Madame von Brandt placed her hand with a slight but tender pressure on his. "There is one way," she whispered, "a way to reassure, not only my husband, but the whole world, which will cast a veil over our love, and protect us from the wickedness and calumny of man."
"Show me this way," he exclaimed, "and if it should cost half of my fortune I would walk in it, if I could hope to gain your love."
She bent her head nearer to him, and, with a most fascinating and tender glance, whispered, "You must marry, count."
He withdrew a step, and uttered a cry of horror. "I must marry! You desire it—you who profess to love me?"
"Because I love you, dearest, and because your marriage will break the bands of etiquette which divide us. You must marry a lady of my acquaintance, perhaps one of my friends, and then no one, not even my husband, will consider our friendship remarkable."
"Oh! I see it; there is no other way," sighed the count. "If I were only married now!"
"Oh! you ungrateful, faithless man," cried Madame von Brandt, indignantly. "You long already for your marriage with the beautiful young woman, in whose love I shall be forgotten."
"Oh! you are well aware that I only wish to be married because you desire it."
"Prove this by answering that you will not refuse to marry the lady I shall point out to you."
"I swear it."