“Ah!—then you were, indeed—”
“I was where?—what?”
“Why, at the rendezvous of those miserable peasants who, in their folly, dared to dream of overthrowing the best of princes!”
“I think you must be jesting, sir,” replied Martial, in a tone of deep surprise, which somewhat reassured his father, though it failed to dissipate his suspicions entirely.
“Then these vile rascals attacked you?” inquired M. de Sairmeuse.
“Not at all. I have been simply obliged to fight a duel.”
“With whom? Name the scoundrel who has dared to insult you?”
A faint flush tinged Martial’s cheek; but it was with his usual careless manner that he replied: “Upon my word, no; I shall not give his name. You would trouble him, perhaps; and I really owe the fellow a debt of gratitude. It happened upon the highway; he might have murdered me without ceremony had he only chosen, but he offered me open combat. Besides, he was wounded far more severely than I.”
All M. de Sairmeuse’s doubts had now returned. “And why, instead of summoning a physician, are you attempting to dress this wound yourself?”
“Because it is a mere trifle, and because I wish to keep it a secret.”