“My son loves Mademoiselle,” began the count, without further preface.
“I know it,” sighed Diane.
“He has——”
“A sister!” exclaimed the lady, remembering the interview between Marguerite Gautier and the elder Duval.
“No, not a sister, but a cousin,—his cousin Blanche, to whom he has been betrothed for years. She pines and weeps, and you, mademoiselle, you and your fatal charms are the cause.”
“Alas!” sighed Diane, feeling herself Doche and Blanche Pierson rolled into one and in real earnest.
“Your sensibility does you honor. Will you break with my son at once and forever? And if two hundred thousand francs——”
“Two hundred thousand francs!”
“I will draw you a check at once.”
“Sir,” exclaimed the lady, “you have not made appeal to a callous heart. I will make the sacrifice; I will give up Henri. You said, I think, two hundred thousand?”