She turned her lovely face towards her father, with the great tears rolling down her cheeks for her sole reply. This mute confession, for as such he regarded it, put the finishing touch to M. de Puymandour’s exasperation. “You absolutely love him, and have the impudence to tell me so?” Marie glanced at her father, and answered,-- “The Marquis de Croisenois is of good family.” “Pooh! you know nothing about it. Why, the first Croisenois was one of Richelieu’s minions, and Louis XIII. conferred the title for some shady piece of business which he carried out for him. Has this fine Marquis any means of livelihood?” “Certainly; about sixty thousand francs a year.” “Humbug! What did he mean by addressing you secretly? Only to compromise your name, and so to secure your fortune, and perhaps to break off your marriage with another.” “But why suppose this?” “I suppose nothing; I am merely going upon facts. What does a man of honor do when he falls in love?” “My dear father--” “He goes to his solicitor, acquaints him with his intentions, and explains what his means are; the solicitor goes to the family solicitor of the young lady, and when these men of the law have found out that all is satisfactory, then love is permitted to make his appearance upon the scene. And now you may as well attend to me. Forget De Croisenois as soon as you can, for I have chosen a husband for you, and, having pledged my word of honor, I will abide by it. On Sunday the eligible suitor will be introduced to you, and on Monday we will visit the Bishop, asking him to be good enough to perform the ceremony. On Tuesday you will show yourself in public with him, in order to announce the betrothal. Wednesday the marriage contract will be read. Thursday a grand dinner-party. Friday an exhibition of the marriage presents; Saturday a day of rest; Sunday the publication of the banns, and at the end of the following week the marriage will take place.” Mademoiselle Marie listened to her father’s determination with intense horror. “For pity’s sake, my dear father, be serious,” cried she. M. de Puymandour paid no attention to her entreaty, but added, as an afterthought: “Perhaps you would wish to know the name of the gentleman I have selected as a husband for you. He is the Marquis Norbert, the son and heir of the Duke de Champdoce.” Marie turned deadly pale. “But I do not know him; I have never seen him,” faltered she. “_I_ know him, and that is quite sufficient. I have often told you that you should be a duchess, and I mean to keep my word.”