Her foreign accent strengthened with her increasing emphasis.
Burke looked dubious.
“I’m afraid your clairvoyance will fail this journey madame. She’ll probably marry Tormarin—unless”—his eyes glinting—“I carry her off by force.”
Madame de Varigny shook her head emphatically.
“But no! I do not see it like that. Eh bien! If she become fiancée—engaged to him—you shall come to me, and I will tell you how to make sure that she shall not marry him.”
“Tell me now!”
“Non, non! Win her your own way. Only, if you do not succeed, if Monsieur Tormarin wins her—why, then, come to visit me at Château Varigny.”
That night a letter written in the Comtesse de Varigny’s flowing foreign handwriting sped on its way to France.
“Matters work towards completion,” it ran. “My visit here has chanced bien à propos. There is another would-be-lover besides Blaise Tormarin. I have urged him on to win her if he can, for if I have not wrongly estimated Monsieur Tormarin—and I do not think I have—he is of the type to become more deeply in love and less able to master his feelings if he realises that he has a rival. At present he refrains from declaring himself. The opposition of a rival will probably drive him into a declaration very speedily. When the dog sees the bone about to be taken from him—he snaps! So I encourage this red-headed lion of a man, Monsieur Burke, to pursue his affaire du cour with vigour. For if Blaise Tormarin becomes actually betrothed to Mademoiselle Peterson, it will make his punishment the more complete. I pray the God of Justice that it may not now be long delayed!”