"The general expects to marry his niece!" echoed Frédéric. Already his features had assumed a different expression: sadness and melancholy were succeeded by violent emotion, a jealous perturbation which was manifest in his excited glance, and which made it impossible for him to remain seated. His voice trembled, and, as he questioned his father, it seemed as if his life or death hung upon the answer he was to receive.
"Yes," said the count, in an indifferent tone, pretending not to notice Frédéric's state of mind, "yes; and, for my part, I see nothing surprising about it."
"And—this colonel is coming to Paris? Do you know him, father? Is he young? Is he supposed to be handsome? Mademoiselle de Valmont loves him, of course?"
"You don't think that I am in Mademoiselle de Valmont's confidence, do you? She met the colonel in society, I presume. I believe he's a young man of twenty-eight or thirty."
"Good-looking?"
"Oh! whether he's good-looking or ugly, isn't an honorable man always attractive?"
"And this marriage is all arranged?"
"So it seems."
"And Mademoiselle Constance has never mentioned it to me!"
"Why on earth should she have told you beforehand of something that a well-bred young woman never mentions?"