“Why, I am not asking you to tell me this--I was not speaking of the qualities of his heart--he has all these, of course, that’s perfectly understood. I ask you whether he is noble? if he is of good race? in short, whether a woman of quality could acknowledge him, and that without degrading her husband?” “His father, whom he lost when very young, and who was my father’s friend from infancy, was a counsellor at the Court of Rennes.” “Nobility of the bar!” exclaimed Lectoure, dropping his nether lip with a contemptuous shrug; “I would rather it were otherwise--is he a knight of Malta, at least?” “He was educated for a military life.” “Oh! then, we must get a regiment for him, to give him rank and standing in society. Well, that’s all arranged, and it is well. Now, listen to me: he will absent himself for six months, merely for decency’s sake, will obtain leave of absence, no difficult matter now, as we are not at war--he will get himself presented to you for form’s sake, by some mutual friend, and then all will go on rightly.” “I do not understand you, sir,” replied Marguerite, looking at the baron with an expression of profound astonishment. “What I have said to you is, notwithstanding, perfectly pellucid,” rejoined the latter, with some show of impatience; “you have engagements on your side--I have on mine--but that is no reason for preventing an union which is perfectly suitable in every respect; and once accomplished, why, I think, we are bound to render it as bearable as we can. Do you comprehend me now?” “Oh! pardon me, sir, pardon me,” cried Marguerite, starting back, as though these words had outraged her; “I have been very imprudent, very culpable perhaps; but whatever I may have been, I did not dream I could have merited so gross an insult. Oh! sir, the blush of shame is now scorching my cheek, but more for you than for myself. Yes, I understand you--an apparent love and a concealed one; the face of vice and the mask of virtue; and it is to me--to me, the daughter of the Marquis d’Auray, that so shameful, so humiliating, so infamous a bargain is proposed. Oh!” continued she, falling into an arm-chair, and hiding her face with both her hands, “I must then be a most unfortunate, most contemptible lost creature! Oh! my God! my God!” “Emanuel! Emanuel!” cried the baron, opening the door, at which he rightly suspected Marguerite’s brother had remained; “come in, my dear friend; your sister is attacked with spasms; these things ought to be attended to, or they may become chronic; Madame do Moulan died of them. Here, take my scent bottle, and let her smell at it. As to myself, I am going down into the park. If you have nothing else to do, you can rejoin me there, and bring me, if you please, news of your sister.” Saying these words, the Baron de Lectoure left the room with miraculous calmness, leaving Marguerite and Emanuel together. CHAPTER XII.--THE CHALLENGE.