He interrupted me with an impatient gesture. “You need not tell me that she loves M. de Lambert,” he said harshly, “for she told us all that herself. Her aunt charges her with having gone away with the Frenchman; is it true, M. le Maréchal?”
“It is true,” I rejoined quietly; “failing to obtain her uncle’s consent, she went without it.”
“And also without the ceremony of marriage, her aunt fears,” he said slowly.
“Madame Zotof is cruel,” I exclaimed; “she knows better!”
“Ah!” he ejaculated in a fierce tone, “she was married—where?”
“In the Cathedral of the Assumption,” I answered.
He let his hand fall heavily upon the arm of his chair, and I saw his face plainly, for the first time. It was twitching with that unfortunate convulsion that distorted his features, making his eyes horrible.
“By a priest of my church?” he asked sharply.
I bowed my head in assent, beginning to understand his mood and see the dangers of it.
“What priest of mine dared to perform that ceremony without my consent?” he cried passionately; and I saw that his violent mood was threatening to overwhelm him, yet I regarded him with composure.