He rapped.
"Who is there?" demanded Martial.
"It is I; open the door."
Martial drew the bolt; M. de Sairmeuse entered, but the sight that met
his gaze made him tremble.
Upon the table was a basin of blood, and Martial, with chest bared, was
bathing a large wound in his right breast.
"You have been fighting!" exclaimed the duke, in a husky voice.
"Yes."
"Ah! then you were, indeed----"
"I was where? what?"
"At the convocation of these miserable peasants who, in their parricidal
folly, have dared to dream of the overthrow of the best of princes!"
Martial's face betrayed successively profound surprise, and a more
violent desire to laugh.
"I think you must be jesting, Monsieur," he replied.
The young man's words and manner reassured the duke a little, without
entirely dissipating his suspicions.
"Then, these vile rascals attacked you?" he exclaimed.
"Not at all. I have been simply obliged to fight a duel."
"With whom? Name the scoundrel who has dared to insult you!"
A faint flush tinged Martial's cheek; but it was in his usual careless
tone that he replied:
"Upon my word, no; I shall not give his name.
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