exclaimed:

"A clever trick."

"What do you say?"

"I say that this Chanlouineau is a sly rascal. Who the devil would have
thought the fellow so cunning to see his honest face? Another lesson to
teach one not to trust to appearances."

In all his life the Duc de Sairmeuse had never received so severe a
shock.

"Chanlouineau was not lying, then," he said to his son, in a choked,
unnatural voice; "you _were_ one of the instigators of this rebellion,
then?"

Martial's face grew dark, and in a tone of disdainful hauteur, he
replied:

"This is the fourth time, sir, that you have addressed that question to
me, and for the fourth time I answer: 'No.' That should suffice. If the
fancy had seized me for taking part in this movement, I should frankly
confess it. What possible reason could I have for concealing anything
from you?"

"The facts!" interrupted the duke, in a frenzy of passion; "the facts!"

"Very well," rejoined Martial, in his usual indifferent tone; "the fact
is that the model of this circular does exist, that it was written in my
best hand on a very large sheet of very poor paper. I recollect that
in trying to find appropriate expressions I erased and rewrote several
words. Did I date this writing? I think I did, but I could not swear to
it."

"How do you reconcile this with your denials?" exclaimed M. de
Sairmeuse.

"I can do this easily. Did I not tell you just now that Chanlouineau had
made a tool of me?"

The duke no longer knew what to believe; but what exasperated him more
than all else was his son's imperturbable tranquillity.

"Confess, rather, that you have been led into this filth by your
mistress," he retorted, pointing to Marie-Anne.

But this insult Martial would not tolerate.

"Mademoiselle Lacheneur is not my mistress," he replied, in a tone so
imperious that it was a menace. "It is true, however, that it rests
only with her to decide whether she will be the Marquise de Sairmeuse
tomorrow. Let us abandon these recriminations, they do not further the
progress of our business."

The faint glimmer of reason which still lighted M. de Sairmeuse's mind,
checked the still more insulting reply that rose to his lips. Trembling
with suppressed rage, he made the circuit of the room several times,
and finally paused before Marie-Anne, who remained in the same place, as
motionless as a statue.

"Come, my good girl," said he, "give me the writing."

"It is not in my possession, sir."