“He is my husband!” she answered. And there was a note of pride—almost of triumph—in her voice.
An awful silence followed the launching of that thunderbolt. Eugène stood with open mouth, staring now at Geneviève, now at his father. Andrea set his arm about his bride's waist, and her fair head was laid trustingly upon his shoulder. The Chevalier's eyes rolled ominously. At length he spoke in a dangerously calm voice.
“How long is it—how long have you been wed?”
“We were wed in Blois an hour ago,” answered Geneviève.
Something that was like a grunt escaped the Chevalier, then his eye fastened upon me, and his anger boiled up.
“You knew of this?” he asked, coming towards me.
“I knew of it.”
“Then you lied to me yesterday.”
I drew myself up, stiff as a broomstick.
“I do not understand,” I answered coldly.