“With whom? Name the scoundrel who has dared to insult you!”
A faint flush tinged Martial’s cheek; but it was in his usual careless tone 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 assassinated me without ceremony, but he offered me open combat. Besides, he was wounded far more severely than I.”
All M. de Sairmeuse’s doubts had 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.”
The duke shook his head.
“All this is scarcely plausible,” he remarked, “especially after the assurance of your complicity, which I have received.”
“Ah!” said he; “and from whom? From your spy-in-chief, no doubt—that rascal Chupin. It surprises me to see that you can hesitate for a moment between the word of your son and the stories of such a wretch.”
“Do not speak ill of Chupin, Marquis; he is a very useful man. Had it not been for him, we should have been taken unawares. It was through him that I learned of this vast conspiracy organized by Lacheneur——”