“Their quarrel was only a political difference?” she asked at length.
“Yes,” said the other, slowly. “Saint-Prosper refused to support the fugitive king. Throughout the parliamentary government, the restoration under Louis XVIII, and the reign of King Charles X, the marquis had ever a devout faith in the divine right of monarchs. He annulled his marriage in England with your mother to marry the Duchesse D’Argens, a relative of the royal princess. But Charles abdicated and the duchesse died. All this, however, is painful to you, Miss Carew?”
“Only such as relates to my mother,” she replied in a clear tone. “I suppose I should feel grateful for this fortune, but I am afraid I do not. Please go on.”
Culver leaned back in his chair, his glance bent upon a discolored statue of Psyche in the court-yard. “Had the marquis attended to his garden, like Candide, 396 or your humble servant, and eschewed the company of kings he might have been as care-free as he was wretched. His monarchs were knocked down like nine-pins. Louis XVIII was a man of straw; Charles X, a feather-top, and Louis Philippe, a toy ruler. The marquis’ domestic life was as unblest as his political career. The frail duchesse left him a progeny of scandals. These, the only offspring of the iniquitous dame, were piquantly dressed in the journals for public parade. Fancy, then, his delight in disinheriting his wife’s relatives, and leaving you, his daughter, his fortune and his name!”
“His name?” she repeated, sadly. With averted face she watched the fountain in the garden. “If he had given it to my mother,” she continued, “but now––I do not care for it. Her name is all I want.” Her voice trembled and she exclaimed passionately: “I should rather Mr. Saint-Prosper would keep the property and I––my work! After denying my mother and deserting her, how can I accept anything from him?”
“Under the new will,” said Culver, “the estate does not revert to Mr. Saint-Prosper in any event. But you might divide it with him?” he added, suddenly.
“How could I do that?” she asked, without looking up.
“Marry him!” laughed the attorney.
But the jest met with scant response, his fair client remaining motionless as a statue, while Barnes gazed at her furtively. Culver’s smile gradually faded; uncertain 397 how to proceed, realizing his humor had somehow miscarried, he was not sorry when the manager arose, saying:
“Well, my dear, it is time we were at the theater.”