Feeling that she had really lost her hold on her son, Mme. Meyrin began to cry.
Paul, unable to bear up against his mother's tears, sprung to his feet, and after looking at her for some moments, said, with a calmness and determination foreign to his nature:
"Well, so be it, mother. We will speak no more of this marriage. I will not appeal to the law; I will wait for your consent to my marriage with Lise. But I will start for St. Petersburg to-morrow."
"For St. Petersburg? What to do?"
"To put myself at the disposal of Prince Olsdorf."
"At the disposal of Prince Olsdorf?"
"The last words of the prince to his wife were these: 'If Monsieur Paul Meyrin does not marry you, I will kill him.' I will not have it that a Russian shall be able to say a Roumanian is, in my person, a coward."
"My son, my son!" cried Mme. Meyrin, seizing him in her arms. "You will fight? It is my refusal that would send you to brave this man? Give me ink and a pen. I will sign my consent. Tell me—tell me quick what I am to write. A duel! And I, your mother—"
The good creature, interrupting her words with kisses, dragged her son to a table in one of the corners of the studio. She was eager to sign the consent at once.
The artist yielded to her wish and dictated the few lines necessary.