By the hand he continued to hold, he drew her towards him. She came unresisting. He took the candle from her, and set it down on the sideboard by which she stood. The next moment her slight, lithe body was in his arms, and he was kissing her, murmuring her name as if it were a prayer.
“Am I cruel now?” she asked him, panting. He kissed her again for only answer. “You made me cruel because you would not see,” she told him next in a whisper.
And then the door opened, and M. Binet came in to have his paternal eyes regaled by this highly indecorous behaviour of his daughter.
He stood at gaze, whilst they quite leisurely, and in a self-possession too complete to be natural, detached each from the other.
“And what may be the meaning of this?” demanded M. Binet, bewildered and profoundly shocked.
“Does it require explaining?” asked Scaramouche. “Doesn’t it speak for itself—eloquently? It means that Climene and I have taken it into our heads to be married.”
“And doesn’t it matter what I may take into my head?”
“Of course. But you could have neither the bad taste nor the bad heart to offer any obstacle.”
“You take that for granted? Aye, that is your way, to be sure—to take things for granted. But my daughter is not to be taken for granted. I have very definite views for my daughter. You have done an unworthy thing, Scaramouche. You have betrayed my trust in you. I am very angry with you.”
He rolled forward with his ponderous yet curiously noiseless gait. Scaramouche turned to her, smiling, and handed her the candle.