in disorder, for the duchess, after returning from the
Poivriere, was still engaged in her toilet when the visitors were
announced.

The wardrobe-doors were open, the chairs were encumbered with wearing
apparel, the a