“Why,” exclaimed Vivienne, as they entered the room, “Old Manassa is here.”
“Yes,” said Clarine, “the very minute I am dressed he insists upon coming in and sitting in that arm-chair. I suppose if I gave it to him he would not be so anxious to visit me, but I won’t do it. It belonged to your grandfather. I was taken sick once and he sent the chair to me because it was so comfortable. When I got better he gave it to me and nothing would induce me to part with it, or even let it go out of my sight. But don’t worry about him, Vivienne, for he is sound asleep.”
With her head pillowed upon the breast of her old nurse, who had been a mother to her so far as it lay in her power, Vivienne told of her interview with her brother, and how determined he was that she should marry Count Mont d’Oro.
“Oh, what shall I do, Clarine?”
The old nurse pursed her lips and shook her head wisely. “Become engaged to him. Engagements and marriages are two different things, Vivienne.”
“Oh, I could not do that, Clarine. I could not make a promise that I did not intend to keep.”
“I would not ask you to,” said Clarine. “You can intend to keep it, but circumstances may prevent you.”
Then Vivienne told of the fearful dreams she had had during the night.
“Oh, I can never do it,” she cried. “I will never marry Count Mont d’Oro. They say, do they not, Clarine, that Manuel Della Coscia killed my father?”
“All Corsica believes it,” said Clarine, and she crossed herself reverently.