The heart rises at it;
God forbids such marriages; you dishonour your white hair. Oh, my
uncle, pity me! There is not a woman in all the world but would
prefer death to such a nuptial. Is it possible," she added,
faltering - "is it possible that you do not believe me - that you
still think this" - and she pointed at Denis with a tremor of anger
and contempt - "that you still think THIS to be the man?"
"Frankly," said the old gentleman, pausing on the threshold, "I do.
But let me explain to you once for all, Blanche de Maletroit, my
way of thinking about this affair. When you took it into your head
to dishonour my family and the name that I have borne, in peace and
war, for more than three-score years, you forfeited, not only the
right to question my designs, but that of looking me in the face.
If your father had been alive, he would have spat on you and turned
you out of doors. His was the hand of iron. You may bless your
God you have only to deal with the hand of velvet, mademoiselle.
It was my duty to get you married without delay. Out of pure
goodwill, I have tried to find your own gallant for you. And I
believe I have succeeded. But before God and all the holy angels,
Blanche de Maletroit, if I have not, I care not one jack-straw. So
let me recommend you to be polite to our young friend; for upon my
word, your next groom may be less appetising."
And with that he went out, with the chaplain at his heels; and the
arras fell behind the pair.
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