“Mademoiselle Marguerite d’ Auray requests that Monsieur, the Baron de Lectoure, will honor her with a private interview.”
“Me!” said Lectoure, rising from the sofa, “certainly, with the greatest pleasure.”
“But no! it is a mistake!” exclaimed Emanuel; “you must be mistaken, Celestin.”
“I have the honor to assure your lordship,” replied the valet de chambre, “that I have correctly and faithfully executed the order which was given to me.”
“Impossible!” said Emanuel, uneasy to the highest degree, at the step his sister had ventured to take: “Baron, if you will be advised by me, you will send the little simpleton about her business.”
“By no means! by no means,” replied Lectoure. “What does this bluebeard of a brother mean? Celestin! Did you not call this lad, Celestin?”
Emanuel impatiently bowed his head in the affirmative. “Well then, Celestin, tell my lovely betrothed that I throw myself at her knees, at her feet, and that I await her orders either to go to her or to receive her here;—and there, take this for the charges of your embassy.”
He threw him his purse.
“And you, count,” rejoined Lectoure, “I trust that you have confidence enough in me, to permit this tête-à-tête?”
“But it is so perfectly absurd!”