“I can do this easily. Did I not tell you just now that Chanlouineau had made a tool of me?”
The duke no longer knew what to believe; but what exasperated him more than all else was his son’s imperturbable tranquillity.
“Confess, rather, that you have been led into this filth by your mistress,” he retorted, pointing to Marie-Anne.
But this insult Martial would not tolerate.
“Mademoiselle Lacheneur is not my mistress,” he replied, in a tone so imperious that it was a menace. “It is true, however, that it rests only with her to decide whether she will be the Marquise de Sairmeuse tomorrow. Let us abandon these recriminations, they do not further the progress of our business.”
The faint glimmer of reason which still lighted M. de Sairmeuse’s mind, checked the still more insulting reply that rose to his lips. Trembling with suppressed rage, he made the circuit of the room several times, and finally paused before Marie-Anne, who remained in the same place, as motionless as a statue.
“Come, my good girl,” said he, “give me the writing.”
“It is not in my possession, sir.”
“Where is it?”
“In the hands of a person who will give it to you only under certain conditions.”