“You shall do what I say!” cried Clameran, threateningly. “Do you suppose that I will allow your sentimentality to blast all my hopes? I shall tolerate no such folly, madame, I can assure you. Your niece’s fortune is indispensable to us, and, more than that—I love the fair Madeleine, and am determined to marry her.”
The blow once struck, the marquis judged it prudent to await the result. With cool politeness, he continued:
“I will leave you now, madame, to think the matter over, and you cannot fail to view it in the same light as I do. You had better take my advice, and consent to this sacrifice of prejudice, as it will be the last required of you. Think of the honor of your family, and not of your niece’s love-affair. I will return in three days for your answer.”
“Your return is unnecessary, monsieur: I shall tell my husband everything to-night.”
If Mme. Fauvel had not been so agitated herself, she would have detected an expression of alarm upon Clameran’s face.
But this uneasiness was only momentary. With a shrug, which meant, “Just as you please,” he said:
“I think you have sense enough to keep your secret.”
He bowed ceremoniously, and left the room, but slammed the front door after him so violently as to prove that his restrained anger burst forth before leaving the house.
Clameran had cause for fear. Mme. Fauvel’s determination was not feigned. She was firm in her resolve to confess.
“Yes,” she cried, with the enthusiasm of a noble resolution, “yes, I will tell Andre everything!”