“And why?”
“Because M. Ferailleur owes it to you, and, what is more, he owes it to himself, not to accept such a sacrifice.” Failing to understand his meaning, she looked at him inquiringly. “You will forgive me, I trust,” he continued, “if I warn you to prepare for a disappointment. Innocent or guilty, M. Ferailleur is—disgraced. Unless something little short of a miracle comes to help him, his career is ended. This is one of those charges—one of those slanders, if you prefer that term, which a man can never shake off. So how can you hope that he will consent to link your destiny to his?”
She had not thought of this objection, and it seemed to her a terrible one. Tears came to her dark eyes, and in a despondent voice she murmured: “God grant that he will not evince such cruel generosity. The only great and true misfortune that could strike me now would be to have him repel me. M. de Chalusse’s death leaves me without means—without bread; but now I can almost bless my poverty since it enables me to ask him what would become of me if he abandoned me, and who would protect me if he refused to do so. The brilliant career he dreamed of is ended, you say. Ah, well! I will console him, and though we are unfortunate, we may yet be happy. Our enemies are triumphant—so be it: we should only tarnish our honor by stooping to contend against such villainy. But in some new land, in America, perhaps, we shall be able to find some quiet spot where we can begin a new and better career.” It was almost impossible to believe that it was Mademoiselle Marguerite, usually so haughtily reserved, who was now speaking with such passionate vehemence. And to whom was she talking in this fashion? To a stranger, whom she saw for the first time. But she was urged on by circumstances, the influence of which was stronger than her own will. They had led her to reveal her dearest and most sacred feelings and to display her real nature free from any kind of disguise.
However, the magistrate concealed the emotion and sympathy which filled his heart and refused to admit that the girl’s hopes were likely to be realized. “And if M. Ferailleur refused to accept your sacrifice?” he asked.
“It is not a sacrifice, monsieur.”
“No matter; but supposing he refused it, what should you do?”
“What should I do?” she muttered. “I don’t know. Still I should have no difficulty in earning a livelihood. I have been told that I have a remarkable voice. I might, perhaps, go upon the stage.”
The magistrate sprang from his arm-chair. “You become an actress, YOU?”
“Under such circumstances it would little matter what became of me!”
“But you don’t suspect—you cannot imagine——”