The baron laughed.
“Thunder, what model children I have!” he sneered. “The boy gives up his regiment and the girl a stool-of-state at a princess’s feet, all for fear of dishonor. We are going back to the time of Brutus and Lucretia. In my era, though we had no philosophy, if any one saw dishonor coming, he whipped out his sword and ran the dishonor through the middle. I know it was a sharp method, for a philosopher who does not like to see bloodshed. But, any way, military officers are not cut out for philosophers.”
“I have as much consciousness as you on what honor imposes; but blood will not redeem—— ”
“A truce to your pretty phrases of philosophy,” cried the old man; irritated into trying to be majesty. “I came near saying poltroons.”
“You were quite right not to say it,” retorted the young chevalier, quivering.
The baron proudly bore the threatening and implacable glance.
“I thought that a man was born to me in my house,” said he: “a man who would cut out the tongue of the first knave who dared to tell of dishonor to the Taverney Redcastles.”
“Sometimes the shame comes from an inevitable misfortune, sir, and that is the case of my sister and myself.”
“I pass to the lady. If according to my reasoning, a man ought to attack the dagger, the woman should await it with a firm foot. Where would be the triumph of virtue unless it meets and defeats vice? Now, if my daughter is so weak as to feel like running away—— ”
“My sister is not weak, but she has fallen victim to a plot of scoundrels who have cowardly schemed to stain unblemished honor. I accuse nobody. The crime was conceived in the dark; let it die in the dark, for I understand in my own way the honor of my house.”