sult
your wife! Tell him I am yours in God's eyes, and that he has doubly
outraged me in the fact that his words fell from the lips of age. Say to
him, that a gentleman, if such he is, should not utter such things until
assured they were neither an insult nor an outrage to her who heard
them."

"Aminta," said the Marquis, "the person of whom you speak thus is----"

"Be silent, monsieur,"[N] interrupted the Prince, looking sternly at his
son, "madame has not offended me, though I have her. Madame," said he,
"accept my apology for a fault caused by the Marquis alone. The name you
bear is entitled to the respect of all, especially to mine. I will be
the last to forget it. Be pleased to leave the Marquis de Maulear and
myself together for a few moments. What I have to say none must listen
to. Do not be afraid," added he, when he saw the hesitation with which
Aminta left; "I am no foe of the Marquis, and besides, the only weapon
of old men is the tongue. Our conversation will not be long, and I will
then leave the Marquis to you for ever."

Henri made a motion, the purport of which was to beseech Aminta to go.
Taking a lateral alley, she disappeared.

"Monsieur," said the Prince, "you should know that my name should not be
pronounced in the presence of that young woman, especially after the
error which your silence has led me into in relation to her." The Prince
continued, "So you are married?"

"Yes, monsieur," said Maulear, trembling like a criminal in the presence
of the judge.

"Contrary to my orders, and without my consent," continued the Prince.

"Father, if any excuse be possible, you will find it in the person I
have selected."

"I do not ask for justification, monsieur, but for excuse. How long did
you reflect on this union before you contracted it?"

"A month," said the Marquis.

"A month is a short time to reflect on a life of remorse and regret.
You know I never will forgive you."

"Never, monsieur?" asked Maulear, bowing respectfully before his father.
"God himself pardons."

"I am not God, monsieur, and have neither his goodness nor his mercy.
Hearken to me, and let none of my words be lost, as they are the last I
shall ever speak to you. I have not concealed my principles, which were
probably not firm enough in relation to morals and virtue. In these
principles the people of the century in which I was born lived. I was,
perhaps, badly educated, but so were all nobles then; and if they
preserved