"
The Sire de Maletroit raised his right hand and wagged it at Denis
with the fore and little fingers extended.
"My dear nephew," he said, "sit down."
"Nephew!" retorted Denis, "you lie in your throat;" and he snapped
his fingers in his face.
"Sit down, you rogue!" cried the old gentleman, in a sudden, harsh
voice, like the barking of a dog. "Do you fancy," he went on,
"that when I had made my little contrivance for the door I had
stopped short with that? If you prefer to be bound hand and foot
till your bones ache, rise and try to go away. If you choose to
remain a free young buck, agreeably conversing with an old
gentleman - why, sit where you are in peace, and God be with you."
"Do you mean I am a prisoner?" demanded Denis.
"I state the facts," replied the other. "I would rather leave the
conclusion to yourself."
Denis sat down again. Externally he managed to keep pretty calm;
but within, he was now boiling with anger, now chilled with
apprehension. He no longer felt convinced that he was dealing with
a madman. And if the old gentleman was sane, what, in God's name,
had he to look for? What absurd or tragical adventure had befallen
him? What countenance was he to assume?
While he was thus unpleasantly reflecting, the arras that overhung
the chapel door was raised, and a tall priest in his robes came
forth and, giving a long, keen stare at Denis, said something in an
undertone to Sire de Maletroit.
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