"Did I? really, I hardly knew what I was doing." And, desirous of finding an excuse for his singular behaviour, he added in the most dejected tone imaginable: "I have a rival."
"What do you mean?" fairly howled the farmer.
"I mean," replied Tom, in the most wretched tone he could assume; "I mean that my cousin loves another fellow, an Englishman, who has not a single penny which he can call his own, a wretched cur, a beggarly fortune-hunter. I fancy I can see him. He is one of those fellows who walk bearing all their fortunes on their backs. He was dressed in faultless evening dress; light kid gloves, patent leather boots, and a tall silk hat." (This was all false.) "If I am not mistaken, this fellow has not a particularly bright character."
The farmer was looking at Tom. His lips were apart, his teeth closed, his eyes shone with an ominous light. He did not say a word. Tom continued: "Ah! your fortune will soon be gone to the dogs, all the money that you have honestly earned, that you have had so much trouble to scrape together, will disappear in the twinkling of an eye, and your ruined daughter will have to end her days in the hospital at the Castel."
"Never, never;" shouted the farmer.
"And I, who meant to attend to your business," said Tom; "I, who was going to work your farm; I, who meant to save our family from ruin and you from the shame that will necessarily fall partly on you as a member of that family; I, who am her cousin and who would have done anything and everything for her, I am put aside as worthless stuff."
"Oh!" groaned the farmer; "Do you know him?" he asked.
"I have seen him but once, I do not know where he lives."
"Do you think he will accompany her this evening?"
"Certainly, that's why she has gone out."