The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖

Strange as it may appear to one who knew Martial’s proud and violent nature, he did not resent the insult.

“So you distrust me!” he said, sadly.

Jean Lacheneur was silent—another insult.

“But,” insisted Martial, “after what you have just seen and heard you can no longer suspect me of having cut the ropes which I carried to the baron.”

“No! I am convinced that you are innocent of that atrocious act.”

“You saw how I punished the man who dared to compromise the honor of the name of Sairmeuse. And this man is the father of the young girl whom I wedded to-day.”

“I have seen all this; but I must still reply: ‘Impossible.’”

Jean was amazed at the patience, we should rather say, the humble resignation displayed by Martial de Sairmeuse.

Instead of rebelling against this manifest injustice, Martial drew from his pocket the paper which he had just taken from his desk, and handing it to Jean:

“Those who have brought upon me the shame of having my word doubted shall be punished for it,” he said grimly. “You do not believe in my sincerity, Jean. Here is a proof, which I expect you to give to Maurice, and which cannot fail to convince even you.”

“What is this proof?”

“The letter written by my hand, in exchange for which my father assisted in the baron’s escape. An inexplicable presentiment prevented me from burning this compromising letter. To-day, I rejoice that such was the case. Take it, and use it as you will.”

Anyone save Jean Lacheneur would have been touched by the generosity of soul. But Jean was implacable. His was a nature which nothing can disarm, which nothing can mollify; hatred in his heart was a passion which, instead of growing weaker with time, increased and became more terrible.

He would have sacrificed anything at that moment for the ineffable joy of seeing this proud and detested marquis at his feet.

“Very well, I will give it to Maurice,” he responded, coldly.

“It should be a bond of alliance, it seems to me,” said Martial, gently.

Jean Lacheneur made a gesture terrible in its irony and menace.

“A bond of alliance!” he exclaimed. “You are too fast, Monsieur le Marquis! Have you forgotten all the blood that flows between us? You did not cut the ropes; but who condemned the innocent Baron d’Escorval to death? Was it not the Duc de Sairmeuse? An alliance! You have forgotten that you and yours sent my father to the scaffold! How have you rewarded the man whose heroic honesty gave you back a fortune? By murdering him, and by ruining the reputation of his daughter.”

“I offered my name and my fortune to your sister.”

“I would have killed her with my own hand had she accepted your offer. Let this prove to you that I do not forget. If any great disgrace ever tarnishes the proud name of Sairmeuse, think of Jean Lacheneur. My hand will be in it.”

He was so frantic with passion that he forgot his usual caution. By a violent effort he recovered his self-possession, and in calmer tones he added:

“And if you are so desirous of seeing Maurice, be at the Reche to-morrow at mid-day. He will be there.”

Having said this, he turned abruptly aside, sprang over the fence skirting the avenue, and disappeared in the darkness.

“Jean,” cried Martial, in almost supplicating tones; “Jean, come back—listen to me!”

No response.

A sort of bewilderment had seized the young marquis, and he stood motionless and dazed in the middle of the road.

A horse and rider on their way to Montaignac, that nearly ran over him, aroused him from his stupor, and the consciousness of his acts, which he had lost while reading the letter from Maurice, came back to him.

Now he could judge of his conduct calmly.

Was it indeed he, Martial, the phlegmatic sceptic, the man who boasted of his indifference and his insensibility, who had thus forgotten all self-control?

Alas, yes. And when Blanche de Courtornieu, now and henceforth the Marquise de Sairmeuse, accused Marie-Anne of being the cause of his frenzy, she had not been entirely wrong.

Martial, who regarded the opinion of the entire world with disdain, was rendered frantic by the thought that Marie-Anne despised him, and considered him a traitor and a coward.

It was for her sake, that in his outburst of rage, he resolved upon such a startling justification. And if he besought Jean to lead him to Maurice d’Escorval, it was because he hoped to find Marie-Anne not far off, and to say to her:

“Appearances were against me, but I am innocent; and I have proved it by unmasking the real culprit.”

It was to Marie-Anne that he wished this famous letter to be given, thinking that she, at least, could not fail to be surprised at his generosity.

His expectations had been disappointed; and now he realized what a terrible scandal he had created.

“It will be the devil to arrange!” he explained; “but nonsense! it will be forgotten in a month. The best way will be to face those gossips at once: I will return immediately.”

He said: “I will return,” in the most deliberate manner; but in proportion as he neared the chateau, his courage failed him.

The guests must have departed ere this, and Martial concluded that he would probably find himself alone with his young wife, his father, and the Marquis de Courtornieu. What reproaches, tears, anger and threats he would be obliged to encounter.

“No,” he muttered. “I am not such a fool! Let them have a night to calm themselves. I will not appear until to-morrow.”

But where should he pass the night? He was in evening dress and bareheaded; he began to feel cold. The house belonging to the duke in Montaignac would afford him a refuge.

“I shall find a bed, some servants, a fire, and a change of clothing there—and to-morrow, a horse to return.”

It was quite a distance to walk; but in his present mood this did not displease him.

The servant who came to open the door when he rapped, was speechless with astonishment on recognizing him.

“You, Monsieur!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, it is I. Light a good fire in the drawing-room for me, and bring me a change of clothing.”

The valet obeyed, and soon Martial found himself alone, stretched upon a sofa before the cheerful blaze.