eur Joseph spoke, to a whiteness even more threatening.
He understood Helene's words, "If she knew, she would kill me." No,
this woman would not have much mercy on anything that crossed her
will--and Helene was in her power.

Monsieur Joseph's slight hands, like Angelot's, were strong. The young
fellow tried instinctively to wrench himself from his uncle's grasp on
his arm, but it only tightened.

"Here, dear friends, I bring you the alternative!" cried Monsieur
Joseph, in his joyfullest tone. "Why not marry Mademoiselle Helene to
the best and handsomest boy in Anjou--in France, for that matter--a boy
we have all known from his cradle--who will have a good fortune, a
prudent father's only child--who would, no doubt, though I grieve to say
it, serve under any flag you please for such a prize. Yes, I am safe in
saying so, for--"

The romantic little gentleman was stopped in his wild career. Angelot,
his eyes blazing, with a white face and teeth set as furiously as Madame
de Sainfoy's own, turned round upon him, seized him with his free hand
by the other arm, and shook him with all his young strength, hissing
out: "Will you be quiet, Uncle Joseph! Will you hold your tongue, if you
please, and leave me to manage my own affairs."

"Come, come, what does all this mean?" cried Urbain, stepping forward.

"It means that my uncle is mad--mad--you know you are!" Angelot said in
a choked voice.

Still holding Monsieur Joseph with a dog's firm grip, he stared into his
eyes and shook his head violently.

"What, ungrateful--" the little uncle tried to say, but Angelot's face,
his totally unexpected rage, seemed to suggest such unknown mysteries
that the words died in his throat.

Suddenly released, he dropped into a chair and swore prodigiously under
his breath, quite forgetting the presence of ladies in the unnatural,
awful change that had come over his nephew. He stared at Angelot, who
was indeed the centre of all eyes; his mother sitting upright in
consternation; his father with angry brow and queerly smiling mouth;
Herve de Sainfoy very grave, with elevated eyebrows; the Comtesse
leaning back in her chair, hard, fierce, watchful, yet a shade less
angry than before. If this was only a fancy of that ridiculous Joseph,
it might not signify--yet who knew? She was ready to suspect any one,
every one, even the young man's father. The name of La Mariniere was
odious to her.

Angelot drew himself very upright, folded his arms,