The abbe's protege hesitated a moment before responding to the summons, for he both hated and feared the marquis, but seeing every turned eye upon him, and encouraged by the success of his late ruse with Ernestine, he straightened himself up, and approaching M. de Maillefort, said coldly: "You did me the honour to call me, M. le marquis." "Yes, I did you that honour, monsieur," replied the marquis, sardonically, and without taking the trouble to rise from his seat; "and yet you are not at all polite to me, nor to the other persons who happen to have the pleasure of your company." On hearing these words, quite a number of persons gathered around the two men, for the satirical and aggressive spirit of the marquis was well known. "I do not understand you, M. le marquis," replied M. de Macreuse, much annoyed, and evidently fearing; some disagreeable explanation. "So far as I know I have not been lacking in respect towards you or any other person present." "I hear that you have had the misfortune to lose your mother, monsieur," said the marquis, in his rather shrill, penetrating voice. "Monsieur," stammered M. de Macreuse, apparently stupefied by these words. "Would it be indiscreet in me to ask when you lost madame, your mother--if you know." "Monsieur!" faltered this model young man, blushing scarlet. "Such a question--" "Is very natural, it seems to me, besides being rendered almost necessary by the lack of respect of which I complain, not only in my own name, but in the name of all your acquaintances." "Lack of respect?" "Certainly. Why did you not politely inform your acquaintances of the sad loss which you have had the misfortune to sustain, etc?" "I do not know what you mean, M. le marquis," replied Macreuse, who had now recovered his composure, in a measure. "Nonsense! I, who am a great church-goer, as every one knows, heard you ask a priest at St. Thomas d'Aquin the other day to say a certain number of masses for the repose of your mother's soul." "But, monsieur--" "But, monsieur, there can be no doubt of the truth of my statement, as you were quite overcome with grief and despair, apparently, while praying for this beloved parent in the Chapel of the Virgin,--so completely overcome, in fact, that your good friends, the beadles, were obliged to carry you in a dead swoon to the sacristy,--a piece of shameful deception on your part that would have amused if it had not revolted me." Staggered for a moment by this unexpected attack, the abbe's protege had now recovered all his native impudence. "Every one will understand why I could not and should not answer such an extraordinary--such a truly distressing question. The secret of one's prayers is sacred--" "That is true!" cried several voices, indignantly. "Such an attack is outrageous!" "Did any one ever hear the like of it?"