“Did you not give me your assurance that M. de Mancini would marry Yvonne?”
“I did not, Monsieur. I did but tell you that he would wed your daughter. And, ma foi! your daughter he has wed.”
“You have fooled me, scélérat!” he blazed out. “You, who have been sheltered by—”
“Father!” Yvonne interrupted, taking his arm. “M. de Luynes has behaved no worse than have I, or any one of us, in this matter.”
“No!” he cried, and pointed to Andrea. “'T is you who have wrought this infamy. Eugène,” he exclaimed, turning of a sudden to his son, “you have a sword; wipe out this shame.”
“Shame!” echoed Geneviève. “Oh, father, where is the shame? If it were no shame for Andrea to marry Yvonne, surely—”
“Silence!” he thundered. “Eugène—”
But Eugène answered him with a contemptuous laugh.
“You are quick enough to call upon my sword, now that things have not fallen out as you would have them. Where are your grooms now, Monsieur?”
“Insolent hound!” cried his father indignantly. Then, letting fall his arms with something that was near akin to a sob—“Is there no one left to do aught but mock me?” he groaned.