“What!” said the baron, “you are taking away your niece? It is too early. I thought she was just beginning to enjoy herself in my house. Permit me to beseech your indulgence for her; and since she has been dancing—as I am told—may I now beg her to dance with me? She certainly cannot refuse me now, and I am sure she will consent with pleasure.”
“If you insist upon it, baron, I consent,” said the countess.
“Come, Margaret, thank the baron, and go with him. Do you not see that he is offering you his arm for the polonaise?”
Margaret seemed to hesitate; her eyes met those of Cristiano, who did not know which feeling predominated—his desire to have her remain, or his fear that she would yield. Perhaps the last sentiment was most distinctly expressed in his looks, for Margaret answered steadily that she was engaged.
“To whom, pray?” cried the countess.
“Yes; to whom?” repeated the baron, with a singular inflection in his voice, and with a calmness that, Margaret thought, had something ominous in it.
She looked down, and was silent; for she did not understand what was passing in the mind of her persecutor, from whom she had thought herself quite safe.
The baron’s only object was to torment her and compromise her. He saw perfectly well her aversion for him, and cordially reciprocated it. Coldly hard-hearted and revengeful, he affected to jest; but said, speaking loud enough to be heard by many inquisitive ears:
“Where is the happy mortal with whom I must dispute you? for I certainly will do it. I have the right.”
“You have the right?” exclaimed Margaret, amazed and indignant; “you, baron?”