Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖
- Author: Emile Gaboriau
Book online «The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖». Author Emile Gaboriau
“Let us speak of Martial,” she began.
At the sound of this name, the marquis bounded from his chair with clinched fists.
“Ah, the wretch!” he exclaimed.
“Martial is my husband, father.”
“And you!—after what he has done—you dare to defend him?”
“I do not defend him; but I do not wish him to be murdered.”
At that moment the news of Martial’s death would have given the Marquis de Courtornieu infinite satisfaction.
“You heard, father,” continued Blanche, “the rendezvous appointed to-morrow, at mid-day, on the Reche. I know Martial; he has been insulted, and he will go there. Will he encounter a loyal adversary? No. He will find a crowd of assassins. You alone can prevent him from being assassinated.”
“I! and how?”
“By sending some soldiers to the Reche, with orders to conceal themselves in the grove—with orders to arrest these murderers at the proper moment.”
The marquis gravely shook his head.
“If I do that,” said he, “Martial is quite capable—”
“Of anything! yes, I know it. But what does it matter to you, since I am willing to assume the responsibility?”
M. de Courtornieu vainly tried to penetrate the bride’s real motive.
“The order to Montaignac must be sent at once,” she insisted.
Had she been less excited she would have discerned the gleam of malice in her father’s eye. He was thinking that this would afford him an ample revenge, since he could bring dishonor upon Martial, who had shown so little regard for the honor of others.
“Very well; since you will have it so,” he said, with feigned reluctance.
His daughter made haste to bring him ink and pens, and with trembling hands he prepared a series of minute instructions for the commander at Montaignac.
Blanche herself gave the letter to a servant, with directions to depart at once; and it was not until she had seen him set off on a gallop that she went to her own apartments—the apartments in which Martial had gathered together all that was most beautiful and luxurious.
But this splendor only aggravated the misery of the deserted wife, for that she was deserted she did not doubt for a moment. She was sure that her husband would not return; she did not expect him.
The Duc de Sairmeuse was searching the neighborhood with a party of servants, but she knew that it was labor lost; that they would not encounter Martial.
Where could he be? Near Marie-Anne most assuredly—and at the thought a wild desire to 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, speak 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
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