She took her father’s arm, and they were about to retire, when M. de Sairmeuse hastily threw himself between them and the door.
“You shall not depart thus!” he exclaimed. “I will not suffer it. Wait, at least, until I have seen Martial. Perhaps he is not as culpable as you suppose—”
“Enough!” interrupted the marquis; “enough! This is one of those outrages which can never be repaired. May your conscience forgive you, as I, myself, forgive you. Farewell!”
This was said so perfectly, with such entire harmony of intonation and gesture, that M. de Sairmeuse was bewildered.
With an absolutely wonderstruck air he watched the marquis and his daughter depart, and they had been gone some moments before he recovered himself sufficiently to exclaim:
“Old hypocrite! does he believe me his dupe?”
His dupe! M. de Sairmeuse was so far from being his dupe, that his next thought was:
“What is to follow this farce? He says that he pardons us—that means that he has some crushing blow in store for us.”
This conviction filled him with disquietude. He really felt unable to cope successfully with the perfidious marquis.
“But Martial is a match for him!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I must see Martial at once.”