“If monsieur would, perhaps, deign to taste a certain Burgundy—­there is a cask—­”

“Candles,” said monsieur, spreading his fingers.

“Assuredly—­quickly—­I fly, my lord.”

A dozen more lighted candles shone in the hall.  The great bulk of the marquis overflowed his chair.  He was dressed in fine black from head to foot save for the snowy ruffles at his wrist and throat.  Even the hilt and scabbard of his sword were black.  His expression was one of sneering pride.  The ends of an upturned moustache reached nearly to his mocking eyes.

The lady sat motionless, and now David perceived that she was young, and possessed of pathetic and appealing beauty.  He was startled from the contemplation of her forlorn loveliness by the booming voice of the marquis.

“What is your name and pursuit?”

“David Mignot.  I am a poet.”

The moustache of the marquis curled nearer to his eyes.

“How do you live?”

“I am also a shepherd; I guarded my father’s flock,” David answered, with his head high, but a flush upon his cheek.

“Then listen, master shepherd and poet, to the fortune you have blundered upon to-night.  This lady is my niece, Mademoiselle Lucie de Varennes.  She is of noble descent and is possessed of ten thousand francs a year in her own right.  As to her charms, you have but to observe for yourself.  If the inventory pleases your shepherd’s heart, she becomes your wife at a word.  Do not interrupt me.  To-night I conveyed her to the chateau of the Comte de Villemaur, to whom her hand had been promised.  Guests were present; the priest was waiting; her marriage to one eligible in rank and fortune was ready to be accomplished.  At the alter this demoiselle, so meek and dutiful, turned upon me like a leopardess, charged me with cruelty and crimes, and broke, before the gaping priest, the troth I had plighted for her.  I swore there and then, by ten thousand devils, that she should marry the first man we met after leaving the chateau, be he prince, charcoal-burner, or thief.  You, shepherd, are the first.  Mademoiselle must be wed this night.  If not you, then another.  You have ten minutes in which to make your decision.  Do not vex me with words or questions.  Ten minutes, shepherd; and they are speeding.”

The marquis drummed loudly with his white fingers upon the table.  He sank into a veiled attitude of waiting.  It was as if some great house had shut its doors and windows against approach.  David would have spoken, but the huge man’s bearing stopped his tongue.  Instead, he stood by the lady’s chair and bowed.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, and he marvelled to find his words flowing easily before so much elegance and beauty.  “You have heard me say I was a shepherd.  I have also had the fancy, at times, that I am a poet.  If it be the test of a poet to adore and cherish the beautiful, that fancy is now strengthened.  Can I serve you in any way, mademoiselle?”