Croisenois felt that he had no ground to stand upon, but he ventured on one more objection.
“It seems rather a strange thing to launch this enterprise at the present moment. May it not interfere with my marriage prospects? and may not the Count de Mussidan decline to give me his daughter and risk her dowry in this manner? One moment, I—”
The agent sneered and cut short the tergiversations of the Marquis.
“You mean, I suppose,” said he, “that when once you are safely married and have received Mademoiselle Sabine’s dowry, you will take leave of us. Not so, my dear young friend; and if this is your idea, put it aside, for it is utter nonsense. I should hold you then as I do now.”
The Marquis saw that any further struggle would be of no avail, and gave in.
That evening, when M. Martin Rigal emerged from his private office, his daughter Flavia was more than usually demonstrative in her tokens of affection. “How fondly I love you, my dearest father!” said she, as she rained kisses on his cheeks. “How good you are to me!” but on this occasion the banker was too much preoccupied to ask his daughter the reason for this extreme tenderness on her part.