“It is impossible, monsieur, you can have any reason to reject Mademoiselle de la Valliere? In Heaven’s name, she is so good, so gentle and pure, that your mind, so perfect in its penetration, ought to appreciate her accordingly. Does any secret repugnance, or any hereditary dislike, exist between you and her family?”
“Look, Raoul, at that beautiful lily of the valley,” said Athos; “observe how the shade and the damp situation suit it, particularly the shadow which that sycamore-tree casts over it, so that the warmth, and not the blazing heat of the sun, filters through its leaves.”
Raoul stopped, bit his lips, and then with the blood mantling in his face, he said, courageously,—“One word of explanation, I beg, monsieur. You cannot forget that your son is a man.”
“In that case,” replied Athos, drawing himself up with sternness, “prove to me that you are a man, for you do not show yourself a son. I begged you to wait the opportunity of forming an illustrious alliance. I would have obtained a wife for you from the first ranks of the rich nobility. I wish you to be distinguished by the splendor which glory and fortune confer, for nobility of descent you have already.”
“Monsieur,” exclaimed Raoul, carried away by a first impulse, “I was reproached the other day for not knowing who my mother was.”
Athos turned pale; then, knitting his brows like the greatest of all the heathen deities:—“I am waiting to learn the reply you made,” he demanded, in an imperious manner.
“Forgive me! oh, forgive me,” murmured the young man, sinking at once from the lofty tone he had assumed.
“What was your reply, monsieur?” inquired the count, stamping his feet upon the ground.
“Monsieur, my sword was in my hand immediately, my adversary placed himself on guard, I struck his sword over the palisade, and threw him after it.”
“Why did you suffer him to live?”