"You here, Angelot?" said the Comte.
He spoke absently, gently, with no great surprise and no anger at all. Angelot knew that he loved him, and felt the strangest desire to kneel and kiss his hand.
"Pardon, monsieur"—he began quickly—"I was looking at the ball—I leave France to-morrow, and—Can I help you, Uncle Hervé?" For he saw that the Comte was listening to no explanations of his. He stared straight before him, frowning, biting his lips, shaking the letter in his hand.
"It is some diabolical intrigue," he said. "How can you help, my poor boy? No! but I would rather see her dead at my feet—for her own sake—and the insult to me!"
"But tell me what it all means? Let me do something!" cried Angelot; for the words thrilled him with a new terror.
He almost snatched the letter from his cousin's hand.
"Yes, yes, read it. Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" Hervé groaned, and stamped his feet.
The letter was written in very shaky characters, and Angelot had to hold it under one of the candle sconces on the wall.
"My dear Comte:—
"You will receive to-morrow, I have reason to think, an Imperial recommendation—which means a command—to give Mademoiselle your daughter in marriage to General Ratoneau. If you see any way out of this dilemma, I need hardly advise you to take it. You would have been warned earlier of the danger, but circumstances have been too strong for me. My part in the affair I hope to explain. In the meanwhile believe in my sincere friendship, and burn this letter.
"De Mauves."
Angelot drew in his breath sharply. "Ah! The Prefect is good," he said.