“Yesterday, in the woods near Vincennes, a duel with swords was fought between M. M. de B—— and one of the most distinguished members of our American colony. After five minutes’ close combat, M. E—— was wounded in the arm. It is said that the sudden and very surprising disappearance of one of the greatest heiresses of the Faubourg Saint Germain was not foreign to this duel. Lucky M. de B—— is reported to know too much of the beautiful young lady’s present home for the peace of the family. But surely these lines ought to be more than enough on the subject of an adventure which will ere long, no doubt, end in a happy and brilliant marriage.”
“You see, madam,” said M. de Brevan, when he thought Henrietta had had time enough to read the article, “you see it is not I who advise marriage. If you will become my wife, your honor is safe.”
“Ah, sir!”
In that simple utterance there was so much contempt, and such profound disgust, that M. de Brevan seemed to turn, if possible, whiter than before.
“Ah! I see you prefer marrying M. Thomas Elgin,” he said.
She only shrugged her shoulders; but he went on,—
“Oh, do not smile! He or I; you have no other alternative. Sooner or later you will have to choose.”
“I shall not choose, sir.”
“Oh, just wait till poverty has come! Then you think, perhaps, you will only need to implore your father to come to your assistance. Do not flatter yourself. Your father has no other will but that of the Countess Sarah; and the Countess Sarah will have it so, that you marry Sir Thorn.”
“I shall not appeal to my father, sir.”