Blushing and embarrassed, Marie-Anne dared not thank him; for was she not about to requite his generosity by charging him with a complicity of which, as she well knew, he was innocent. Indeed, she would have by far preferred to find him angry and revengeful.
Just then a valet opened the door, and the Duke de Sairmeuse entered. “Upon my word!” he exclaimed, as he crossed the threshold, “I must confess that Chupin is an admirable hunter. Thanks to him—” He paused abruptly: he had not perceived Marie-Anne until now. “What! Lacheneur’s daughter!” said he, with an air of intense surprise. “What does she want here?”
The decisive moment had come—the baron’s life depended upon Marie-Anne’s courage and address. Impressed by this weighty responsibility she at once recovered all her presence of mind. “I have a revelation to sell to you, sir,” she said, with a resolute air.
The duke looked at her with mingled wonder and curiosity; then, laughing heartily, he threw himself on to the sofa, exclaiming: “Sell it, my pretty one—sell it! I can’t speak of that until I am alone with you.”
At a sign from his father, Martial left the room. “Now tell me what it is,” said the duke.
She did not lose a moment. “You must have read the circular convening the conspirators,” she began.
“Certainly; I have a dozen copies of it in my pocket.”
“Who do you suppose wrote it?”
“Why, the elder d’Escorval, or your father.”
“You are mistaken, sir; that letter was prepared by the Marquis de Sairmeuse, your son.”