"I beg, monsieur, that you will not say another word to me on the subject," said Madame de Senneterre, feigning a calmness which the trembling of her voice grievously belied. "All is ended between my son and me. He can love whom he pleases and marry whom he pleases, as he is old enough to dispense with my consent. Let him drag his name through the mire if he likes. From this day I shall resume my maiden name, and I shall proclaim high and low and everywhere why I blush to bear a name so dishonoured and degraded. It is to be hoped that I shall, at least, find some consolation in my daughters." To these senseless ravings the marquis replied, quietly and gravely: "Your son understands his duty towards you very differently from what you understand yours towards him. He will not even make the formal request for parental consent on the part of a person who is of legal age, which is usual in such cases. He will both honour and respect your wishes to this extent: he will not marry without your consent." "Indeed!" exclaimed Madame de Senneterre, with a sardonic laugh. "He really does me this honour?" "And, in spite of the profound love she cherishes for him, the young lady he loves will consent to marry him only upon one condition: that you, madame, go and tell this young lady that you consent to her marriage with your son." "This, M. de Maillefort, must be only a jest." "It is a matter of life or death for your son, madame." The voice of the marquis and the expression of his face were so full of earnestness and authority, that Madame de Senneterre, impressed in spite of herself, cried in alarm: "What do you mean, monsieur?" "I mean that you must be a hard-hearted mother if you have not noticed your son's pallor and almost prostrated condition for several days past. On the day of the ball at which your son behaved so nobly, did not your physician tell you that, but for the heroic treatment to which he had resorted, you would have been in great danger of losing your son by brain fever?" Gradually recovering from her alarm, and regretting that she had allowed herself to display even a momentary solicitude, Madame de Senneterre retorted, disdainfully: "Nonsense! A brain fever can be cured by a few bleedings, monsieur, and one dies of love only in novels, and in very poor novels." "That is a kind and motherly remark, madame, and to keep it company I will say to you, with equal coolness, that if, after you have had time to make proper inquiries and obtain all needful information concerning the young lady of whom I have spoken, you do not take the step expected of you--" "Well, monsieur?" "Well, madame, your son will kill himself--" "Yes, as the disappointed lover does in all the thrilling melodramas," retorted Madame de Senneterre, with an even shriller laugh.