“Who is this person?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you.”
There was both admiration and jealousy in the look that Martial fixed upon Marie-Anne.
He was amazed by her coolness and presence of mind. Ah! how powerful must be the passion that imparted such a ringing clearness to her voice, such brilliancy to her eyes, such precision to her responses.
“And if I should not accept the—the conditions which are imposed, what then?” asked M. de Sairmeuse.
“In that case the writing will be utilized.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, sir, that early to-morrow morning a trusty messenger will start for Paris, charged with the task of submitting this document to the eyes of certain persons who are not exactly friends of yours. He will show it to Monsieur Laine, for example—or to the Duc de Richelieu; and he will, of course, explain to them its significance and its value. Will this writing prove the complicity of the Marquis de Sairmeuse? Yes, or no? Have you, or have you not, dared to try and to condemn to death the unfortunate men who were only the tools of your son?”
“Ah, wretch! hussy! viper!” interrupted the duke. He was beside himself. A foam gathered upon his lips, his eyes seemed starting from their sockets; he was no longer conscious of what he was saying.
“This,” he exclaimed, with wild gestures, “is enough to appall me! Yes, I have bitter enemies, envious rivals who would give their right hand for this execrable letter. Ah! if they obtain it they will demand an investigation, and then farewell to the rewards due to my services.