Lectoure immediately approached the table and signed the contract.

"Madam!" cried Marguerite, in a tone of supplication, and advancing one step toward her mother.

"Pa.s.s the pen to your betrothed, Baron," said the marchioness.

The Baron walked round the table, and drew near to Marguerite.

"Madam!" again cried the latter, with an accent so melancholy, that it struck to the heart of every person present, and even the marquis himself raised his head.

"Sign!" said the marchioness, pointing to the marriage contract.

"Oh! my father! my father!" exclaimed Marguerite throwing herself at the feet of the marquis.

"What does this mean?" said the marchioness, leaning upon the arm of the marquis' chair, and bending over him, "are you mad, mademoiselle?"

"My father! oh! my father!" again cried Marguerite, throwing her arms around him, "my father, have pity, save your daughter!"

"Marguerite!" murmured the marchioness, in a threatening accent.

"Madam!" replied Marguerite, "I cannot address myself to you--permit me, then, to implore my father's pity; unless," she added, pointing to the notary with a firm and determined gesture, "you would prefer my invoking the protection of the law."

"Come, come," said the marchioness, rising, and in a tone of bitter irony, "this is a family scene, and which, although highly interesting to near relations, must be sufficiently tedious to strangers. Gentlemen, you will find refreshments in the adjoining rooms. My son, conduct these gentlemen, and do the honors. Baron, I must beg your pardon for a short time." Emanuel and Lectoure bowed in silence and withdrew, followed by all the company. The marchioness remained motionless until the last of them had withdrawn, and then she closed all the doors leading into the room, when, returning to the marquis, whom Marguerite still held clasped in her arms.

"And now," said she, "that there is no one present excepting those who have the right to lay their commands upon you, sign that paper, mademoiselle, or leave the room."

"For pity's sake, madam, for pity's sake, do not compel me to commit so infamous an act!"

"Have you not heard me?" said the marchioness, giving to her voice an imperative tone, which she thought impossible to be resisted, "or must I repeat my words? 'Sign, or leave the room.'"

"Oh! my father!" cried Marguerite, "mercy! mercy! No, it shall not be said, that after having been banished from my father's presence for ten years, I was torn from his arms the first time I again beheld him--and that, before he had recognized me, before he has embraced me. Oh!

father! father!--it is I, it is your daughter!"

"What is that voice that is imploring me?" murmured the marquis. "Who is this child who calls me father?"

"That voice," said the marchioness, seizing the arm of her daughter, "is a voice that is raised against the rights of nature. That child is a rebellious daughter."

"My father!" cried Marguerite imploringly, "look at me. Oh! my father, save me I defend me! I am Marguerite."

"Marguerite? Marguerite?" stammered the marquis, "I had formerly a child of that name."

"It is I! it is I!" rejoined Marguerite: "I am your child--I am your daughter."

"There are no children but those who obey. Obey! and you will then have the right to call yourself our daughter," rejoined the marchioness.

"To you, my father, yes,--to you I am ready to obey. But you do not command this sacrifice! you do not wish that I should be unhappy--unhappy even to despair--unhappy even to death."

"Come! come!" said the marquis holding her in his turn, and pressing her to his heart. "Oh! this is a delicious and unknown feeling to me. And now--wait! wait!" He pressed his hand to his forehead. "It seems to me that I recollect."

"Sir!" cried the marchioness, "tell her that she ought to obey; that the malediction of G.o.d awaits rebellious children. Tell her that, rather than to encourage her in her impiety!"

The marquis slowly raised his head, and fixed his piercing eyes upon his wife, and then slowly p.r.o.nounced the following words: "Take care! madam, take care. Have I not told you that I begin to remember!" and then again bending down his head to that of Marguerite, so that his grey hairs mingled with the dark tresses, of his daughter--"Speak--speak!" said he, "what is it that disturbs you, my child--tell me all."

"Oh! I am most unhappy!"

"Everybody, then, is unhappy here," exclaimed the marquis, "whether their hair be grey or black--an old man or a child.. Oh! and I also--I am unhappy--be a.s.sured.

"Sir, go up stairs into your room again: you must," said the marchioness.

"Yes, that I may again be face to face with you; shut up like a prisoner! That may be very well, when I am mad."

"Yes, yes, my father, you are right. My mother has devoted herself to you long enough; it is now time that your daughter should perform that duty. Take me with you, father. I will not leave you day or night. You will only have to make a sign, to utter a word, and I will serve you on my knees."

"Oh! you would not have the strength to do it."

"Yes, yes, my father, I will--as truly as I am your daughter."

The marchioness wrung her hands with impatience.

"If you are my daughter, how is it that I have not seen you for ten years?"

"Because I was told that you would not see me, my father; because they told me that you did not love me."

"You were told that I would not see you--not see that angel face!" said he, taking her head between his hands, and looking at her with intense auction; "they told you that--they told you that a poor condemned soul did not wish for heaven! Who was it, then, that told you a father would not see his child? Who has dared to say, child, your father loves you not?"

"I!----" said the marchioness, again endeavoring to take Marguerite from her father's arms.

"You!" exclaimed the marquis, interrupting her: "it was you? To you then, has been confided the fatal mission of deceiving me in all my affections. All my griefs, then, must find their source in you? You wish, then, now to break the father's heart, as twenty years ago, you did that of the husband."

"You are delirious, sir," said the marchioness, loosing the arm of her daughter; and going to the right of the marquis, she whispered--"be silent!"

"No, madam, no, I am not now delirious," replied the marquis, "No! no!

Say rather, say that,--and it will be the truth,--say that I am now between an angel who would recall me to reason, and a demon who wishes me again to become insane. No! No! I am not mad. Do you wish that I should prove it to you?" He rose, supporting himself on the arms of his chair. "Must I speak to you of letters, of adultery, of a duel?"

"I say," said the marchioness, grasping his arm, "I tell you that you are more forsaken by heaven than ever, when you utter such things, without reflecting as to whose ears are listening. Cast down your eyes, sir--look who is standing yonder, and then dare a.s.sert that you are not mad!"

"You are right;" said the marquis, falling back in his chair. "Your mother is right," continued he, addressing Marguerite--"I am mad, and you must not believe what I say, but what she says. Your mother is devotedness, virtue itself, and therefore, she has not sleepless nights, nor remorse, nor madness. What does your mother wish?"

"My misery, father; my everlasting misery."

"And how can I prevent this misery?" said the unhappy old man, with a most heart-rending anguish; "how can I, a poor, insane old man, prevent it? who thinks he always sees the blood issuing from a wound--who thinks he constantly hears a voice proceeding from a tomb!"

"Oh you can do all; say but one word and I am saved! They wish me to marry--"

The marquis listlessly reclined his head on the back of his chair.

"Listen to me! they wish to marry me to a man whom I do not love--do you understand me?--to a wretch!--and you have been brought here--placed in that arm-chair, before the table--you, you my father! to sign this infamous contract--this contract which I now hand to you."

"Without consulting me," said the marquis, taking the contract; "without asking me whether I will, or I will not! Do they believe me dead? And if they think me dead, do they fear me less than they would a spectre? This marriage would cause your misery, you say?"