“This is my son,” said the old duke, taking Etienne by the hand and presenting him to the ladies.
Etienne bowed without uttering a word. The countess and Mademoiselle de Grandlieu exchanged a look which the old man intercepted.
“Your daughter will be ill-matched—is that your thought?” he said in a low voice.
“I think quite the contrary, my dear duke,” replied the mother, smiling.
The Marquise de Noirmoutier, who accompanied her sister, laughed significantly. That laugh stabbed Etienne to the heart; already the sight of the tall lady had terrified him.
“Well, Monsieur le duc,” said the duke in a low voice and assuming a lively air, “have I not found you a handsome wife? What do you say to that slip of a girl, my cherub?”
The old duke never doubted his son’s obedience; Etienne, to him, was the son of his mother, of the same dough, docile to his kneading.
“Let him have a child and die,” thought the old man; “little I care.”
“Father,” said the young man, in a gentle voice, “I do not understand you.”
“Come into your own room, I have a few words to say to you,” replied the duke, leading the way into the state bedroom.