Belleville tried to drag Fraulein Marshal forward, but at the instant a powerful and heavy arm was laid upon him, and his hand was dashed off rudely.
“I have heard you to the end,” said Baron Marshal, calmly; “I wished to see a little of the renowned gallantry of which the Frenchman is so proud. It appears to me that a strange ton must now reign in Paris, well suited, perhaps, to the boudoirs of mistresses, but not fitting or acceptable to the ears of respectable women. I beg you therefore, sir, not to assume this ton in Berlin; I am resolved not to endure it.”
Belleville laughed aloud, drew very near the baron, and looked him insolently in the face.
“Who are you, monsieur, who dare take the liberty of begging me, who do not know you, to do or not do any thing?”
“I am Baron Marshal, the father of this lady whom you have dared to offend!”
Belleville laughed still louder than before.
“Aha! that is a beautiful fairy tale! You who are as hideous as a baboon, and have borrowed the eyes of the cat!—you the father of the lovely Galatea Marshal!—tell that tale to other ears—I do not believe in such aberrations of Nature. I repeat my question: who are you? what is your name?”
“I repeat to you, I am Baron Marshal, the father of this lady.”
“You are more credulous, sir, than I am, if you believe that,” said Belleville, coarsely.
“Perhaps I am less credulous than you suppose,” said Marshal, quietly. “It would, for example, be difficult for me to believe that you are a nobleman. I can assure you, however, that I am not only noble, but a man of honor.”