[CHAPTER XV]
THE INTERVIEW
This time, also, the metamorphosis of the Marquis was complete. He seemed to be not more than twenty years of age; his chestnut hair, without powder, parted in the middle over his forehead, framed his charming face, candid and ingenuous. He was clothed in black; he dropped his eyes timidly, twirled his hat in his hands with an embarrassed air, and remained near the door without daring to move a step.
The conseillère, agitated, irritated and threatening, with her hand upon the poniard, expecting to see a bold and brilliant gentleman of audacious mien and free speech, stood stupefied at the appearance of this youth of such rare beauty, who, quite intimidated, seemed to hesitate to approach her.
Hardly believing her eyes, and fearing some mistake, Martha said to him sharply:
"Are you really the Marquis de Létorière!"
"Yes, madame la conseillère," replied the Marquis, with a trembling voice, not lifting his eyes, and blushing deeply.
"Do you come from France?"
"Yes, madame la conseillère; I arrived here three days ago." . . .
At the sound of this sweet voice, so pure and youthful in tone, Martha's astonishment was doubled; she dropped her poniard, leaned towards the Marquis, and said in a milder voice: