Mme. Fauvel was prepared for almost any base proposal save this one. She knew that his cupidity and insolence stopped at nothing, but never did she imagine he would have the wild presumption to aspire to Madeleine’s hand.
If she had renounced all hope of happiness for herself, if she consented to the sacrifice of her own peace of mind, it was because she thus hoped to insure the undisturbed felicity of her household, of her husband, whom she had sinned against.
This unexpected declaration shocked her, and for a moment she was speechless.
“Do you suppose for an instant, monsieur,” she indignantly exclaimed, “that I will consent to any such disgraceful project? Sacrifice Madeleine, and to you!”
“I certainly do suppose so, madame; in fact, I am certain of it,” he answered with cool insolence.
“What sort of a woman do you think I am, monsieur? Alas, I am to eternally suffer for a fault committed twenty years ago; have I not already been more than adequately punished? And does it become you to be constantly reproaching me with my long-past imprudence? You have no right to be thus harassing me, till I dare not say my life is my own! Your power is at an end, and God only knows how deeply I regret having been insane enough to yield to its base sway! So long as I alone was to be the tool, you found me weak and timid; but, now that you seek the ruin of those I love, I rebel against your usurped authority. I have still a little conscience left, and nothing under heaven will force me to sacrifice my gentle, pure-hearted Madeleine!”
“May I inquire, madame, why you regard Mlle. Madeleine’s becoming the Marchioness of Clameran as a disgrace and a sacrifice?”
“My niece chose, of her own free will, a husband whom she will shortly marry. She loves M. Prosper Bertomy.”
The marquis disdainfully shrugged his shoulders.
“A school-girl love-affair,” said he; “she will forget all about it, if you wish her to do so.”