Now, Count Mont d’Oro knew in his heart that he did not really love Vivienne, but the mutual wish of his father and her brother had been carried out so far as he was able, and he reasoned that she had no right to love anybody else and no one else had any right to love her. Victor’s words—“To see her is to love her”—rang in his ears. Had matters, then, gone so far as that? A moment later the two young men stood face to face.
“What right have you to that flower?” demanded the Count, his voice choked with passion.
“The right of possession,” said Victor, quietly; “but what right have you to ask such a question?”
“I am Count Napier Mont d’Oro, of Alfieri,” was the reply.
“Such extreme confidence merits reciprocity,” said Victor. “I am Lieutenant Victor Duquesne of His Britannic Majesty’s ship Osprey, now lying at anchor in the harbour of Ajaccio.”
“Where did you get that flower?” cried the Count, at the top of his voice, his feelings evidently becoming ungovernable.
“It was given to me by a young lady. She said her name was Vivienne Batistelli.”
“I only know,” said Victor, “that she is beautiful in person and charming in her manners. I may have been presumptuous in asking for the flower, but she certainly excused it or she would not have given it to me. Are you well acquainted with her?” and Victor calmly regarded the angry face of the Count.
“She is to be the future Countess Mont d’Oro,” was the reply. “She is betrothed to me and has no right to give flowers or any other token to an absolute stranger. Give me that flower.”