“A clever trick.”
“What do you say?”
“I say that this Chanlouineau is a sly rascal. Who the devil would have thought the fellow so cunning to see his honest face? Another lesson to teach one not to trust to appearances.”
In all his life the Duc de Sairmeuse had never received so severe a shock.
“Chanlouineau was not lying, then,” he said to his son, in a choked, unnatural voice; “you were one of the instigators of this rebellion, then?”
Martial’s face grew dark, and in a tone of disdainful hauteur, he replied:
“This is the fourth time, sir, that you have addressed that question to me, and for the fourth time I answer: ‘No.’ That should suffice. If the fancy had seized me for taking part in this movement, I should frankly confess it. What possible reason could I have for concealing anything from you?”
“The facts!” interrupted the duke, in a frenzy of passion; “the facts!”
“Very well,” rejoined Martial, in his usual indifferent tone; “the fact is that the model of this circular does exist, that it was written in my best hand on a very large sheet of very poor paper. I recollect that in trying to find appropriate expressions I erased and rewrote several words. Did I date this writing? I think I did, but I could not swear to it.”
“How do you reconcile this with your denials?” exclaimed M. de Sairmeuse.