“Why did I fly?” said Montefiore, hearing the voice of his friend.  “Because I told you the truth; I am married—­Diard!  Diard!” he shouted in a piercing voice.

But, at a word from Perez, the apprentice closed and bolted the doors, so that the soldiers were delayed by battering them in.  Before they could enter, the Marana had time to strike her dagger into the guilty man; but anger hindered her aim, the blade slipped upon the Italian’s epaulet, though she struck her blow with such force that he fell at the very feet of Juana, who took no notice of him.  The Marana sprang upon him, and this time, resolved not to miss her prey, she caught him by the throat.

“I am free and I will marry her!  I swear it, by God, by my mother, by all there is most sacred in the world; I am a bachelor; I will marry her, on my honor!”

And he bit the arm of the courtesan.

“Mother,” said Juana, “kill him.  He is so base that I will not have him for my husband, were he ten times as beautiful.”

“Ah!  I recognize my daughter!” cried the mother.

“What is all this?” demanded the quartermaster, entering the room.

“They are murdering me,” cried Montefiore, “on account of this girl; she says I am her lover.  She inveigled me into a trap, and they are forcing me to marry her—­”

“And you reject her?” cried Diard, struck with the splendid beauty which contempt, hatred, and indignation had given to the girl, already so beautiful.  “Then you are hard to please.  If she wants a husband I am ready to marry her.  Put up your weapons; there is no trouble here.”

The Marana pulled the Italian to the side of her daughter’s bed and said to him, in a low voice,—­

“If I spare you, give thanks for the rest of your life; but, remember this, if your tongue ever injures my daughter you will see me again.  Go!—­How much ‘dot’ do you give her?” she continued, going up to Perez.

“She has two hundred thousand gold piastres,” replied the Spaniard.

“And that is not all, monsieur,” said the Marana, turning to Diard.  “Who are you?—­Go!” she repeated to Montefiore.

The marquis, hearing this statement of gold piastres, came forward once more, saying,—­

“I am really free—­”

A glance from Juana silenced him.

“You are really free to go,” she said.

And he went immediately.

“Alas! monsieur,” said the girl, turning to Diard, “I thank you with admiration.  But my husband is in heaven.  To-morrow I shall enter a convent—­”

“Juana, my Juana, hush!” cried the mother, clasping her in her arms.  Then she whispered in the girl’s ear.  “You must have another husband.”

Juana turned pale.  She freed herself from her mother and sat down once more in her arm-chair.

“Who are you, monsieur?” repeated the Marana, addressing Diard.

“Madame, I am at present only the quartermaster of the 6th of the line.  But for such a wife I have the heart to make myself a marshal of France.  My name is Pierre-Francois Diard.  My father was provost of merchants.  I am not—­”