"You cannot mean it," he replied; "let our children be betrothed, if you please; but as to marrying them, it is altogether too soon."
"That is what I meant," said De Beuvre. "Let them be betrothed, and do you take my daughter with you once more. You can watch over the lovers, and in two or three years I will return for the wedding."
Bois-Doré was romantic enough to yield; and yet he hesitated. He had forgotten all about love, about its tempests at all events. But a glance from Adamas, who pretended to be arranging the luggage, and who was listening intently with both ears, reminded him of the flushes and pallors he had noticed on Mario's face, which might be the manifestation of suffering carefully concealed.
"No, no," he said. "I will not put my child beside the fire; I will not expose him to the risk of burning up or disobeying the laws of honor. Abide in your château, neighbor, and let us be prudent. You are rich enough. Let us exchange oaths, without the knowledge of our children. Why deprive either of them of sleep? Three years hence we will make them happy without perplexity or self-reproach."
De Beuvre realized that ambition and greed had led him to make an absurd suggestion. But he had become obstinate and choleric. He lost his temper, refused to give his word, and decided to take his daughter to Poitou, to her kinswoman the Duchesse de la Trémouille.
Mario nearly swooned when, as they were about entering the carriage, he was informed that Lauriane would not return with them and was going away for an indefinite period. His father had tried to lighten the blow; but De Beuvre insisted upon dealing it, either to test the boy's sentiments, or to have his revenge for the lesson in prudence he had received with a bad grace from the least prudent of men. Lauriane, who knew nothing as yet—her father having told her simply that they were to remain a few days longer at Bourges,—rushed downstairs when she heard the marquis's pained exclamation at the sight of Mario pale and swooning. But Mario soon recovered, declared that he had had an attack of cramp, and jumped into the great carriage with his eyes closed. He did not wish to see Lauriane, whose tranquillity, down to that moment, wounded him to the lowest depths of his heart. He supposed that she knew everything, and had decided, without regret, to part from him forever.
The marquis longed to remain, to have an explanation with De Beuvre. He had the courage to refrain, when he saw how brave Mario was: whatever the result, the young man had reached an age when separation for a few years had become necessary.
Mario, expansive as he was on all other subjects, opened his heart to no one, and affected the most perfect serenity during the journey.
At Briantes the marquis questioned him adroitly, Mercedes imprudently. He held his ground, saying that he loved Lauriane much, but that his grief would affect neither his reason nor his work.
He kept his word. His health suffered a little; but he assented to all the measures that he was urged to adopt in that regard, and he soon recovered.