“There is proof of what I assert; and the lady who sends me here,” interrupted Marie-Anne, quite unabashed, “has the original of this circular in safe keeping. It is in the handwriting of Monsieur le Marquis, and I am obliged to tell you--” She did not have time to complete her sentence, for the duke sprang to the door, and, in a voice of thunder, called his son. As soon as Martial entered the room his grace turned to Marie-Anne, “Now, repeat,” said he, “repeat before my son what you have just said to me.” Boldly, with head erect, and in a clear, firm voice, Marie-Anne repeated her charge. She expected an indignant denial, a stinging taunt, or, at least, an angry interruption from the marquis; but he listened with a nonchalant air, and she almost believed she could read in his eyes an encouragement to proceed, coupled with a promise of protection. “Well! what do you say to that?” imperiously asked the duke, when Marie-Anne had finished. “First of all,” replied Martial, lightly, “I should like to see this famous circular.” The duke handed him a copy. “Here--read it,” said he. Martial glanced over the paper, 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 in appearances.” In all his life the Duke de Sairmeuse had never received so severe a shock. “So Chanlouineau was not lying, then,” he ejaculated, in a choked, unnatural voice, “you _were_ one of the instigators of this rebellion?” Martial’s brow bent as, in a tone of marked disdain, he slowly replied: “This is the fourth time that you have addressed that question to me, and for the fourth time I answer: ‘No.’ That should suffice for you. If the fancy had seized me to take 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 original 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 re-wrote 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 everything else was his son’s imperturbable coolness. “You had much better confess that you were led into this by your mistress,” he retorted, pointing at Marie-Anne.