"M. le Capitaine," Maître Menard quavered, rising unsteadily to his feet, "you make a mistake. On my sacred word, you mistake; this is not—"
"Get out!" cried the captain, helping him along with his boot. Maître Menard fell rather than walked out of the door.
A gray hue came over Lucas's face. His first fright had given way to fury at perceiving himself the victim of a mistake, but now alarm was born in his eyes again. Was it, after all, a mistake? This obstinate disbelief in his assertion, this ordering away of all who could swear to his identity—was it not rather a plot for his ruin? He swallowed hard once or twice, fear gripping his throat harder than ever the dragoon's fingers had gripped mine. Certainly he was not the Comte de Mar; but then he was the man who had killed Pontou.
"If this is a plot against me, say so!" he cried. "If you have orders to arrest me, do so. But arrest me by the name of Paul de Lorraine, not of Étienne de Mar."
"The name of Étienne de Mar will do," the captain returned; "we have no fancy for aliases at the Bastille."
"It is a plot!" Lucas cried.
"It is a warrant; that is all I know about it"
"But I am not Comte de Mar," Lucas repeated.
His uneasy conscience had numbed his wits. In his dread of a plot he had done little to dissipate an error. But now he pulled himself together; error or intention, he would act as if he knew it must be error.
"My captain, you have made a mistake likely to cost you your shoulder-straps. I tell you I am not Mar; the landlord, who knows him well, tells you I am not Mar. Ask those who know M. de Mar; ask these inn people. They will one and all tell you I am not he. Ask that boy there; even he dares not say to my face that I am."