Miss Merrywig was within, chatting and laughing away with the count. Franceline was not in a mood to meet the garrulous old lady or anybody; so she went straight to her room, and only came down when the visitor was gone. “Father,” she said, going up behind him and laying a hand on each shoulder, “what is this Sir Ponsonby tells me? That you are tired of your _clair-de-lune_, and want to get rid of her?” M. de la Bourbonais drew down the two trembling hands, and clasped them on his breast, and lifted his head as if he would look at her. “It would not be losing her, but gaining a son, who would take care of her when I am gone! She has not thought of that!” “No; and she does not wish to think of it! I will live with you while I live. I don’t care to look beyond that; nor must you, petit père. But I am very sorry for Sir Ponsonby. You must write and tell him so, and that he must not come any more--until he has forgotten me; that you cannot give me up.” “My cherished one! Let us talk about this matter; it is very serious. We must not do anything rashly.” He tried to unclasp her hands and draw her to his side; but she locked them tighter, and laid her cheek on his head. “Petit père, there is nothing to talk about; I will never marry him or anybody!” “My child, thou speakest without reflection. Captain Anwyll is a good, honorable man, and he loves thee, and it would be a great comfort to me to see thee married to him, and not to leave thee friendless and almost penniless whenever God calls me away. I understand it has taken thee by surprise, and that thou canst not accept the idea without some delay and getting used to it; but we must not decide so important a matter hastily. Come, sit down, and let us discuss it.” “No, father,” she answered in a tone of determination that was quite foreign to her now, and reminded him of the wilful child of long ago; “there is no use in discussing what is already decided. I will never marry Ponsonby--or anybody. Why, petit père, do you forget that he is a Protestant?” “Nay, I have forgotten nothing; that has been all arranged. He is most liberal about it; consents to leave you to … to have everything your own way in that respect, and assures me that it shall make no difference whatever to you, his not being of your religion.” “No difference, father! No difference to a wife that her husband should be a heretic! You cannot be in earnest. What blessing could there be on such a marriage?” “But you would soon convert him, my little one; you would make a good Catholic of him before the year was out,” said M. de la Bourbonais. “Think of that!” “And suppose it were the other way, and that he made a good Protestant of me? It is no more than I should deserve for my presumption. You know what happens to those who seek the danger.…”