“And servant to your will, Monsieur. ’Tis known in all New France he is more diplomat than priest. Nay! I take back my word, and will make trial of his priesthood. Father, I do not love this man, nor marry him of my own free will. I appeal to you, to the church, to refuse the sanction.”
The priest stood with fingers interlocked, and head bowed, nor did his eyes meet mine.
“I am but the humble instrument of those in authority, Daughter,” he replied gently, “and must perform the sacred duties of my office. ’Tis your own confession that your hand has been pledged to Monsieur Cassion.”
“By Hugo Chevet, not myself.”
“Without objection on your part.” He glanced up slyly. “Perchance this was before the appearance of another lover, the Sieur de Artigny.”
I felt the color flood my cheeks, yet from indignation rather than embarrassment.
“No word of love has been spoken me by Monsieur de Artigny,” I answered swiftly. “He is a friend, no more. I do not love Francois Cassion, nor marry him but through force; ay! nor does he love me––this is but a scheme to rob me of my inheritance.”
“Enough of this,” broke in La Barre sternly, and he gripped my arm. “The girl hath lost her head, and such controversy is unseemly in my presence. Père le Guard, let the ceremony proceed.”
“’Tis your order, Monsieur?”