“Marguerite? Marguerite?” stammered the marquis, “I had formerly a child of that name.”
“It is I! it is I!” rejoined Marguerite: “I am your child—I am your daughter.”
“There are no children but those who obey. Obey! and you will then have the right to call yourself our daughter,” rejoined the marchioness.
“To you, my father, yes,—to you I am ready to obey. But you do not command this sacrifice! you do not wish that I should be unhappy—unhappy even to despair—unhappy even to death.”
“Come! come!” said the marquis holding her in his turn, and pressing her to his heart. “Oh! this is a delicious and unknown feeling to me. And now—wait! wait!” He pressed his hand to his forehead. “It seems to me that I recollect.”
“Sir!” cried the marchioness, “tell her that she ought to obey; that the malediction of God awaits rebellious children. Tell her that, rather than to encourage her in her impiety!”
The marquis slowly raised his head, and fixed his piercing eyes upon his wife, and then slowly pronounced the following words: “Take care! madam, take care. Have I not told you that I begin to remember!” and then again bending down his head to that of Marguerite, so that his grey hairs mingled with the dark tresses, of his daughter—“Speak—speak!” said he, “what is it that disturbs you, my child—tell me all.”
“Oh! I am most unhappy!”
“Everybody, then, is unhappy here,” exclaimed the marquis, “whether their hair be grey or black—an old man or a child.. Oh! and I also—I am unhappy—be assured.
“Sir, go up stairs into your room again: you must,” said the marchioness.