She clapped her hands together gleefully.
“Splendid!” she cried. “We are getting along famously. I think it is a very pretty name—Pierre. Now, what was it you were about to say?”
In the shock of delight at hearing her pronounce my name, I had quite forgotten. But I rallied my wits with an effort.
“I was about to say that at ten o’clock I shall call upon your uncle. I shall approach him with an assured air, as one who will not brook denial. I shall say to him that you would die rather than consent to this marriage and that you will not return home until he agrees to say no more about it.”
“Ah, you do not know my uncle,” she said sadly. “Believe me, Pierre, he will never agree.”
“In that case,” I answered, with a cheerfulness I confess I did not feel, “we will secure a cottage at St. Cloud, or some other delightful place. I will send for my sister who is in retreat at Aignan, and who would joy to come. You will love each other, I am sure. And there we shall all live happily together until your uncle does consent or until an apoplexy carries him off.”
“That will be charming!” she cried, with dancing eyes. “I almost hope he will not consent, so that it may come true. But, Pierre,” and she hesitated.
“Yes?”
“All this will take money,” she continued, after a moment, “and you told me your fortune is not great.”
“Well, I will increase it,” I declared, though I confess I had no idea how I should do so, unless I enlisted as a brigand under that arrant knave and prince of thieves, Cartouche. Yet not even that could I do—there was my sister—I had kissed the cross—you shall hear.