“Chanlouineau was not lying, then,” he said to his son, in a choked, unnatural voice; “you were one of the instigators of this rebellion, then?”

Martial’s face grew dark, and in a tone of disdainful hauteur, he replied: 

“This is the fourth time, sir, that you have addressed that question to me, and for the fourth time I answer:  ‘No.’  That should suffice.  If the fancy had seized me for taking part in this movement, I should frankly confess it.  What possible reason could I have for concealing anything from you?”

“The facts!” interrupted the duke, in a frenzy of passion; “the facts!”

“Very well,” rejoined Martial, in his usual indifferent tone; “the fact is that the model of this circular does exist, that it was written in my best hand on a very large sheet of very poor paper.  I recollect that in trying to find appropriate expressions I erased and rewrote several words.  Did I date this writing?  I think I did, but I could not swear to it.”

“How do you reconcile this with your denials?” exclaimed M. de Sairmeuse.

“I can do this easily.  Did I not tell you just now that Chanlouineau had made a tool of me?”

The duke no longer knew what to believe; but what exasperated him more than all else was his son’s imperturbable tranquillity.

“Confess, rather, that you have been led into this filth by your mistress,” he retorted, pointing to Marie-Anne.

But this insult Martial would not tolerate.

“Mademoiselle Lacheneur is not my mistress,” he replied, in a tone so imperious that it was a menace.  “It is true, however, that it rests only with her to decide whether she will be the Marquise de Sairmeuse tomorrow.  Let us abandon these recriminations, they do not further the progress of our business.”

The faint glimmer of reason which still lighted M. de Sairmeuse’s mind, checked the still more insulting reply that rose to his lips.  Trembling with suppressed rage, he made the circuit of the room several times, and finally paused before Marie-Anne, who remained in the same place, as motionless as a statue.

“Come, my good girl,” said he, “give me the writing.”

“It is not in my possession, sir.”

“Where is it?”

“In the hands of a person who will give it to you only under certain conditions.”

“Who is this person?”

“I am not at liberty to tell you.”

There was both admiration and jealousy in the look that Martial fixed upon Marie-Anne.

He was amazed by her coolness and presence of mind.  Ah! how powerful must be the passion that imparted such a ringing clearness to her voice, such brilliancy to her eyes, such precision to her responses.

“And if I should not accept the—­the conditions which are imposed, what then?” asked M. de Sairmeuse.

“In that case the writing will be utilized.”

“What do you mean by that?”