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    Chapter 8

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    Chapter VIII
    The General of the Order
    There was now a brief silence, during which Aramis never removed his eyes from Baisemeaux for a moment. The latter seemed only half decided to disturb himself thus in the middle of supper; and it was clear that he was seeking some pretext, whether good or bad, for delay, at any rate till after dessert. And it appeared also that he had hit upon a pretext at last.

    “Eh! but it is impossible,” he cried.

    “How impossible?” said Aramis. “Give me a glimpse of this impossibility.”

    “’Tis impossible to set a prisoner at liberty at such an hour. Where can he go to,- he, who is unacquainted with Paris?”

    “He will go wherever he can.”

    “You see, now, one might as well set a blind man free!”

    “I have a carriage, and will take him wherever he wishes.”

    “You have an answer for everything. Francois, tell Monsieur the Major to go and open the cell of M. Seldon, No. 3 Bertaudiere.”

    “Seldon!” exclaimed Aramis, very naturally. “You said Seldon, I think?”

    “I said Seldon, of course. ’Tis the name of the man to be set free.”

    “Oh! you mean to say Marchiali?” said Aramis.

    “Marchiali? oh, yes, indeed! No, no! Seldon.”

    “I think you are making a mistake, M. Baisemeaux.”

    “I have read the order.”

    “And I also.”

    “And I saw ‘Seldon’ in letters as large as that”; and Baisemeaux held up his finger.

    “And I read ‘Marchiali,’ in characters as large as this,” said Aramis, holding up two fingers.

    “To the proof; let us throw a light on the matter,” said Baisemeaux, confident he was right. “There is the paper; you have only to read it.”

    “I read ‘Marchiali,’” returned Aramis, spreading out the paper. “Look!”

    Baisemeaux looked, and his arms dropped suddenly. “Yes, yes,” he said, quite overwhelmed; “yes, Marchiali. ’Tis plainly written ‘Marchiali,’ quite true!”

    “Ah!”

    “How? The man of whom we have talked so much? The man whom they are every day telling me to take such care of?”


    “There is ‘Marchiali,’” repeated the inflexible Bishop of Vannes.

    “I must own it, Monseigneur. But I absolutely don’t understand it.”

    “You believe your eyes, at any rate.”

    “To tell me very plainly there is ‘Marchiali.’”

    “And in a good handwriting too.”
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