When a grand seigneur addressed these people, he said: “Halloo! hi, there! friend, my worthy fellow!”
So it was with the air of a man who is making an effort of memory that the Duc de Sairmeuse repeated:
“Lacheneur—Monsieur Lacheneur——”
But Martial, a closer observer than his father, had noticed that the priest’s glance wavered at the sound of this name.
“Who is this person, Abbe?” demanded the duke, lightly.
“Monsieur Lacheneur,” replied the priest, with very evident hesitation, “is the present owner of the Chateau de Sairmeuse.”
Martial, the precocious diplomat, could not repress a smile on hearing this response, which he had foreseen. But the duke bounded from his chair.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “it is the rascal who has had the impudence—Let him come in, old woman, let him come in.”
Bibiaine retired, and the priest’s uneasiness increased.
“Permit me, Monsieur le Duc,” he said, hastily, “to remark that Monsieur Lacheneur exercises a great influence in this region—to offend him would be impolitic——”