"Shall I bid him enter, Prince?" asked the Minister. The Duke's face relaxed a little, for the truth was, at this moment of his long life he was deeply concerned with his own name and all who bore it.
"Is he here then?" he asked, nodding assent.
"In the next room," answered the Minister, turning to a bell and ringing. "I have him here for examination, and was but beginning when I was honoured by your Highness's presence." He bowed politely, yet there was, too, a little mockery in the bow, which did not escape the Duke. These were days when princes received but little respect in France.
A subaltern entered, received an order, and disappeared. The Duke withdrew to the embrasure of a window, and immediately the prisoner was gruffly announced.
The young Englishman stood quietly waiting, his quick eyes going from
Dalbarade to the wizened figure by the window, and back again to the
Minister. His look carried both calmness and defiance, but the defiance
came only from a sense of injury and unmerited disgrace.
"Monsieur," said the Minister with austerity, "in your further examination we shall need to repeat some questions."
The prisoner nodded indifferently, and for a brief space there was silence. The Duke stood by the window, the Minister by his table, the prisoner near the door. Suddenly the prisoner, with an abrupt motion of the hand towards two chairs, said with an assumption of ordinary politeness:
"Will you not be seated?"
The remark was so odd in its coolness and effrontery, that the Duke chuckled audibly. The Minister was completely taken aback. He glanced stupidly at the two chairs—the only ones in the room—and at the prisoner. Then the insolence of the thing began to work upon him, and he was about to burst forth, when the Duke came forward, and politely moving a chair near to the young commander, said:
"My distinguished compliments, monsieur le capitaine. I pray you accept this chair."