“Well, then, I will come to the point,” said Chanet. “Theresa has refused me, after giving her solemn word to become my wife. What reason is there for this? Now I ask you, monsieur, on what other ground than that of her love for you is it possible to explain her sudden and absolute change of mind and refusal to redeem her promise to me. From her birth Theresa has known but two young men—yourself and me. She loves one of these two. It is not me; therefore it must be you.”
“You sum up the case like a judge,” said the earl, with a smile. “Assuming your hypothesis to be correct—what then?”
“That is just what I am coming to. Theresa loves you and you love her. Let me ask you one question. Will you marry her? Tell me you will, and I will leave this country to-morrow, and never trouble either you or her again. That is the point I have been trying to reach all the time.”
“I am not likely to ask your permission in such a case. What business is it of yours whether I marry her or not? You are begging the question, and I do not choose to be dictated to by my inferiors.”
“I do not like you. I disliked you when we first met; now I hate you with a deep deadly hate!” cried Chanet, his countenance becoming lurid with ill-suppressed passion.
“It is as I suspected,” he added, with supreme bitterness.
“Is it?”
“Yes; you take it so,” he cried, in a half-suffocating voice. “You will not marry Theresa Trieste?”
“I do not choose to answer such a question. I am not called upon to marry all the young girls who may happen to decline the honour of marrying you, Monsieur Chanet.”
“Is that all the reason you choose to give?”