M. de Tregars’ situation was somewhat embarrassing between these two women, whose anger was equal, though it manifested itself in a different way.  Evidently it was a discussion begun before, which was now continued in his presence.

“I think, mademoiselle,” he began, “that you have been slandering yourself gratuitously.”

“Oh, no!  I swear it to you,” she replied; “and, if mamma had not happened in, you would have heard much more.  But that was not an answer.”

And, as M. de Tregars said nothing, she turned towards the baroness,

“Ah, ah! you see,” she said.  “Who was crazy,—­you, or I?  Ah! you imagine here that money is everything, that every thing is for sale, and that every thing can be bought.  Well, no!  There are still men, who, for all the gold in the world, would not give their name to Cesarine de Thaller.  It is strange; but it is so, dear mamma, and we must make up our mind to it.”

Then turning towards Marius, and bearing upon each syllable, as if afraid that the allusion might escape him,

“The men of whom I speak,” she added, “marry the girls who can starve to death.”

Knowing her daughter well enough to be aware that she could not impose silence upon her, the Baroness de Thaller had dropped upon a chair.  She was trying hard to appear indifferent to what her daughter was saying; but at every moment a threatening gesture, or a hoarse exclamation, betrayed the storm that raged within her.

“Go on, poor foolish child!” she said,—­“go on!”

And she did go on.

“Finally, were M. de Tregars willing to have me, I would refuse him myself, because, then—­”

A fugitive blush colored her cheeks, her bold eyes vacillated, and, dropping her voice,

“Because, then,” she added, “he would no longer be what he is; because I feel that fatally I shall despise the husband whom papa will buy for me.  And, if I came here to expose myself to an affront which I foresaw, it is because I wanted to make sure of a fact of which a word of Costeclar, a few days ago, had given me an idea, —­of a fact which you do not, perhaps, suspect, dear mother, despite your astonishing perspicacity.  I wanted to find out M. de Tregars’ secret; and I have found it out.”

M. de Tregars had come to the Thaller mansion with a plan well settled in advance.  He had pondered long before deciding what he would do, and what he would say, and how he would begin the decisive struggle.  What had taken place showed him the idleness of his conjectures, and, as a natural consequence, upset his plans.  To abandon himself to the chances of the hour, and to make the best possible use of them, was now the wisest thing to do.

“Give me credit, mademoiselle,” he uttered, “for sufficient penetration to have perfectly well discerned your intentions.  There was no need of artifice, because I have nothing to conceal.  You had but to question me, I would have answered you frankly, ’Yes, it is true I love Mlle. Gilberte; and before a month she will be Marquise de Tregars.’”