“I am ashamed of you, Pascal,” cried Vivienne. “You have no right to speak to me in that way, even if you are my brother. You have no right to assume that Lieutenant Duquesne and I are anything more to each other than acquaintances—no, that is not quite honest—I mean good friends.”
“If you do not invite Count Mont d’Oro,” said Pascal, “I shall. But, considering their enmity to each other, it would be the height of incivility to ask both the Count and the Lieutenant. I will tell the Englishman that his invitation has expired by limitation, or better still, I will ask the Admiral to send him back to his ship.”
“I have invited Admiral Enright and his daughter. It would be the height of incivility, as you term it, not to ask Lieutenant Duquesne. You can tell both the Count and Lieutenant Duquesne that the other is coming and, if they do not wish to meet, both can stay away.”
“Is that the proper way for a young lady to treat her betrothed lover?” asked Pascal, indignantly.
“Pascal, you have no right to dispose of my hand without consulting my wishes, and I will not submit to it. I do not love the Count and I will not marry him.”
“No, no!” cried Clarine. “She shall not be compelled to marry a man whom she does not love.”
The interposition of Vivienne’s ally raised Pascal’s latent anger to a high pitch.
“Clarine,” he cried, “I command you not to meddle with matters which do not concern you! I act in her father’s stead, and it is my right and my duty to see her properly married and settled in life. For that reason, I have decided that Count Mont d’Oro shall be a guest, but I will not allow Lieutenant Duquesne to be present.”
“You have no right, Pascal,” cried Vivienne, “to take such a course.”
She raised her voice and cried, with all the decision of her impetuous nature: