“Mademoiselle,” said David, standing proudly, “has done me the honour to yield to my request that she become my wife.”
“Weil said!” said the marquis. “You have yet the making of a courtier in you, master shepherd. Mademoiselle could have drawn a worse prize, after all. And now to be done with the affair as quick as the Church and the devil will allow!”
He struck the table soundly with his sword hilt. The landlord came, knee-shaking, bringing more candles in the hope of anticipating the great lord’s whims. “Fetch a priest,” said the marquis, “a priest; do you understand? In ten minutes have a priest here, or———”
The landlord dropped his candles and flew.
The priest came, heavy-eyed and ruffled. He made David Mignot and Lucie de Varennes man and wife, pocketed a gold piece that the marquis tossed him, and shuffled out again into the night.
“Wine,” ordered the marquis, spreading his ominous fingers at the host.
“Fill glasses,” he said, when it was brought. He stood up at the head of the table in the candlelight, a black mountain of venom and conceit, with something like the memory of an old love turned to poison in his eye, as it fell upon his niece.
“Monsieur Mignot,” he said, raising his wineglass, “drink after I say this to you: You have taken to be your wife one who will make your life a foul and wretched thing. The blood in her is an inheritance running black lies and red ruin. She will bring you shame and anxiety.
