"
"With me?"
"With you."
"I suppose his Excellency has summoned me here for this purpose. But I
am in a hurry. The night air is not good for me, it being heavy with
dews, and I am out of the hospital only this day."
The marquis's grim laugh was jarring.
"You laugh, Monsieur?" patiently.
"Yes. I am never in a hurry."
"What is it you wish to say?"
"It is a question. Why do you hate Monsieur le Comte, my son?"
"Monsieur le Comte?" with frank irony.
"In all that the name implies. Some man has, over De Leviston's
shoulder, called my son a son of . . . the left hand." The words
seemed to skin the marquis's lips.
"And you, Monsieur," banteringly, "did you not make him so?"
D'Herouville began to understand.
"He is my lawful son."
"Ah! then you have gone to Parliament and had him legitimatized? That
is royal on your part, believe me."
"The son of my wife, Monsieur."
"Then, what the devil . . . !"
"And when Monsieur de Leviston accused my son of not knowing who his
mother was," continued the old man, coldly and evenly, which signified
a deadly wrath, "you laughed."
"Certainly I did not weep.
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