With the exception of Baron d’Escorval, there was not one prisoner who was capable of understanding the real bearing of these audacious allegations; but all, nevertheless, nodded their assent.
“The Marquis de Sairmeuse was so truly our leader,” exclaimed the daring peasant, “that he was wounded by a sabre-thrust while fighting by my side.”
The face of the duke was more purple than that of a man struck with apoplexy; and his fury almost deprived him of the power of speech.
“You lie, scoundrel! you lie!” he gasped.
“Send for the marquis,” said Chanlouineau, tranquilly, “and see whether or not he is wounded.”
A refusal on the part of the duke could not fail to arouse suspicion. But what could he do? Martial had concealed his wound the day before; it was now impossible to confess that he had been wounded.
Fortunately for the duke, one of the judges relieved him of his embarrassment.
“I hope, Monsieur, that you will not give this arrogant rebel the satisfaction he desires. The commission opposes his demand.”
Chanlouineau laughed loudly.
“Very naturally,” he exclaimed. “To-morrow my head will be off, and you think nothing will then remain to prove what I say. I have another proof, fortunately—material and indestructible proof—which it is beyond your power to destroy, and which will speak when my body is six feet under ground.”