. Étienne, forgetting his manners, snatched the papers from his father's hand, turning them about and about, not able to believe his senses. A man hurled over a cliff, plunging in one moment from flowery lawns into a turbulent sea, might feel as he did.
"But the seal!" he stammered.
"The seal was genuine," Monsieur answered, startled as he. "How your fellow could have the king's signet—"
"See," M. Étienne cried, scratching at the fragments. "This is it. Dunce that I am not to have guessed it! Look, there is a layer of paper embedded in the wax. Look, he cut the seal out, smeared hot wax on the false packet, pressed in the seal, and curled the new wax over the edge. It was cleverly done; the seal is but little thicker, little larger than before. It did not look tampered with. Would you have suspected it, Monsieur?" he demanded piteously.
"I had no thought of it. But this Peyrot—it may not yet be too late—"
"I will go back," M. Étienne cried, darting to the door. But Monsieur laid forcible hands on him.
"Not you, Étienne. You were hurt yesterday; you have not closed your eyes for twenty-four hours. I don't want a dead son. I blame you not for the failure; not another man of us all would have come so near success."
"Dolt! I should have known he could not deal honestly," M. Étienne cried. "I should have known he would trick me. But I did not think to doubt the crest. I should have opened it there in the inn, but it was Lemaître's sealed packet. However, Peyrot sat down to my dinner: I can be back before he has finished his three kinds of wine."
"Stop, Étienne," Monsieur commanded. "I forbid you. You are gray with fatigue. Vigo shall go."