He stared at me with eyes starting from his head.
“So,” he murmured at last, “it is the lover!” and his eyes glittered with passion. “M. le Curé, you will not heed the ravings of such scoundrels?”
The curé smiled dryly.
“It appears you do not know this gentleman,” said he, glancing at d’Argenson.
“No,” snarled Ribaut, “nor do I wish to know him.”
“You may be interested, nevertheless,” went on the curé, “in knowing that it is M. le Comte d’Argenson, lieutenant of police.”
“D’Argenson!” cried Ribaut, and I saw the blood struck from his face as by a blow. “D’Argenson! Very well,” he continued after a moment, vainly trying to steady his voice, as he saw that the game was lost. “This wedding, then, will not take place. I yield. But I am still this girl’s guardian, am I not, Monsieur?”
“Yes, you are still her guardian,” assented d’Argenson.
“And she is still under my control?”
“In all things save that of this marriage.”