Martial’s face turned crimson, and he looked searchingly at his father.
“I suppose, Monsieur, that you do not mean one word of what you are saying,” Martial said, coldly. “We pledged ourselves, upon the honor of our name, to save Baron d’Escorval. If he has been killed it will be a great misfortune to us, Monsieur, a great misfortune.”
When his son addressed him in his haughty and freezing tone the duke never knew how to reply. He was indignant, but his son’s was the stronger nature.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed M. de Courtornieu; “if the rascal had merely been wounded we should have known it.”
Such was the opinion of Chupin, who had been sent for by the duke, and who had just made his appearance.
But the old scoundrel, who was usually so loquacious and so officious, replied briefly; and, strange to say, did not offer his services.
Of his imperturbable assurance, of his wonted impudence, of his obsequious and cunning smile, absolutely nothing remained.
His restless eyes, the contraction of his features, his gloomy manner, and the occasional shudder which he could not repress, all betrayed his secret perturbation.
So marked was the change that even the Duc de Sairmeuse observed it.
“What calamity has happened to you, Master Chupin?” he inquired.