The Count put her gently aside. He suffered intensely, and yet no word of reproach escaped his lips against the woman who had ruined his whole life.
“And Sabine,” she went on, “must she, a De Mussidan, marry one of these wretched scoundrels?”
Sabine was the only one in the room who preserved her calmness; she had so schooled herself that her distress of mind was not apparent to the outward eye.
“Do not make yourselves miserable,” said she, with a faint smile; “how do we know that M. de Croisenois may not make me an excellent husband after all?”
The Count gazed upon his daughter with a look of the fondest affection and gratitude.
“Dearest Sabine!” murmured he. Her fortitude had restored his self-command. “Let us be outwardly resigned,” said he, “whatever our feelings may be. Time may do much for us, and at the very church door we may find means of escape.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
A CRUEL SLUR.
Florestan had conducted Tantaine to the sumptuous library, in which the Count had received Mascarin’s visit; and, to pass away the time, the old man took a mental inventory of the contents of the room. He tried the texture of the curtains, looked at the handsome bindings of the books, and admired the magnificent bronzes on the mantelpiece.