He took a folded paper from his bosom, and spoke to me with startling sharpness.
"You think I should address you as Monseigneur, as the dauphin of France should be addressed?"
"I do not press my rights. If I did, monsieur the abbé, you would not have the right to sit in my presence."
"Suppose we humor your fancy. I will address you as Monseigneur. Let us even go a little farther and assume that you are known to be the dauphin of France by witnesses who have never lost track of you. In that case, Monseigneur, would you put your name to a paper resigning all claim upon the throne?"
"Is this your message?"
"We have not yet come to the message."
"Let us first come to the dauphin. When dauphins are as plentiful as blackberries in France and the court never sees a beggar appear without exclaiming: 'Here comes another dauphin!'—why, may I ask, is Abbé Edgeworth sent so far to seek one?"
He smiled.
"We are supposing that Monseigneur, in whose presence I have the honor to be, is the true dauphin."
"That being the case, how are we to account for the true dauphin's reception at Mittau?"