“An enemy of your own making, my respected uncle; a most implacable enemy—Madeleine.”
“Fiddlesticks!” replied Clameran, disdainfully.
“It is very well for you to treat her with contempt,” said Raoul, gravely; “but I can tell you, you are much mistaken in your estimate of her character. I have studied her lately, and see that she is devoted to her aunt, and ready to make any sacrifice to insure her happiness. But she has no idea of doing anything blindly, of throwing herself away if she can avoid it. She has promised to marry you. Prosper is broken-hearted at being discarded, it is true; but he has not given up hope. You imagine her to be weak and yielding, easily frightened? It’s a great mistake. She is self-reliant and fearless. More than that, she is in love, my good uncle; and a woman will defend her lover as a tigress defends her young. She will fight to the bitter end before marrying anyone save Prosper.”
“She is worth five hundred thousand francs.”
“So she is; and at five per cent we would each have an income of twelve thousand five hundred francs. But, for all that, you had better take my advice, and give up Madeleine.”
“Never; I swear by Heaven!” exclaimed Clameran. “Rich or poor, she shall be mine! I first wanted her money, but now I want her; I love her for herself, Raoul!”
Raoul seemed to be amazed at this declaration of his uncle.
He raised his hands, and started back with astonishment.
“Is it possible,” he said, “that you are in love with Madeleine?—you!”
“Yes,” replied Louis, sullenly. “Is there anything so very extraordinary in it?”