“I cannot say I do.”
“I will tell you, then,” said Chanet, with forced calmness.
“You will be conferring a great favour on me if you do, my dear M. Chanet,” remarked the earl.
“You are the cause of the engagement being broken off—you, Lord Ethalwood, and no other person. Sacre! don’t attempt to deny it. You have been the blight in the bud, which sooner or later will destroy so fair a rose. I am ashamed of myself to be pleading and beseeching one who has done me such a deadly injury.”
“You have not done so as yet; that is, if you mean me, which I presume you do.”
“You endeavour to carry the matter off with a high hand, milor. It is the way with you English; but you can’t deceive me. You cannot deny that you have no right to gain the love of my darling Theresa, and by so doing you have robbed me of my betrothed—my future wife and my happiness. Do you think it possible for me to be calm and unmoved under such an affliction?”
“I make every allowance for your excitement, which is, perhaps, but natural under existing circumstances,” replied the earl, in the same measured tone of dignity and hauteur he had assumed from the commencement; “but at the same time, Monsieur Chanet, I must observe that you have fallen into a grievous error, which, in justice to myself, I feel bound to correct.”
“What error do you allude to?”
“You make a great mistake in asserting that I have robbed you of the love of Theresa. The Ethalwoods never rob or steal.”
“You have supplanted me in her affections, then, which is much the same thing, call it by what term you please,” cried Chanet. “Like a wolf, you have stolen into the house, and stolen from me the fairest and most beautiful young creature that ever human eyes lighted on. You have driven me to desperation, made my life one long and hopeless sorrow, and now at the present moment I should feel thankful if death would come and release me from my sufferings. Oh, milor, you don’t know—you cannot possibly know—the deep, deep affliction that has fallen upon me.”