"Please be seated, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Pierre.
"I am forced to believe, Pierre," answered the Marquis, "that in the nine years that have elapsed since my father's death you have forgotten your good breeding. Will you kindly remember that my title is the Marquis de Fongereues?"
Pierre held himself more erect. His face was like one of Rembrandt's pictures, where each wrinkle hides a thought.
"I know but one Marquis de Fongereues!" he said, slowly.
"And who may that be?" asked the Marquis, bringing his closed hand down upon the table.
"The son of the man who was murdered in 1815, in the village of Leigoutte!" answered Labarre, with perfect calmness.
"Murdered! That man fell when fighting against the true masters of France!"
"Your brother, Monsieur le Vicomte, was killed by those who had sworn his death, and who struck him down, when, in defending his country, he was doing his duty!"
The Marquis could hardly contain himself, his rage was so great. Cyprien feared an explosion. He had no objection to the man being killed, but not until he had been made to speak.
"Let that pass!" said the Marquis, at last. "It is needless to awaken these memories." Then lowering his voice he added, with an affectation of pity: