For if you can,
indeed, establish the identity you claim, why should you languish
in prison for some weeks?"
His voice was soft and oily. The anger had all departed out of it,
which I - like a fool - imagined to be due to my mention of the King.
"My friends, Monsieur le Garde des Sceaux, are all either in Paris
or in His Majesty's train, and so not likely to be here before him.
There is my intendant, Rodenard, and there are my servants - some
twenty of them - who may perhaps be still in Languedoc, and for
whom I would entreat you to seek. Them you might succeed in
finding within a few days if they have not yet determined to return
to Paris in the belief that I am dead."
He stroked his chin meditatively, his eyes raised to the sunlit
dome of glass overhead.
"Ah-h!" he gasped. It was a long-drawn sigh of regret, of conclusion,
or of weary impatience. "There is no one in Toulouse who will swear
to your identity monsieur?" he asked.
"I am afraid there is not," I replied. "I know of no one."
As I uttered those words the President's countenance changed as
abruptly as if he had flung off a mask. From soft and cat-like
that he had been during the past few moments, he grew of a sudden
savage as a tiger. He leapt to his feet, his face crimson, his
eyes seeming to blaze, and the words he spoke came now in a hot,
confused, and almost incoherent torrent.
"Miserable!" he roared, "out of your own mouth have you convicted
yourself.
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