In their emotion, the marquis and Gaston forgot the threatened danger. But Louis was not touched by the affecting scene.
“Time presses,” he said: “you had better hasten.”
“He is right,” cried the marquis: “go, Gaston, go, my son; and God protect the heir of the Clamerans!”
Gaston slowly got up and said, with an embarrassed air:
“Before leaving you, my father, I must fulfil a sacred duty. I have not told you everything. I love Valentine, the young girl whose honor I defended this evening.”
“Oh!” cried the marquis, thunderstruck, “oh, oh!”
“And I entreat you, father, to ask Mme. de la Verberie for the hand of her daughter. Valentine will gladly join me abroad, and share my exile.”
Gaston stopped, frightened at the effect of his words. The old marquis had become crimson, or rather purple, as if struck by apoplexy.
“Preposterous!” he gasped. “Impossible! Perfect folly!”
“I love her, father, and have promised her never to marry another.”