“Lovely!” he murmured, in English; “beautiful as an angel!”
These words, which she understood, abashed Marie-Anne. But she had said enough; her father felt that he was avenged.
He drew from his pocket a roll of papers, and throwing them upon the table: “Here are your titles,” he said, addressing the duke in a tone full of implacable hatred. “Keep the legacy that your aunt gave me, I wish nothing of yours. I shall never set foot in Sairmeuse again. Penniless I entered it, penniless I will leave it!”
He quitted the room with head proudly erect, and when they were outside, he said but one word to his daughter:
“Well!”
“You have done your duty,” she replied; “it is those who have not done it, who are to be pitied!”
She had no opportunity to say more. Martial came running after them, anxious for another chance of seeing this young girl whose beauty had made such an impression upon him.
“I hastened after you,” he said, addressing Marie-Anne, rather than M. Lacheneur, “to reassure you. All this will be arranged, Mademoiselle. Eyes so beautiful as yours should never know tears. I will be your advocate with my father—”
“Mademoiselle Lacheneur has no need of an advocate!” a harsh voice interrupted.
Martial turned, and saw the young man, who, that morning, went to warn M. Lacheneur of the duke’s arrival.