She abruptly disengaged herself from his arms, and fled, as if frightened and confused, to a little distance.
“Do I doubt it?” she exclaimed, but a smile of gentle meaning was on her lover’s face, and the words died away upon her lips; she let him take her by the hand and lead her to the salon. There an altar had been hastily arranged during her absence. The priest was robed in his officiating vestments. The lighted tapers shed upon the ceiling a glow as soft as hope itself. She now recognized the two men who had bowed to her, the Comte de Bauvan and the Baron du Guenic, the witnesses chosen by Montauran.
“You will not still refuse?” said the marquis.
But at the sight she stopped, stepped backward into her chamber and fell on her knees; raising her hands towards the marquis she cried out: “Pardon! pardon! pardon!”
Her voice died away, her head fell back, her eyes closed, and she lay in the arms of her lover and Francine as if dead. When she opened her eyes they met those of the young man full of loving tenderness.
“Marie! patience! this is your last trial,” he said.
“The last!” she exclaimed, bitterly.
Francine and the marquis looked at each other in surprise, but she silenced them by a gesture.
“Call the priest,” she said, “and leave me alone with him.”
They did so, and withdrew.