She turned her head swiftly from his foetid breath. It was nauseous. It caused her a fierce revulsion of feeling.
She sprang up, her eyes aflame in an instant.
“M’sieur Rigaux! This is intolerable!” she protested, drawing herself up in proud defiance. “I wish you to remember who I am, and further, I wish you to go to my father and tell him, that no matter what may happen, no matter what pressure he may place upon me, no matter if I die unmarried, I will never become the wife of Arnaud Rigaux. You hear!”
He drew back at this obstinate rebuff—he whose money bought women’s smiles from end to aid of Europe.
In a second he became apologetic.
“But, Mademoiselle, I—”
“Please leave this room,” she ordered, very firmly. “If not, I shall ring for the servants. Go!” and she pointed determinedly to the door. “Go! Describe this scene to my father, and tell him from me, once and for all, that I love Edmond Valentin, and that I intend to marry him.”
The man’s loose lips hardened. He murmured something which the girl could not catch, but she saw in his eyes, for the first time, the light of a fierce and terrible hatred, as he bowed stiffly, and, turning on his heel, took his congé, and with a fierce imprecation upon his lips strode out of the pretty, artistic room, wherein she stood, an imperious and defiant figure, in the centre of the carpet.