“Finally, were M. de Tregars willing to have me, I would refuse him myself, because, then—”
A fugitive blush colored her cheeks, her bold eyes vacillated, and, dropping her voice,
“Because, then,” she added, “he would no longer be what he is; because I feel that fatally I shall despise the husband whom papa will buy for me. And, if I came here to expose myself to an affront which I foresaw, it is because I wanted to make sure of a fact of which a word of Costeclar, a few days ago, had given me an idea, —of a fact which you do not, perhaps, suspect, dear mother, despite your astonishing perspicacity. I wanted to find out M. de Tregars’ secret; and I have found it out.”
M. de Tregars had come to the Thaller mansion with a plan well settled in advance. He had pondered long before deciding what he would do, and what he would say, and how he would begin the decisive struggle. What had taken place showed him the idleness of his conjectures, and, as a natural consequence, upset his plans. To abandon himself to the chances of the hour, and to make the best possible use of them, was now the wisest thing to do.
“Give me credit, mademoiselle,” he uttered, “for sufficient penetration to have perfectly well discerned your intentions. There was no need of artifice, because I have nothing to conceal. You had but to question me, I would have answered you frankly, ‘Yes, it is true I love Mlle. Gilberte; and before a month she will be Marquise de Tregars.’”
Mme. de Thaller, at those words, had started to her feet, pushing back her arm-chair so violently, that it rolled all the way to the wall.
“What!” she exclaimed, “you marry Gilberte Favoral,—you!”
“I—yes.”
“The daughter of a defaulting cashier, a dishonored man whom justice pursues and the galleys await!”
“Yes!” And in an accent that caused a shiver to run over the white shoulders of Mme. de Thaller,