“Certainly; I have a dozen copies in my pocket.”
“By whom do you suppose it was written?”
“By the elder d’Escorval, or by your father.”
“You are mistaken, Monsieur; that letter was the work of the Marquis de Sairmeuse, your son.”
The duke sprang up, fire flashing from his eyes, his face purple with anger.
“Zounds! girl! I advise you to bridle your tongue!”
“The proof of what I have asserted exists.”
“Silence, you hussy, or——”
“The lady who sends me here, Monsieur, possesses the original of this circular written by the hand of Monsieur Martial, and I am obliged to tell you——”
She did not have an opportunity to complete the sentence. The duke sprang to the door, and, in a voice of thunder, called his son.