“Oblige me with your deepest attention,” commenced he. “You were eighteen years of age last month, and I have an important piece of intelligence to convey to you. I have had an offer of marriage for you.” Marie looked down, and endeavored to hide her confusion at these tidings. “Before coming to a conclusion upon a matter of such importance,” continued he, “it was, of course, necessary for me to go into the question most thoroughly. I spared no means of obtaining information, and I am quite certain that the proposed connection would be conducive to your future happiness. The suitor for your hand is but little older than yourself; he is very handsome, very wealthy, and is a Marquis by hereditary right.” “Has he spoken to you then?” inquired Marie in tones of extreme agitation. “He! Whom do you mean by he?” asked M. de Puymandour; and as his daughter did not reply, he repeated his question. “Who? Why, George de Croisenois.” “Pray, what have you to do with Croisenois? Who is he, pray? Not that dandy with a mustache, that I have seen hanging about you this winter?” “Yes,” faltered Marie; “that is he.” “And why should you presume that he had asked me for your hand? Did he tell you that he was going to do so?” “Father, I declare----” “What, the daughter of a Puymandour has listened to a declaration of love unknown to her father? Ten thousand furies! Has he written to you? Where are those letters?” “My dear father--” “Silence; have you those letters? Let me see them. Come, no delay; I will have those bits of paper, if I turn the whole house upside down.” With a sigh Marie gave the much prized missives to her father; there were four only, fastened together with a morsel of blue ribbon. He took one out at random, and read it aloud, with a running fire of oaths and invectives as a commentary upon its contents. “MADEMOISELLE,-- “Though there is nothing upon earth that I dread so much as your anger, I dare, in spite of your commands to the contrary, to write to you once again. I have learned that you are about to quit Paris for several months. I am twenty-four years of age. I have neither father nor mother, and am entirely my own master. I belong to an ancient and honorable family. My fortune is a large one, and my love for you is of the most honorable and devoted kind. My uncle, M. de Saumeuse, knows your father well; and will convey my proposals to him upon his return from Italy, in about two or three weeks’ time. Once more intreating you to forgive me, “I remain, “Yours respectfully, “GEORGE DE CROISENOIS.” “Very pretty indeed,” said M. de Puymandour, as he replaced the letter in its envelope. “This is sufficient, and I need not read the others; but pray, what answer did you give?” “That I must refer him to you, my dear father.” “Indeed, on my word, you do me too much honor; and did you really think that I would listen to such proposals? Perhaps you love him?”