From white the Marquis de Sairmeuse had turned as red as fire. By Marie-Anne’s manner he saw that she knew of the duel. He made no attempt to deny it; but he tried to excuse himself.
“It was Jean who challenged me,” said he; “I tried to avoid it. I only defended my own life in fair combat, and with equal weapons——”
Marie-Anne interrupted him.
“I reproach you for nothing, Monsieur le Marquis,” she said, quietly.
“Ah! Marie-Anne, I am more severe than you. Jean was right to challenge me. I deserved his anger. He knew the baseness of which I had been guilty; but you—you were ignorant of it. Oh! Marie-Anne, if I wronged you in thought it was because I did not know you. Now I know that you, above all others, are pure and chaste.”
He tried to take her hands; she repulsed him with horror; and broke into a fit of passionate sobbing.
Of all the blows she had received this last was most terrible and overwhelming.
What humiliation and shame—! Now, indeed, was her cup of sorrow filled to overflowing. “Chaste and pure!” he had said. Oh, bitter mockery!
But Martial misunderstood the meaning of the poor girl’s gesture.
“Oh! I comprehend your indignation,” he resumed, with growing eagerness. “But if I have injured you even in thought, I now offer you reparation. I have been a fool—a miserable fool—for I love you; I love, and can love you only. I am the Marquis de Sairmeuse. I am the possessor of millions. I entreat you, I implore you to be my wife.”