The marquis's face darkened. "Not wish to go to Paris?" he repeated. "But you must go, Oliver."
"No," said Oliver; "I do not wish to go. I shall not go. I would rather stay here at Flourens. I do not like Paris."
The marquis came over and took Oliver by the button of his coat. His face was not pleasant to see. "You do not like Paris!" said he. "Very well; then you shall stay here, my dear Oliver—you and your fortune. But in that case, my child, you need never come here to the château again. You comprehend me?"
Oliver looked out of the window. Céleste was waiting for him upon the terrace. Never had she looked so exquisitely beautiful. He groaned.
"Then I will go," said he.
The marquis opened his arms. "Embrace me, Oliver," he cried.
Oliver yielded himself to the caress, but he wished the marquis to the devil.