ismissed by M. Lacheneur;
and yet the anger of the latter had seemed to him too great to be
absolutely real.

He suspected a comedy, but for whose benefit? For his, or for
Chanlouineau's? And yet, what could possibly be the motive?

"And yet," he reflected, "my hands are tied; and I cannot call this
little d'Escorval to account for his insolence. To swallow such an
affront in silence is hard. Still, he is brave, there is no denying
that; perhaps I can find some other way to provoke his anger. But even
then, what could I do? If I harmed a hair of his head, Marie-Anne would
never forgive me. Ah! I would give a handsome sum in exchange for some
little device to send him out of the country."

Revolving in his mind these plans, whose frightful consequences he could
neither calculate nor foresee, Martial was walking up the avenue leading
to the chateau, when he heard hurried footsteps behind him.

He turned, and seeing two men running after him and motioning him to
stop, he paused.

It was Chupin, accompanied by one of his sons.

This old rascal had been enrolled among the servants charged with
preparing Sairmeuse for the reception of the duke; and he had already
discovered the secret of making himself useful to his master, which was
by seeming to be indispensable.

"Ah, Monsieur," he cried, "we have been searching for you everywhere, my
son and I. It was Monsieur le Duc----"

"Very well," said Martial, dryly. "I am returning----"

But Chupin was not sensitive; and although he had not been very
favorably received, he ventured to follow the marquis at a little
distance, but sufficiently near to make himself heard. He also had
his schemes; for it was not long before he began a long recital of the
calumnies which had been spread about the neighborhood in regard to the
Lacheneur affair. Why did he choose this subject in preference to any
other? Did he suspect the young marquis's passion for Marie-Anne?

According to this report, Lacheneur--he no longer said "monsieur"--was
unquestionably a rascal; the complete surrender of Sairmeuse was only
a farce, as he must possess thousands, and hundreds of thousands of
francs, since he was about to marry his daughter.

If the scoundrel had felt only suspicions, they were changed into
certainty by the eagerness with which Martial demanded:

"How! is Mademoiselle Lacheneur to be married?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"And to whom?"

"To Chanlouineau, the fellow whom the peasants wish