Marie looked down, and endeavored to hide her confusion at these tidings.
“Before coming to a conclusion upon a matter of such importance,” continued he, “it was, of course, necessary for me to go into the question most thoroughly. I spared no means of obtaining information, and I am quite certain that the proposed connection would be conducive to your future happiness. The suitor for your hand is but little older than yourself; he is very handsome, very wealthy, and is a Marquis by hereditary right.”
“Has he spoken to you then?” inquired Marie in tones of extreme agitation.
“He! Whom do you mean by he?” asked M. de Puymandour; and as his daughter did not reply, he repeated his question.
“Who? Why, George de Croisenois.”
“Pray, what have you to do with Croisenois? Who is he, pray? Not that dandy with a mustache, that I have seen hanging about you this winter?”
“Yes,” faltered Marie; “that is he.”
“And why should you presume that he had asked me for your hand? Did he tell you that he was going to do so?”
“Father, I declare——”
“What, the daughter of a Puymandour has listened to a declaration of love unknown to her father? Ten thousand furies! Has he written to you? Where are those letters?”