“My daughter,” replied the prince in bland tones, “I am fully resolved not to be angry with you.  Your undutiful conduct proceeds from ignorance, which is never an offence, though it is always a misfortune.  If you will have a little patience—­”

“I have none!” exclaimed Faustina, exasperated by her father’s manner.  “My undutiful conduct does not proceed from ignorance—­it proceeds from love, from love for another man, whom I will marry if I marry any one.”

“Faustina!” cried Montevarchi, holding up his hands in horror and amazement.  “Do you dare to use such, language to your father!”

“I dare do anything, everything—­I dare even tell you the name of the man I love—­Anastase Gouache!”

“My child!  My child!  This is too horrible!  I must really send for your mother.”

“Do what you will.”

Faustina had risen to her feet and was standing before one of the old bookcases, her hands folded before her, her eyes on fire, her delicate mouth scornfully bent.  Montevarchi, who was really startled almost out of his senses, moved cautiously towards the bell, looking steadily at his daughter all the while as though he dreaded some fresh outbreak.  There was something ludicrous in his behaviour which, at another time, would not have escaped the young girl.  Now, however, she was too much in earnest to perceive anything except the danger of her position and the necessity for remaining firm at any cost.  She did not understand why her mother was to be called, but she felt that she could face all her family if necessary.  She kept her eyes upon her father and was hardly conscious that a servant entered the room.  Montevarchi sent a message requesting the princess to come at once.  Then he turned again towards Faustina.

“You can hardly suppose,” he observed, “that I take seriously what you have just said; but you are evidently very much excited, and your mother’s presence will, I trust, have a soothing effect.  You must be aware that it is very wrong to utter such monstrous untruths—­even in jest—­”

“I am in earnest.  I will marry Monsieur Gouache or I will marry no one.”

Montevarchi really believed that his daughter’s mind was deranged.  His interview with Gouache had convinced him that Faustina meant what she said, though he affected to laugh at it, but he was wholly unable to account for her conduct on any theory but that of insanity.  Being at his wits’ end he had sent for his wife, and while waiting for her he did not quite know what to do.

“My dear child, what is Monsieur Gouache?  A very estimable young man, without doubt, but not such a one as we could choose for your husband.”

“I have chosen him,” answered Faustina.  “That is enough.”

“How you talk, my dear!  How rashly you talk!  As though choosing a husband were like buying a new hat!  And you, too, whom I always believed to be the most dutiful, the most obedient of my children!  But your mother and I will reason with you, we will endeavour to put better thoughts into your heart.”