“Impossible. He is on the very eve of a journey. He demands the ceremony at once—this moment.”
“The ceremony? O, mother of God!”
“A formal one only, conditionally, for a year. Not till that time has elapsed may he claim you for his wife in fact. It was my provision, made in consideration of your youth and inexperience.”
She stared at him as if mad.
“You are my father,” she began. He interrupted, to better her,—
“Your dead mother’s trustee for your welfare, Yolande. As I hold that charge sacred from abuse, believe at least in the sincerity of my desire to urge, impartially, upon you the wisdom of a step which I am sure she would have approved.”
The girl gave a little rending laugh—horrible—in a note quite foreign to her.
“Is he—M. di Rocco—in the house?” she asked.
“He is in the next room awaiting us. The Maire, the notary, and the good Father of Le Marais are also there, attending on your decision.”
“Only my mother is wanting,” said Yolande. “Call her to this conspiracy against her child, and see what she answers to the impartial head of it.”