Her father presented some suitor; she received him graciously, lavished all her charms upon him; but as soon as his back was turned, she disappointed all her father’s hopes by rejecting him.
“He is too small,” she said, “or too large. His rank is not equal to ours. I think him stupid. He is a fool—his nose is so ugly.”
From these summary decisions there was no appeal. Arguments and persuasions were useless. The condemned man no longer existed.
Still, as this view of aspirants to her hand amused her, she encouraged her father in his efforts. He was beginning to despair, when fate dropped the Duc de Sairmeuse and son at his very door. When he saw Martial, he had a presentiment of his approaching release.
“He will be my son-in-law,” he thought.
The marquis believed it best to strike the iron while it was hot. So, the very next day, he broached the subject to the duke.
His overtures were favorably received.
Possessed with the desire of transforming Sairmeuse into a little principality, the duke could not fail to be delighted with an alliance with one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the neighborhood.
The conference was short.
“Martial, my son, possesses, in his own right, an income of at least six hundred thousand francs,” said the duke.