“What is the proof?” demanded another judge, upon whom the duke looked askance.
The prisoner shook his head.
“I will give it to you when you offer me my life in exchange for it,” he replied. “It is now in the hands of a trusty person, who knows its value. It will go to the King if necessary. We would like to understand the part which the Marquis de Sairmeuse has played in this affair—whether he was truly with us, or whether he was only an instigating agent.”
A tribunal regardful of the immutable rules of justice, or even of its own honor, would, by virtue of its discretionary powers, have instantly demanded the presence of the Marquis de Sairmeuse.
But the military commission considered such a course quite beneath its dignity.
These men arrayed in gorgeous uniforms were not judges charged with the vindication of a cruel law, but still a law—they were the instruments, commissioned by the conquerors, to strike the vanquished in the name of that savage code which may be summed up in two words: “vae victis.”
The president, the noble Duc de Sairmeuse, would not have consented to summon Martial on any consideration. Nor did his associate judges wish him to do so.
Had Chanlouineau foreseen this? Probably. Yet, why had he ventured so hazardous a blow?
The tribunal, after a short deliberation, decided that it would not admit this testimony which had so excited the audience, and stupefied Maurice and Abbe Midon.
The examination was continued, therefore, with increased bitterness.