“In your own dressing-room, dearest,” said he, in an accent of deep devotion.
“And you, sir? Why are you here? and by what right do you address me thus?”
“By no right,” said Linton, with a submissive deference which well became him. “I can plead nothing, save the devotion of a heart long since your own, and the good wishes of your father, Maritaña, who bade me speak to you.”
“I will not believe it, sir,” said she, proudly, as she arose and walked the room with stately step. “I know but too well the influence you wield over him, although I cannot tell how it is acquired. I have seen your counsels sway and your wishes guide him, when my entreaties were unheard and unheeded. Tell me nothing, then, of his permission.”
“Let me speak of that better reason, where my heart may plead, Maritaña. It was to offer you a share in my fortunes that I have come here,—to place at your feet whatever I possess in rank, in station, and in future hope; to place you where your beauty and your fascinations entitle you to shine,—a peeress of the Court of France; a duchess, of a name only second to royalty itself.”
The girl's dark eyes grew darker, and her flushed cheek grew crimson, as with heaving bosom she listened. “A duchess!” murmured she, between her lips.
“La Duchesse de Marlier,” repeated Linton, slowly, while his keen eyes were riveted on her.
“And this real—not a pageant—not as that thing you made of me before?”
“La Duchesse de Marlier,” said Linton again, “knows of no rank above her own, save in the blood royal. Her château was the present of a king,—her grounds are worthy of such a donor.”
“And the Duke de Marlier,” said she, with a look of ineffable irony, “who is to play him? Is that part reserved for Mr. Linton?”