“Monsieur, permit me,” said Honorât.
“Monsieur? Eh! Why in the devil do you call me monsieur? Am I not your father?” cried the baron, looking at Honorât.
Honorât cast a distressed look at Reine, as if to make her understand that it was due to her that he could no longer call the baron by the tender name of father.
Honorât replied, in a voice trembling with emotion, “Ah, well, since you wish it, my father—”
“Ah, come now, what is the matter, pray?” asked the astonished baron of his daughter. “Eh! Of course I wish you to call me father, since you are, or will be, my son in a few days.”
Reine blushed, looked down, and remained silent. “Ah, well, come, speak now, I pray you,” said the old gentleman to Honorât. “What have you to tell me?”
“From what I have learned,” answered Honorât, “the consuls, excited by the recorder Isnard, have manifested some hostility to you, father; do you not fear that the citizens and fishers may join these wicked people, when they see that you refuse to appear, and—”
“I, afraid of those scoundrels! Why, I laugh at them as I would at a broken spur,” cried the old gentleman, impetuously. “I have, from father to son, the right to lay my seines and nets in the cove of Castrembaou. I will maintain my right, even if all the fishers on the coast, from here to Sixfours, oppose it.”
“The fact is, monseigneur,” said the abbé, “that however much they may contest it, you have the right. Your titles and privileges of fishery date back to the year 1221, the 14th day of February, under the reign of Philippe, King of France, and your claims have been registered by Bertrand de Cornillon.”
“Eh! what do I want with the authority of Bertrand de Cornillon!” cried the baron. “Power makes the right, and I have the force to sustain the right. Man-jour! did ever one see such trickery? What rascals! I, who have always helped them, and defended them! Ah, just let them come and talk to me!”