"Yes," said Bellecour, with a smile. "this Tardivet has good taste.
My congratulations, to him. We must find you a wedding gift, little
woman," he continued more briskly. "It is an ancient and honoured
custom that is falling somewhat into neglect. Go up to the Chateau
with Blaise and Jean there. This good Tardivet must curb his
impatience until to-morrow."

He turned in his saddle, and beckoning the two servants he had named,
he bade Marie to mount behind Blaise.

She drew back now, her cheeks white as those of the dead. With a
wild terror in her eyes she turned to Charlot, who stood the very
picture of anguish and impotent rage. In the cortege, where but a
few moments ago all had been laughter, a sob or two sounded now from
some of the women.

"By my faith," laughed Bellecour contemptuously eyeing their
dejection, "you have more the air of a burial than a bridal party."

"Mercy my lord!" cried the agonised voice of Charlot, as, distraught
with grief, he flung himself before the Marquis.

"Who seeks to harm you, fool?" was Bellecour's half-derisive
rejoinder.

"Do not take her from me, my lord," the young man pleaded piteously.

"She shall return to-morrow, booby," answered the noble. "Out of
the way!"