Still, no sign of her agitation was
perceptible on her countenance. Not a muscle of her beautiful,
proud face moved--her glance remained clear and haughty, and she
exclaimed in a ringing voice: "I am the late Count de Chalusse's
ward, Mademoiselle Marguerite. You have received my letter, I
suppose?"
M. Fortunat bowed with all the grace of manner he was wont to
display in the circles where he went wife-hunting, and with a
somewhat pretentious gesture he advanced an arm-chair, and asked
his visitor to sit down. "Your letter reached me, mademoiselle,"
he replied, "and I was expecting you--flattered and honored beyond
expression by your confidence. My door, indeed, was closed to any
one but you."
Marguerite took the proffered seat, and there was a moment's
silence. M. Fortunat found it difficult to believe that this
beautiful, imposing young girl could be the poor little apprentice
whom he had seen in the book-bindery, years before, clad in a
coarse serge frock, with dishevelled hair covered with scraps of
paper. In the meantime, Marguerite was regretting the necessity
of confiding in this man, for the more she looked at him, the more
she was convinced that he was not an honest, straightforward
person; and she would infinitely have preferred a cynical
scoundrel to this plausible and polite gentleman, whom she
strongly suspected of being a hypocrite.
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