The other shrugged his shoulders, and coldly replied:
“If you put it in that way, let us go on.”
They entered the room which Martial had occupied since taking possession of the chateau. It was the same room that had once belonged to Jean Lacheneur; and nothing had been changed. He recognized the brightly flowered curtains, the figures on the carpet, and even an old arm-chair where he had read many a novel in secret.
Martial hastened to a small writing-desk, and took from it a paper which he slipped into his pocket.
“Now,” said he, “let us go. We must avoid another scene. My father and—my wife will be seeking me. I will explain when we are outside.”
They hastily descended the staircase, passed through the gardens, and soon reached the long avenue.
Then Jean Lacheneur suddenly paused.
“To come so far for a simple yes or no is, I think, unnecessary,” said he. “Have you decided? What answer am I to give Maurice d’Escorval?”
“Nothing! You will take me to him. I must see him and speak with him in order to justify myself. Let us proceed!”
But Jean Lacheneur did not move.