The magnificent millionaire, accustomed to the homage of grandees from the Faubourg and lions from the Chaussee d’Antin, rose to his feet in superb wrath, less at the taunting words than at the haughtiness of mien with which they were uttered.
“Monsieur, I cannot permit you to address me in that tone. Do you mean to insult me?”
“Certainly not. Tranquillize your nerves, reseat yourself, and listen,—reseat yourself, I say.”
Louvier dropped into his chair.
“No,” resumed the Vicomte, politely, “I do not come here to insult you, neither do I come to ask money; I assume that I am in my rights when I ask Monsieur Louvier what has become of Louise Duval?”
“Louise Duval! I know nothing about her.”
“Possibly not now; but you did know her well enough, when we two parted, to be a candidate for her hand. You did know her enough to solicit my good offices in promotion of your suit; and you did, at my advice, quit Paris to seek her at Aix-la-Chapelle.”
“What! have you, Monsieur de Mauleon, not heard news of her since that day?”
“I decline to accept your question as an answer to mine. You went to Aix-la-Chapelle; you saw Louise Duval, at my urgent request she condescended to accept your hand.”
“No, Monsieur de Mauleon, she did not accept my hand. I did not even see her. The day before I arrived at Aix-la-Chapelle she had left it,—not alone,—left it with her lover.”