‘Before the count could finish, the abbé interposed between us, and said ‘No, no! Everything may be arranged. Tell me, in one word, is it over?’
‘Is what over?’ said I, in a state two degrees worse than insanity—‘is what over?’
‘Are you married?’ whispered he.
‘No, bless your heart! never thought of it.’
‘Oh, the wretch!’ screamed the old lady, and went off into strong kickings on the sofa.
‘It’s a bad affair,’ said the abbé, in a low voice; ‘take my advice—propose to marry her at once.’
‘Yes, parbleu!’ said the little count, twisting his moustaches in a fierce manner; ‘there is but one road to take here.’
Now, though unquestionably but half an hour before, when seated beside the lovely Laura in the garden of the château, such a thought would have filled me with delight, the same proposition, accompanied by a threat, stirred up all my indignation and resistance.