“Very well!” interrupted Marshal Simon, with an abrupt and imperious gesture.
The servant went out, and his master continued to walk up and down with impatient steps, crumpling, in his rage, a letter that he held in his left hand. This letter had been innocently delivered by Spoil-sport, who, seeing him come in, had run joyously to meet him. At length the door opened, and Dagobert appeared. “I have been waiting for you a long time, sirrah!” cried the marshal, in an irritated tone.
Dagobert, more pained than surprised at this burst of anger, which he rightly attributed to the constant state of excitement in which the marshal had now been for some time past, answered mildly: “I beg your pardon, general, but I was letting out my son—”
“Read that, sir!” said the marshal abruptly, giving him the letter.
While Dagobert was reading it, the marshal resumed, with growing anger, as he kicked over a chair that stood in his way: “Thus, even in my own house, there are wretches bribed to harass me with incredible perseverance. Well! have you read it, sir?”
“It is a fresh insult to add to the others,” said Dagobert, coolly, as he threw the letter into the fire.
“The letter is infamous—but it speaks the truth,” replied the marshal. Dagobert looked at him in amazement.
“And can you tell who brought me this infamous letter” continued the marshal. “One would think the devil had a hand in it—for it was your dog!”
“Spoil-sport?” said Dagobert, in the utmost surprise.
“Yes,” answered the marshal, bitterly; “it is no doubt a joke of your invention.”