“Madam!” replied Marguerite, “I cannot address myself to you--permit me, then, to implore my father’s pity; unless,” she added, pointing to the notary with a firm and determined gesture, “you would prefer my invoking the protection of the law.” “Come, come,” said the marchioness, rising, and in a tone of bitter irony, “this is a family scene, and which, although highly interesting to near relations, must be sufficiently tedious to strangers. Gentlemen, you will find refreshments in the adjoining rooms. My son, conduct these gentlemen, and do the honors. Baron, I must beg your pardon for a short time.” Emanuel and Lectoure bowed in silence and withdrew, followed by all the company. The marchioness remained motionless until the last of them had withdrawn, and then she closed all the doors leading into the room, when, returning to the marquis, whom Marguerite still held clasped in her arms. “And now,” said she, “that there is no one present excepting those who have the right to lay their commands upon you, sign that paper, mademoiselle, or leave the room.” “For pity’s sake, madam, for pity’s sake, do not compel me to commit so infamous an act!” “Have you not heard me?” said the marchioness, giving to her voice an imperative tone, which she thought impossible to be resisted, “or must I repeat my words? ‘Sign, or leave the room.’” “Oh! my father!” cried Marguerite, “mercy! mercy! No, it shall not be said, that after having been banished from my father’s presence for ten years, I was torn from his arms the first time I again beheld him--and that, before he had recognized me, before he has embraced me. Oh! father! father!--it is I, it is your daughter!” “What is that voice that is imploring me?” murmured the marquis. “Who is this child who calls me father?” “That voice,” said the marchioness, seizing the arm of her daughter, “is a voice that is raised against the rights of nature. That child is a rebellious daughter.” “My father!” cried Marguerite imploringly, “look at me. Oh! my father, save me I defend me! I am Marguerite.” “Marguerite? Marguerite?” stammered the marquis, “I had formerly a child of that name.” “It is I! it is I!” rejoined Marguerite: “I am your child--I am your daughter.” “There are no children but those who obey. Obey! and you will then have the right to call yourself our daughter,” rejoined the marchioness. “To you, my father, yes,--to you I am ready to obey. But you do not command this sacrifice! you do not wish that I should be unhappy--unhappy even to despair--unhappy even to death.” “Come! come!” said the marquis holding her in his turn, and pressing her to his heart. “Oh! this is a delicious and unknown feeling to me. And now--wait! wait!” He pressed his hand to his forehead. “It seems to me that I recollect.” “Sir!” cried the marchioness, “tell her that she ought to obey; that the malediction of God awaits rebellious children. Tell her that, rather than to encourage her in her impiety!”