Knightshade by Paul Féval

Knightshade by Paul Féval

Author:Paul Féval
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Coat Press
Published: 2012-09-03T00:00:00+00:00


Chapter VII

A Proposal of Marriage

On the other side of the door the concert continued. The Nuremberg organ warbled beneath the fingers of Monsignor Benedict, who was playing a charming ditty, the famous Bolognese Christmas carol Jesu Bambino.

As for our three individuals, the silence had not yet been broken and the unease was growing. Monsieur d’Arnheim finally made an effort to overcome the awkwardness, and began: “You came, Monsieur, to discuss with me the possibility of lessons to be given by my daughter...?”

He stopped. No words are adequate to describe the humiliated pride, the crushed nobility, the bitter regret, mingled with resignation, melancholy and love, with which the old man pronounced those few words.

Gaston took a step towards him.

“Prince,” he said, in a low voice, “you are mistaken. That is not why I am here.”

“Prince!” echoed Monsieur d’Arnheim, whose limbs had begun to tremble, while his daughter hid her tearful face between her hands. “Prince...!” Then, placing his tremulous wrists on the arms of his chair as he made ready to rise to his feet, he said: “Who do you think you are talking to, Monsieur?”

“I know,” Gaston replied, his voice having hardened again, “that I am talking to Chrétien Baszin, Prince Jacobyi.”

The old man slumped back in his seat. “Who told you that?” he demanded, darkly.

“Lenore, your daughter.”

“Lenore! My daughter!” He turned towards Mademoiselle d’Arnheim, whose hands were clasped together as if in prayer, perhaps to implore Gaston to be quiet.

Monsieur d’Arnheim stood up. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Gaston de Montfort, Marquis de Lorgères, second son of the Prince de Montfort.”

“Ah!” said Monsieur d’Arnheim, his gaze moving back and forth between the young man and the girl. Then he asked one more time: “What do you want from me, Monsieur le Marquis de Lorgères?”

“I want to ask for the hand of your daughter. I love her, and she loves me.” This was said in a distinct voice, with head held high and a steady gaze.

Mademoiselle d’Arnheim had closed her eyes and had let herself fall into a chair.

In the next room, the sweet voice of the Monsignor embellished another carol, harvesting at the end of every verse a rich crop of merited applause.

The old man looked once again at his daughter. It was not anger that was in his eyes; it was bleak despair. “You’ve deceived me!” he murmured.

Mademoiselle d’Arnheim threw herself towards him. He thrust her back, but not rudely, while he added, addressing himself to Gaston: “Monsieur de Marquis, to take the last possession of a ruined man is to steal from the altar!”

“Father!” cried the girl. “Good and noble father! I will never leave you, and I swear to you that I have never done anything deserving of reproach.”

“In that case,” said the old man, directing a scornful glance at Gaston, “this is a madman, who should go away!”

“Not before I have your answer, Prince,” the young Marquis replied. “I have told the truth: I love your daughter; she loves me; and I ask for her hand.”

“You have spoken to this man, Lenore?” Monsieur d’Arnheim demanded.



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