De Breulh could hardly repress a smile.
“I am not wishing to pay you a compliment,” said Andre impatiently. “Reply to my question.”
“Very well then, I admit that according to the opinion of the world, I was a most eligible suitor, and that M. de Mussidan would find it hard to replace me.”
“Then tell me how it comes about that neither the Count nor the Countess has made any effort to prevent this rupture?”
“Their pride, perhaps, has been wounded.”
“Not so, for Modeste tells us that on the very day you sent the letter the Count was going to call on you to break off the engagement.”
“Yes, that is so, if we are to believe Modeste.”
As if to give more emphasis to his words, Andre started to his feet. “This,” cried he, “this man, who has so suddenly appeared upon the scene, will marry Sabine, not only against her own will, but against that of her parents, and for what reason? Who is this man, and what is the mysterious power that he possesses? His power is too great to spring from an honorable source. Sabine is sacrificing herself to this man for some reason or other, and he, like a dastardly cur, is ready to take advantage of the nobleness of her heart.”
“I admit the correctness of your supposition,” said he; “and now, how do you propose to act?”
“I shall do nothing as yet,” answered the young man, with a fierce gleam in his eyes. “Sabine asks me to tear her from my heart. I will affect to do so for the time. Modeste believes in me, and will help me. I have patience. The villain who has wrecked my life does not know me, and I will only reveal myself upon the day that I hold him helpless in my hand.”