Count Tristan had drawn largely on his invention when he informed the Marchioness de Fleury that Bertha's uncle was exceedingly tenacious of his rights, and jealous of the interference of his niece's relatives in regard to any future alliance she might form. The marquis never dreamed of troubling his brain with such a minor matter as matrimony. He was inclined to be governed entirely by Bertha's predilection,—to leave the affair wholly to her, throwing off the trouble with the responsibility. He could have no objection to see her affianced to the Duke de Montauban,—he would have had none to her union with Maurice de Gramont. He found it sufficient pleasure to have his bright-faced niece sitting opposite to him at table, so long as she was gay and had a good appetite. If he had thwarted her wishes he would have accused himself of making a base, unkinly attempt to injure her digestion by causing her annoyance. He considered himself quite incapable of so unworthy, so harmful so cruel an action.
When she returned from the Château de Gramont, he was discomposed at finding that she brought back a clouded visage, and seemed perfectly indifferent to the choicest dainties which he caused to be set before her as the most striking mark of his affection. Indeed, he became so uncomfortable when she rejected these delicate attentions day after day, that his mind was gradually prepared to look favorably upon a proposition which Bertha had resolved to make.
She had been at home about a month; they were dining,—that is, her uncle was enjoyingly partaking of the meal that rounded his day, while Bertha's fork played with the oyster paté on her plate, dividing it into tiny bits, but never lifting one to her mouth. The marquis, after descanting warmly upon the excellence of the paté, which he highly relished, interrupted his eulogium by saying,—
"My dear child, you have not tasted a morsel of this incomparable paté! It is a triumph of culinary art! If you will just oblige me by touching a small piece to your lips; the paste is so light it will magically melt! Really, you must eat!"
"I cannot, uncle."
"Try, try; it disturbs me greatly to see you sitting there looking so gloomy. It will really hurt my digestion, and that would be a frightful calamity. Don't you like Lucien's cooking? I think him a treasure; but if you cannot relish what he prepares he shall receive his dismissal."
"I dare say I should like the cooking in Paris better than any other," remarked Bertha, treacherously assailing her uncle in his vulnerable point.
"Paris! what are you talking about? We cannot have our dinners sent from Paris and kept warm on the road,—can we?"
"But we might go to Paris and take our dinners," she rejoined, coaxingly.