“True,” murmured Richelieu, and he stood where he was.
There was a moment’s silence in the outer room, and then the regent’s voice continued,—
“But do not despair, Charlotte. I have found you another husband. Not a king, perhaps, but of good birth and high rank, who is also complaisant enough to overlook your little shortcomings.”
“And may I ask who this gentleman is?” inquired Charlotte’s trembling voice.
“The Duc de Modena,” said the regent. “See, he has sent his portrait in order that, by gazing at it, you may become acquainted with your future husband before the wedding-day arrives.”
“The Duc de Modena!” exclaimed the girl. “Impossible! You must be jesting, monsieur. The Duc de Modena is old enough to be my grandfather.”
“I assure you that I am far from jesting, Charlotte,” and the regent’s voice took a sterner tone. “As for his age, he certainly bears it well. Here is his portrait. You can see for yourself that he is not an uncomely man.”
“Take it away! I refuse to look at it!” she cried, and we heard a scuffle and a crash of glass, which betokened the destruction of the portrait.
Richelieu was again fumbling for the latch of the door, swearing softly to himself, and again I restrained him.
“That was a foolish act, mademoiselle,” said the regent, “for now you will not know your husband, even when you see him, for I swear that you shall marry the Duc de Modena.”