“It must and will be for the best,” he returned. “To-morrow you will hear from the Duke how he proposes to honour the man of your choice.”
“Choice?” echoed Gabrielle, catching at the word.
“Yes, choice; what else? Whom else in Morvaix would you choose? You would not choose to disobey your dear mother’s last earthly wish. And the obligations of a girl placed as you are at the head of a house such as ours might well have compelled a marriage with a far less welcome groom. I could tell you of scores of such ill-fated unions. Keep a light heart, child; for you may face the future fearlessly—a brilliant future too.”
“I am foolish and rebellious at times, I know. But I am not unmindful of my duty to my house,” she said proudly.
“Spoken like a Malincourt; like my sainted sister’s own child. Keep that face for the Governor to-morrow, Gabrielle. Smile to him and upon him, and the rule of Morvaix and all in it will be inspired by your gentle heart.”
And with that thought he deemed it judicious to end the interview.
CHAPTER IV
THE DUKE’S PROPOSAL
THERE was one very bitter heart in the maison on the following morning. Jacques Dauban had spent a bad night, groaning over aching bones and head, brooding over his wrongs and setting his cunning wits to work to devise a scheme of revenge.
Very ill results had followed that meeting with Lucette in the pine-walk. She had kept the tryst and had wheedled out of him a part of what he knew. He had not told her much; only warned her to do her utmost to prevent the marriage between Gabrielle and Gerard de Cobalt, hinting at dark deeds of which he dared not speak, and denouncing Gerard as both an unscrupulous scoundrel and a tool in the hands of others greater and more villainous even than he.
She might have got more from him, but it chanced that Denys St. Jean had also conceived a fancy for a stroll in the wood, and had come suddenly upon the pair in close and intimate talk. His quick temper had fired instantly, and the consequences to Jacques Dauban had been serious. Denys was strong in the arm, and his cudgel, snatched hastily from a tree, thick and heavy; and there was scarcely a bone in the writhing, wriggling spy’s body which did not ache and stab and pain.