“Not at all,” replied Lectoure; “on the contrary, it is perfectly befitting. I am not a crowned head, that I should marry a woman upon her portrait, and by proxy. I wish to see her in person. Come, Emanuel,” he continued, pushing his friend toward a side door, that he might not meet his sister—“Come, now, tell me frankly—in confidence, between ourselves—is there any—deformity?”
“Why, no, by heaven!” replied the young count, “no—on the contrary, she is as lovely as an angel.”
“Well, then!” said the baron, “what does all this opposition mean? Come, now, begone, or must I call my guards?”
“No; but on my word, I am afraid that this little simpleton, who has not the slightest notion of the world, is coming to destroy all that has been arranged between us.”
“Oh! if that is all you fear,” replied Lectoure, opening the door, “you may be perfectly at ease. I like the brother too well not to look over some caprice—some extraordinary fantasies in the sister—and I pledge you my word as a gentleman, unless the devil should play us some strange trick, (whom, I trust, is at this moment fully occupied in some other corner of the world!) that Mademoiselle Marguerite d’Auray, shall be Madame the Baroness de Lectoure, and that in a month you shall have your regiment.”
This promise appeared in some degree to pacify Emanuel, who allowed himself to be pushed out of the door without making further difficulty. Lectoure immediately ran to a looking-glass to repair the slight traces of disorder, which the jolting over the three last leagues had occasioned in his dress. He had scarcely given to his, hair and garments the most becoming turn and folds, when the door again opened, and Celestin announced—
“Mademoiselle Marguerite d’Auray.”
The baron turned round, and perceived his betrothed standing pale and trembling on the threshold of the door. Although the promises of Emanuel had inspired him with some degree of hope, a certain residue of doubt had still remained on his mind, if not as to the beauty, at all events, with regard to the deportment of the lady who was about to become his wife. His surprise was therefore unbounded, when he saw that delicate and graceful creature standing before him, and whom the most fastidious critic of female elegance could only have reproached with being in a slight degree too pallid. Marriages, such as the one about to be contracted by Lectoure, were by no means rare in an age in which questions as to rank and suitableness of fortune in general, decided alliances between noble houses; but that which was scarcely found once in a thousand times, was, that a man in the baron’s position should meet, immured in a distant province, a lady possessed of an immense fortune, and whom, at the first glance, he could discern, was worthy, by her demeanor, her elegance, and her beauty, to shine in the most brilliant circles of the court. He, therefore, advanced toward her, no longer with the feeling of superiority as a courtier, addressing a country girl, but with all the respectful ease which distinguished good society at that time.
“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” said he, offering her his hand to conduct her to an arm chair, but which she did not accept; “it was to me to solicit the favor you have bestowed upon me; and believe me, it was the apprehension of being considered indiscreet, which alone has occasioned the apparent neglect of allowing myself to be forestalled.”
“I truly appreciate this delicacy, sir,” replied Marguerite, in a trembling voice, and retreating one step, she remained standing. “It strengthens me still more in the confidence which, without having seen you, without knowing you, I had placed in your honor and good faith.”