He paused abruptly; he had not perceived Marie-Anne until now.

“The daughter of that scoundrel Lacheneur!” said he, with an air of the utmost surprise.  “What does she desire here?”

The decisive moment had come—­the life of the baron hung upon Marie-Anne’s courage and address.  The consciousness of the terrible responsibility devolving upon her restored her self-control and calmness as if by magic.

“I have a revelation to sell to you, Monsieur,” she said, resolutely.

The duke regarded her with mingled wonder and curiosity; then, laughing heartily, he threw himself upon a sofa, exclaiming: 

“Sell it, my pretty one—­sell it!”

“I cannot speak until I am alone with you.”

At a sign from his father, Martial left the room.

“You can speak now,” said the duke.

She did not lose a second.

“You must have read, Monsieur,” she began, “the circular convening the conspirators.”

“Certainly; I have a dozen copies in my pocket.”

“By whom do you suppose it was written?”

“By the elder d’Escorval, or by your father.”

“You are mistaken, Monsieur; that letter was the work of the Marquis de Sairmeuse, your son.”

The duke sprang up, fire flashing from his eyes, his face purple with anger.

“Zounds! girl!  I advise you to bridle your tongue!”

“The proof of what I have asserted exists.”

“Silence, you hussy, or——­”

“The lady who sends me here, Monsieur, possesses the original of this circular written by the hand of Monsieur Martial, and I am obliged to tell you——­”

She did not have an opportunity to complete the sentence.  The duke sprang to the door, and, in a voice of thunder, called his son.

As soon as Martial entered the room: 

“Repeat,” said the duke—­“repeat before my son what you have just said to me.”

Boldly, with head erect, and clear, firm voice, Marie-Anne repeated her accusation.

She expected, on the part of the marquis, an indignant denial, cruel reproaches, or an angry explanation.  Not a word.  He listened with a nonchalant air, and she almost believed she could read in his eyes an encouragement to proceed, and a promise of protection.

When she had concluded: 

“Well!” demanded the duke, imperiously.

“First,” replied Martial, lightly, “I would like to see this famous circular.”

The duke handed him a copy.

“Here—­read it.”

Martial glanced over it, laughed heartily, and exclaimed: 

“A clever trick.”

“What do you say?”

“I say that this Chanlouineau is a sly rascal.  Who the devil would have thought the fellow so cunning to see his honest face?  Another lesson to teach one not to trust to appearances.”

In all his life the Duc de Sairmeuse had never received so severe a shock.