Part 52 (2/2)
”Then you mean to make this _mesalliance_ against my will.”
”I mean, and that soon, to marry the woman I think worthy of any man's love and respect.”
”She is as bad as you--two obstinate fools! I am sorry for your children.”
”Mother!”
”Well, and what now?”
”It is useless to resist. It will do no good. It only hurts me. Did your people want you to marry Jean de Courval, my father?”
”No.”
”You did. Was it a _mesalliance?_”
”They said so.”
”You set me a good example. I shall do as you did, if, after this, her pride does not come in the way.”
”Her pride, indeed! Will it be to-morrow, the marriage?”
”Ah, dear mother, why will you hurt me so?”
”I know you as if it were myself. I take the lesser of two evils.” And to his amazement, she said, ”Send the girl up to me.”
”If she will come.”
”Come? Of course she will come.” He shook his head and left her, but before he was out of the room, her busy hands were again on the embroidery-frame.
”No, I will not go,” said Margaret when he delivered his message.
”For my sake, dear,” said Rene, and at last, reluctant and still angry, Margaret went up-stairs.
”Come in,” said madame; ”you have kept me waiting.” The girl stood still at the open door.
”Do not stand there, child. Come here and sit down.”
”No,” said Margaret, ”I shall stand.”
”As you please, Mademoiselle. My son has made up his mind to an act of folly. I yield because I must. He is obstinate, as you will some day discover to your cost. I cannot say I am satisfied, but as you are to be my daughter, I shall say no more. You may kiss me. I shall feel better about it in a few years, perhaps.”
Never, I suppose, was Margaret's power of self-command more sorely tried. She bent over, lifted the hand of the vicomtesse from the embroidery, and kissed it, saying, ”Thou art Rene's mother, Madame,”
and, turning, left the room.
Rene was impatiently walking in the hall when Margaret came down the stair from this brief interview. She was flushed and still had in her eyes the light of battle. ”I have done as you desired. I cannot talk any more. I have had all I can stand. No, I shall not kiss thee. My kisses are spoilt for to-night.” Then she laughed as she went up the broad stairway, and, leaning over the rail, cried: ”There will be two for to-morrow. They will keep. Good night.”
The vicomtesse she left was no better pleased, and knew that she had had the worst of the skirmish.
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