"What is wrong!" he asked.

"Everything. I told thee thy mother would know. She sent for me. I went.

She was cruel--cruel--hard."

"What, dear, did she say?"

"I shall not tell thee. She insulted me and my mother. Ah, but she said--no, I shall not tell thee, nor mother. She sent for me, and I went. I had to tell her. Oh, I said that--that--I told her--I do not know what I told her." She was on the edge of her first almost uncontrollable loss of self-government. It alarmed her pride, and at once becoming calm, she added, "I told her that it was useless to talk to me, to say that it must end, that thou wouldst obey her. I--I just laughed; yes, I did. And I told her she did not yet know her own son--and--that some day she would regret what she had said to me, and, Rene, of my mother. I do not care--"

"But I care, Margaret. I was this moment on my way to tell her."

"Let me pa.s.s. I hope thou art worth what I have endured for thy sake.

Let me pa.s.s." He went by her, troubled and aware that he too needed to keep himself in hand. When he entered his mother's room he found her seated by the feeble candle-light, a rose of the never-finished embroidery growing under her thin, skilful fingers.

For her a disagreeable matter had been decisively dealt with and put aside; no trace of emotion betrayed her self-satisfaction at having finally settled an unpleasant but necessary business.

In the sweet, low voice which seemed so out of relation to her severity of aspect, she said: "Sit down. I have been left to learn from the young woman of this entanglement. I should have heard it from you, or never have had to hear it at all."

"Mother, I have been in very great trouble of late. That my disaster did trouble you so little has been painful to me. But this is far worse. I waited to feel at ease about the other affair before I spoke to you of my intention to marry Miss Swanwick. I was on my way just now when I met her on the stair. I desire to say, mother--"

She broke in: "It is useless to discuss this absurd business. It is over. I have said so to the young woman. That ends it. Now kiss me. I wish to go to bed."

"No," he said; "this does not end it."

"Indeed, we shall see--a quite ordinary Quaker girl and a designing mother. It is all clear enough. Neither of you with any means, not a louis of dot--a nice wife to take home. Oh, I have expressed myself fully, and it was needed. She presumed to contradict me. _Ciel!_ I had to be plain."

"So it seems; but as I count for something, I beg leave to say, _maman_, that I mean to marry Margaret Swanwick."

"You, the Vicomte de Courval!"

He laughed bitterly. "What are t.i.tles here, or in France, to-day? There are a dozen starving n.o.bles in this city, exiles and homeless. As to money, I have charge of Mr. Schmidt's affairs, and shall have. I am not without business capacity."

"Business!" she exclaimed.

"Well, no matter, mother. I pray you to be reasonable, and to remember what these people have done for us: in health no end of kindness; in sickness--mother, I owe to them my life."

"They were paid, I presume."

"_Mon Dieu_, mother! how can you say such things? It is incredible."

"Rene, do you really mean to disobey me?"

"I hope not to have to do so."

"If you persist, you will have to. I shall never consent, never."

"Then, mother,--and you force me to say it,--whether you agree to it or not, I marry Margaret. You were hard to her and cruel."

"No; I was only just and wise."

"I do not see it; but rest a.s.sured that neither man nor woman shall part us. Oh, I have too much of you in me to be controlled in a matter where both love and honor are concerned."

"Then you mean to make this _mesalliance_ against my will."

"I mean, and that soon, to marry the woman I think worthy of any man's love and respect."

"She is as bad as you--two obstinate fools! I am sorry for your children."

"Mother!"

"Well, and what now?"

"It is useless to resist. It will do no good. It only hurts me. Did your people want you to marry Jean de Courval, my father?"

"No."

"You did. Was it a _mesalliance?_"

"They said so."

"You set me a good example. I shall do as you did, if, after this, her pride does not come in the way."

"Her pride, indeed! Will it be to-morrow, the marriage?"

"Ah, dear mother, why will you hurt me so?"

"I know you as if it were myself. I take the lesser of two evils." And to his amazement, she said, "Send the girl up to me."

"If she will come."

"Come? Of course she will come." He shook his head and left her, but before he was out of the room, her busy hands were again on the embroidery-frame.

"No, I will not go," said Margaret when he delivered his message.

"For my sake, dear," said Rene, and at last, reluctant and still angry, Margaret went up-stairs.

"Come in," said madame; "you have kept me waiting." The girl stood still at the open door.

"Do not stand there, child. Come here and sit down."

"No," said Margaret, "I shall stand."

"As you please, Mademoiselle. My son has made up his mind to an act of folly. I yield because I must. He is obstinate, as you will some day discover to your cost. I cannot say I am satisfied, but as you are to be my daughter, I shall say no more. You may kiss me. I shall feel better about it in a few years, perhaps."

Never, I suppose, was Margaret's power of self-command more sorely tried. She bent over, lifted the hand of the vicomtesse from the embroidery, and kissed it, saying, "Thou art Rene's mother, Madame,"

and, turning, left the room.

Rene was impatiently walking in the hall when Margaret came down the stair from this brief interview. She was flushed and still had in her eyes the light of battle. "I have done as you desired. I cannot talk any more. I have had all I can stand. No, I shall not kiss thee. My kisses are spoilt for to-night." Then she laughed as she went up the broad stairway, and, leaning over the rail, cried: "There will be two for to-morrow. They will keep. Good night."

The vicomtesse she left was no better pleased, and knew that she had had the worst of the skirmish.