The old woman returned his bow, but was silent. She was hurt, angry, alarmed. She began to fear those handsome, bold eyes, and the smooth voice; after all, he was like a panther, ready to spring, and her beautiful darling, the idol of her old age was the object of his desire. But for that fearful danger, their concealed religion, she could have faced him well enough, but he had a mighty weapon in his hand, and she almost feared that he knew it. For herself, death would be no great hardship, but for Rosaline--she shuddered, pressing her handkerchief to her lips, and staring out of the window. Meanwhile M. de Baudri watched her narrowly; he knew far less than she thought, but he was fiercely in love with Rosaline, and such love as his was as dangerous as hate. The girl’s indifference enraged him; he would have her, and then--Mother of Heaven! he would teach her to scorn him, indeed! He would break her will and humble her into his slave. Madame de St. Cyr felt all this, vaguely, it is true, but still strongly enough to make her recoil from him. What could she do? she thought, a helpless old woman with all the world against her! Père Ambroise loved the child, it was true, but might not Père Ambroise favor an orthodox lover? M. de Baudri’s smooth voice broke in on her troubled thoughts, and demanded her attention again. “You have advanced no reasonable objections to my suit, madame,” he said affably; “I shall therefore regard it as accepted by you, and only in abeyance on account of mademoiselle’s maidenly scruples.” “But I have not accepted it,” she protested, greatly troubled; “I will not accept any offer for the child that--that does not give her happiness. Why should I desire to part with the jewel of my old age? You are naturally forgetful of my situation, monsieur; Rosaline’s marriage would leave me desolate.” “Nay, madame,” he replied, not ungracefully, “you would but gain a son. If this is your only scruple--is it not a selfish one?” Poor Madame de St. Cyr was fairly cornered. He saw it and laughed in his sleeve. “You are very kind, M. de Baudri,” she faltered, “but after all it rests where it did. Rosaline must decide.” He smiled. “Then, madame, you virtually acquiesce,” he said blandly; “for I trust that I can win so young and amiable a girl as mademoiselle--if you give me a fair opportunity.” She shook her head, smiling faintly. “You have had opportunity, M. de Baudri,” she replied; “’tis not in my mind to influence her in any way. She must choose for herself.” He was all smooth amiability now; he took his plumed hat from the table and stood a moment longer on the hearth-rug, the picture of ease and assurance,--his curled periwig, his lace cravat, his military coat, all of the latest mode.