“Monsieur,” I answered as quietly as I could, “my price is your promise to break off at once this wedding which you propose and to sign in the presence of witnesses a paper which I shall have executed in which you will agree to permit your niece to choose her own husband.” “Believing, doubtless, that she will choose you!” he sneered. “May I ask, Monsieur, where you met my niece?” “In the Rue de l’Evêque, as you know.” “You had never met her before last night?” “No. I had never seen her before that.” He gazed at me astonished, for he saw that I spoke the truth. “May I ask your name, Monsieur?” he said. “Pierre le Moyne.” “And your home?” “Mont-de-Marsan.” “I might have guessed it!” he cried. “Only a Gascon would attempt a thing so ridiculous. Come, Monsieur, return me my niece and cease this farce. It has been carried too far already. You imagine, doubtless, that you are performing one of those Quixotic deeds for which your countrymen are famous, but you do not understand the situation. This husband whom I have chosen for my niece is M. Briquet, a wealthy and respected man, well fitted to make her happy. She is young and does not know her own mind. She has been bred in a convent and has arranged some little romance for herself, in which the hero is doubtless a prince, young, rich, and beautiful. She forgets that she is a poor girl and that her marriage portion is hardly worth considering. M. Briquet is a good match--better than could have been hoped for. In a year from now she will think him adorable,” and he leered at me in a way that made my flesh creep, “for he is good-natured--he does not ask what has happened since last night--he will not set watch on her too closely--no doubt there will still be a place for you.” I felt my blood grow hot against the brute, but I kept close grip on my temper. After all, I had an end to accomplish. “I have already told you, Monsieur,” I answered, coldly, “on what terms your niece will be returned to you. If she then chooses to marry M. Briquet, well and good. If not, she will marry some one else.” His self-control slipped from him, as cloak from shoulder, and left his wrath quite naked. “Mordieu!” he yelled, springing from his chair and shaking his fist in my face, “you speak as though you had the right to meddle in this affair. I will call in the law! I will have you thrown into the conciergerie! I will compel you to return the girl!” “Perhaps the law might also inquire why you are so anxious to have her become Madame Briquet,” I retorted, for want of something better, and paused in astonishment. He had fallen back into his chair, his face livid. What possessed the man? “Get out of here!” he screamed, when he had regained the power of speech. “Get out of here, and tell your harlot never to show her face here again, or I will denounce her as a woman of the town!”