“The truth. That you have been guilty of an offence which a man of honor could never forgive nor forget.”
The young marquis shook his head gravely.
“You are quick to condemn, sir,” he said, coldly. “Permit me to hope that Monsieur Lacheneur will be less severe than yourself; and that his resentment—just, I confess, will vanish before”—he hesitated—“before a truthful explanation.”
Such an expression from the lips of this haughty young aristocrat! Was it possible?
Martial profited by the effect he had produced to advance toward Marie-Anne, and, addressing himself exclusively to her, seemed after that to ignore the presence of Maurice completely.
“For there has been a mistake—a misunderstanding, Mademoiselle,” he continued. “Do not doubt it. The Sairmeuse are not ingrates. How could anyone have supposed that we would intentionally give offense to a—devoted friend of our family, and that at a moment when he had rendered us a most signal service! A true gentleman like my father, and a hero of probity like yours, cannot fail to esteem each other. I admit that in the scene of yesterday, Monsieur de Sairmeuse did not appear to advantage; but the step he takes today proves his sincere regret.”
Certainly this was not the cavalier tone which he had employed in addressing Marie-Anne, for the first time, on the square in front of the church.
He had removed his hat, he remained half inclined before her, and he spoke in a tone of profound respect, as though it were a haughty duchess, and not the humble daughter of that “rascal” Lacheneur whom he was addressing.
Was it only a roue’s manoeuvre? Or had he also involuntarily submitted to the power of this beautiful girl? It was both; and it would have been difficult for him to say where the voluntary ended, and where the involuntary began.
He continued: