“Yes, sergeant—I, your captain, tell you—you must help us.”
“Confound you both.”
And the sergeant moved his chair—but Marie moved hers, as also did the captain his.
“Yes—yes—yes,” said the sergeant. And barely had he registered the promise in a strong bass voice, when the marquise entered the room. She was almost paralyzed again at the sight of the third party.
“Aunt—aunt—this is he who once saved my life; and—and I love him.”
“Love! To use the word openly, like that!”
“But, marquise, this is Tony—her husband!”
“Silence, sir—the Duke of Krakentorp is Marie’s husband. Love, indeed! A soldier—a common soldier!”
“Pardon me, marquise—but Tony is a captain now.”
“Then, if he is an officer, he knows, I presume, the laws of good breeding; and when I tell him his presence is distasteful,”—here the grand lady curtseyed, for the captain, without another word, retired, but not without a certain look from Sulpice, who, having given the promise, was proceeding to keep it. He looked Tony from the presence of the marquise, and then he looked Marie also from her presence.