Deydier had not put in one word while his daughter spoke. He did not even look at her, only stared into the fire. When she had finished he said quietly:
“And now, little one, all that you can do is to forget all about this morning’s walk and what has passed between you and M. le Comte de Ventadour!”
“Father!”
“Understand me, my dear once and for all,” Deydier went on quite unmoved; “never with my consent will you marry one of that brood.”
Nicolette was silent for a moment or two. She had expected opposition, of course. She knew her father and his dearly-loved scheme that she should marry young Barnadou: she also knew that deep down in his heart there was a bitter grudge against old Madame. What this grudge was she did not know, but she had complete faith in her father’s love, and in any case she would be fighting for her happiness. So she put her arms around him and leaned her head against his shoulder, in that cajoling manner which she had always found irresistible.
“Father,” she whispered, “you are speaking about my happiness.”
“Yes,” he said with a dull sigh of weariness, “I am.”
“Of my life, perhaps.”
“Nicolette,” the father cried, with a world of anxiety, of reproach, of horror in his tone.
But Nicolette knelt straight before him now, sitting on her heels, her hands clasped before her, her eyes fixed quite determinedly on his face.