But the unfortunate young man quickly called to mind that, if he had not followed the injunctions of Père Moche, the plaint lodged by the Guinon family would have taken its course, and that would have equally involved disgrace, disgrace more terrible still, more irremediable even than the grotesque marriage he had just contracted. Ascott saw clear now—he was the victim of an odious piece of blackmailing, an abominable plot. He was so worked up he felt himself prepared to do the maddest things, he meditated going straight to the Procureur de la République to denounce the whole business.... But the unhappy man, when he looked closer into this last desperate resource, realized that the situation was past cure, that no one could help him, that he was simply a victim, and a ridiculous victim at that, and that, in fact, there was something else, something more serious, which after all tied his hands and gave him pause. Nini Guinon was _enceinte_; he must not, he could not forget that fact. Ascott could stand no more of it; still controlling his feelings, he leant over to his wife, sitting next him, and whispered: “I am a little unwell, so I am going to withdraw into some room near; I count on being left to myself, and shall expect you to join me there when you have finished breakfast.” Nini had scarcely gathered the sense of her husband’s words before the latter had disappeared. In a moment, as if by enchantment, all recovered their spirits; they clinked glasses, they drained bumpers, they ate with a better appetite, gaiety reigned on every face: decidedly, the English milord had done well to leave them to themselves; they would be more of a family party, more at their ease. “Say, Père Moche,” observed Bouzille, “he don’t strike me as being much of a gallant, your niece’s husband! how’s she going to hit it off, little Nini, with a lump of wood like that, eh?” “Don’t you trouble your head,” broke in the girl, “I know what I’ve got to do.” Then, as everybody stopped talking to listen: “Jabber away amongst yourselves,” she growled, “I’m going to have a talk with Père Moche.” The talk became general, while a very animated discussion began between Nini and her reputed uncle. “If you think it’s any fun,” began the young woman, “this marriage you’ve brought about, I tell you I’m about fed up with it already. I don’t give myself eight and forty hours before I hook it from my husband.” Moche shrugged his shoulders: “Nini, you’re a born fool: a bit of patience, my lass, and you’ll see Père Moche was in the right.” Then, in a lower tone: “You’re far too pretty and too clever to spend all your young days among this crowd, a parcel of rotters who’re good for nothing but talking loud and getting drunk. I’ve told you, haven’t I, I’d make you rich, I’d make a great lady of you, more than that, a queen of beauty, a queen of Paris, a queen of society! Play your cards, Nini, listen to me....” A gleam of covetousness flashed in the girl’s eyes.