“Why do you not answer?” asked Martial, with evident anxiety.
She felt that she must reply, that she must speak, say something; but she could not unclose her lips.
“I am only a poor girl, Monsieur le Marquis,” she murmured, at last. “If I accepted your offer, you would regret it continually.”
“Never!”
“But you are no longer free. You have already plighted your troth. Mademoiselle Blanche de Courtornieu is your promised wife.”
“Ah! say one word—only one—and this engagement, which I detest, is broken.”
She was silent. It was evident that her mind was fully made up, and that she refused his offer.
“Do you hate me, then?” asked Martial, sadly.
If she had allowed herself to tell the whole truth Marie-Anne would have answered “Yes.” The Marquis de Sairmeuse did inspire her with an almost insurmountable aversion.
“I no more belong to myself than you belong to yourself, Monsieur,” she faltered.