“Now and always and above all things the sight of you, Valerie,” said he, and the flushed cheek, the glittering eye, and wine-laden breath were as plain to her as they had been to Garnache, and they filled her with a deeper terror. Nevertheless she came forth at his bidding.
“I see that you were not yet abed,” said he. “It is as well. We must have a talk.” He set a chair for her and begged her to be seated; then he perched himself on the table, his hands gripping the edges of it on either side of him, and he turned his eyes upon her.
“Valerie,” he said slowly, “the Marquis de Condillac, my brother, is at La Rochette.”
“He is coming home!” she cried, clasping her hands and feigning surprise in word and glance.
Marius shook his head and smiled grimly.
“No,” said he. “He is not coming home. That is—not unless you wish it.”
“Not unless I wish it? But naturally I wish it!”
“Then, Valerie, if you would have what you wish, so must I. If Florimond is ever to come to Condillac again, you must be my wife.”
He leaned towards her now, supported by his elbow, so that his face was close to hers, a deeper flush upon it, a brighter glitter in his black eyes, his vinous breath enveloping and suffocating her. She shrank back, her hands locking themselves one in the other till the knuckles showed white.
“What—what is it you mean?” she faltered.