She replied, in an anguish over the chilling riddle of his calmness: 'I
will,' but sprang out of that obedient consent, fearful of over-acting
her part of slave to him before her mother, in a ghastly apprehension of
the part he was for playing to the same audience. 'Yes, I will do all,
all that you command. I am yours. I will go with you. Bid me do
whatever you can think of, all except bid me go back to the people I have
hitherto called mine:--not that!'

'And that is what I have to request of you,' said he, with his calm smile
brightening and growing more foreign, histrionic, unreadable to her.
'And this greatest sacrifice that you can perform for me, are you
prepared to do it? Will you?'

She tried to decipher the mask he wore: it was proof against her
imploring eyes. 'If you can ask me--if you can positively wish it--yes,'
she said. 'But think of what you are doing. Oh! Alvan, not back to
them! Think!'

He smiled insufferably. He was bent on winning a parent-blest bride,
an unimpeachable wife, a lady handed to him instead of taken, one of the
world's polished silver vessels.

'Think that you are doing this for me!' said he. 'It is for my sake.
And now, madame, I give you back your daughter. You see she is mine to
give, she obeys me, and I--though it can be only for a short time--give
her back to you. She goes with you purely because it is my wish: do not
forget that. And so, madame, I have the honour,' he bowed profoundly.

He turned to Clotilde and drew her within his arm. 'What you have done