"Oh, you did not say that? You did not know, then, that I could reel off the ages of every Lorraine of them all. No, M. de Mar, I am not so simple as you think. You will come along with me to the Bastille."
"Blockhead! I'll have you broken on the wheel for this," Lucas stormed. "I am no more Count of Mar than I am King of Spain. Speak up, you old turnspit," he shouted to Maître Menard. "Am I he?"
Poor Maître Menard had dropped down on his iron box, too limp and sick to know what was going on. He only stared helplessly.
"Speak, rascal," Lucas cried. "Am I Comte de Mar?"
"No," the maître answered in low, faltering tones. He was at the last point of pain and fear. "No, monsieur officer, it is as he says. He is not the Comte de Mar."
"Who is he, then?"
"I know not," the maître stammered. "He came here last night. But it is as he says—he is not the Comte de Mar."
"Take care, mine host," the officer returned; "you're lying."
I could not wonder at him; if I had not been in a position to know otherwise, I had thought myself the maître was lying.
"If you had spoken at first I might have believed you," the captain said, bestowing a kick on him. "Get out of here, old ass, before I cram your lie down your throat. And clear your people away from this door. I'll not walk through a mob. Send every man Jack about his business, or it will be the worse for him. And every woman Jill, too."