between them where he
had planted himself in the flesh, as if to symbolize the attitude he
intended in the spirit.

But one chance he had, before supper was laid, of a word alone with his
mother, in her own closet.

"Madame," he said, his sternness mingling with alarm, "are you mad that
you encourage the suit of this hedgehog Tressan?"

She looked him up and down with a deliberate eye, her lip curling a
little.

"Surely, Marius, it is my own concern."

"Not so," he answered her, and his grasp fastened almost viciously on
her wrist. "I think that it is mine as well. Mother, bethink you," and
his tone changed to an imploring key, "bethink you what you would do!
Would you--you--mate with such a thing as that?"

His emphasis of the pronoun was very eloquent. Not in all the words of
the French language could he have told her better how high he placed her
in his thoughts, how utterly she must fall, how unutterably be soiled by
an alliance with Tressan.

"I had hoped you would have saved me from it, Marius," she answered him,
her eyes seeming to gaze down into the depths of his. "At La Vauvraye I
had hoped to live out my widowhood in tranquil dignity. But--" She let
her arms fall sharply to her sides, and uttered a little sneering laugh.

"But, mother," he cried, "between the dignity of La Vauvraye and the
indignity of Tressan, surely there is some middle course?"

"Aye," she answered scornfully, "starvation on a dunghill in
Touraine--or something near akin to it, for which I have no stomach."

He released her wrist and stood with bent head, clenching and
unclenching his long white hands, and she watched him, watching in him
the working of his proud and stubborn spirit.

"Mother," he cried at last, and the word sounded absurd between them, by
so little did he seem the younger of the twain, "mother, you shall not
do it you must not!"

"You leave me little alternative--alas!" sighed she. "Had you been more
adroit you had been wed by now, Marius, and the future would give us no
concern. As it is, Florimond comes home, and we--" She spread her hands
and thrust out her nether lip in a grimace that was almost ugly. Then:
"Come," she said briskly. "Supper is laid, and my Lord Seneschal will be
awaiting us."

And before he could reply she had swept past him and taken her way
below. He followed gloomily, and in gloom sat he at table, never
heeding the reckless gaiety of the Seneschal and the forced mirth of the
Marquis