“Indeed!” he said in a fierce, brutal tone, “so you have decided to confess to your loving, magnanimous husband!  A famous idea!  What a pity you did not think of it before; it is rather late to try it now.  Confessing everything the first day I called on you, you might have been forgiven.  Your husband might have pardoned a youthful fault atoned for by twenty years of irreproachable conduct; for none can deny that you have been a faithful wife and a good mother.  But picture the indignation of your trusting husband when you tell him that this pretended nephew, whom you imposed upon his family circle, who sat at his table, who borrowed his money, is your illegitimate son!  M. Fauvel is, no doubt, an excellent, kind-hearted man; but I scarcely think he will pardon a deception of this nature, which betrays such depravity, duplicity, and audacity.”

All that the angry marquis said was horribly true; yet Mme. Fauvel listened unflinchingly, as if the coarse cruelty of his words strengthened her resolution to have nothing more to do with him, but to throw herself on her husband’s mercy.

“Upon my soul,” he went on, “you must be very much infatuated with this M. Bertomy!  Between the honor of your husband’s name, and pleasing this love-sick cashier, you refuse to hesitate.  Well, I suppose he will console you.  When M. Fauvel divorces you, and Abel and Lucien avert their faces at your approach, and blush at being your sons, you will be able to say, ‘I have made Prosper happy!’”

“Happen what may, I shall do what is right,” said Mme. Fauvel.

“You shall do what I say!” cried Clameran, threateningly.  “Do you suppose that I will allow your sentimentality to blast all my hopes?  I shall tolerate no such folly, madame, I can assure you.  Your niece’s fortune is indispensable to us, and, more than that—­I love the fair Madeleine, and am determined to marry her.”

The blow once struck, the marquis judged it prudent to await the result.  With cool politeness, he continued: 

“I will leave you now, madame, to think the matter over, and you cannot fail to view it in the same light as I do.  You had better take my advice, and consent to this sacrifice of prejudice, as it will be the last required of you.  Think of the honor of your family, and not of your niece’s love-affair.  I will return in three days for your answer.”

“Your return is unnecessary, monsieur:  I shall tell my husband everything to-night.”

If Mme. Fauvel had not been so agitated herself, she would have detected an expression of alarm upon Clameran’s face.

But this uneasiness was only momentary.  With a shrug, which meant, “Just as you please,” he said: 

“I think you have sense enough to keep your secret.”

He bowed ceremoniously, and left the room, but slammed the front door after him so violently as to prove that his restrained anger burst forth before leaving the house.